| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0912/';
$hoopertitle='Seventh Heaven';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0912/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0912/';
$renttitle='Way Inside Jokes';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
Michael Jackson Cannibalizes BabyNovember 25, 2002 |
Berlin, Germany Image Courtesy Die Station Jackson revealing the surprise entrée
"It just sickens me when I close my eyes and think about it," sighed small-town cop Bufus Randall, who answers questions 24 hours a day and is like a procrastinating reporter's wet dream. "Just picturing that monster, slurping the baby's entrails like spaghetti, munching his bones like peppermint sticks and licking the baby's...
ichael Jackson was caught on video like a red-handed bandit man Tuesday, salaciously nibbling on his youngest son's toe in full view of the German media. Jackson, who was staying in a Berlin hotel while visiting that country for a Save Dem Childrens benefit, waved to the cameras and flashed a "kissy-peace" hand gesture to his fans before he closed the blinds and proceeded to partake in what can only be speculated as an orgy of underage cannibalism.
"It just sickens me when I close my eyes and think about it," sighed small-town cop Bufus Randall, who answers questions 24 hours a day and is like a procrastinating reporter's wet dream. "Just picturing that monster, slurping the baby's entrails like spaghetti, munching his bones like peppermint sticks and licking the baby's empty hide clean like a goddamned dinner plate. God. I think I'm gonna be sick."
Professional housewife Mandy St. Clair echoed Randall's concerns.
"It's like it makes you, I don't know. Want. Want to do something to make that thing different. You know? Different so he's not eating those babies. Because that's just wrong, even if the babies want to be eaten. Because how could you really know? They might smile and wave their arms around like they want to be eaten, but it might just be because they're remembering something nice from when they're in the womb. Or they might have gas, sometimes babies smile who have gas. So you shouldn't just eat them."
Jackson's fans were quick to defend the troubled star, who recently sort of testified in his own defense in a courtward lawsuit.
"Even if Michael did eat that baby, he only did it for the fans. That's how much he cares," explained Kyoko Matsui, a screaming Tokyo fan of Jackson's appearances on cereal boxes in her home country. "People were yelling, 'We want to meet the baby!' and I guess since it was so noisy, Michael probably thought they were saying 'We want you to eat the baby!' It was just a tragic misunderstanding."
But noted sports psychologist Dr. Mandra Jimsack was wary of letting Jackson off the hook so easily.
"Fans yell out all kinds of crazy requests to stars, that doesn't mean they have to follow them. It's the star's job to set boundaries and know where to draw the line. Signing some autographs or flashing your tits out the sunroof of a limo? That's being a good star. Jerking off in a men's room at the park or shooting a rival recording artist in the testicles? That's just going too far. And also, lighting a fart on fire at the Golden Globes? That's very bad, Mr. Sandler. Very bad."
Activist groups rallied within minutes of the tape airing on the German news, calling for whatever kind of social services Germany might have to step in and take Jackson's remaining children away before dinnertime. Lawyers for German's Die Station news network were also preparing a lawsuit against the singer. According to sources, Jackson caused two of the station's cameramen to fall out of an evergreen tree near the hotel when he refused to leave his blinds open, forcing them to attempt filming through a small opening in the bathroom window.
Hours later, Jackson appeared at a puppet museum with the live toddler in tow, setting off ripples of speculation through the "thought he ate the baby" community. Randall, however, was not so quick to forgive and forget.
"Jesus Christ, how many of those things has he got? Well, I guess we can add human cloning to the list of charges. Fuckin' fruit." the commune news may have fallen off the wagon and into the frying pan, but we're pretty sure this next leap will put us in the clear. Boner Cunningham has always been a big Michael Jackson fan, but he still thinks Purple Rain was overrated.
 |  Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It?
Beware email scams signed "Homeland Security King"
Video games don't encourage youth violence, but console shortage does
Doom 3 just Doom 2 done faster, with better graphics
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Venezuela Adds Itself to ‘Axis of Evil’ he so-called ‘Axis of Evil,’ which now has more points than a pinwheel, took on another member when the forgettable South American country of Venezuela added itself to the roster of anti-U.S. countries this week. The announcement was made in the most awkward fashion, when President Victor Chavez made allegations that the United States has made plans to invade Venezuela soon. How soon? Chavez didn’t pinpoint a date, but said the invasion would happen imminently. According to Chavez, the U.S. has been planning to invade his country for some time, and he has proof, although he didn’t exactly present it to anybody. The most precise allegation made by Chavez cited “invasion training maneuvers” being made in his country by CIA operatives, who apparently weren’t in Venezuela for one of their thousands of monthly beauty pageants. Orleans Refugees at Home in Disneyland’s French Quarter efugees from the New Orleans disaster were thrilled this week by the news that Mayor Ray Nagin plans to re-open large parts of the city as early as today, allowing the many refugees spread across the American South like spilled milk to finally return home. The decision to return, however, is not so easy for the small number of lucky refugees who were relocated to the French Quarter section of the Disneyland theme park in Anaheim, California during the first days of flooding. “This is great, it’s like being back home, except Disneyer!” gushed socialite Anita Bomes, thrilled with her new New Orleans, a quaint miniature version of the city located near a fake lake that, to date, has never flooded. “Female Sex Patch” Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough |
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 January 10, 2005
I've Fallen, and I'm Missing Survivor!Help me!
Oh sweet lord, please help me up!
I'm old and I've fallen down and I'm afraid I may have shattered my pelvis on the cold, unforgiving tile of this floor! And I'm missing the beginning of Survivor!
No doubt they'll find me here in a few days, stuck to this floor like a squashed bug, once the smell grows strong enough to overpower my neighbor Gladys and her hellish brood of cats. Then some nice orderlies will come in and roll me onto a stretcher, my pissed pant-suit long since gone bitterly dry and packed with the pea-green product of my evacuated bowels. And they'll have a good laugh at poor old me, lying dead on the floor with no idea how this season's exciting Survivor midseason finale shaped up, the cold glint of unknowing flecked within my glassy eyes!
How cruel to live a life with no finale! Eighty-seven years and Edith Walker is cancelled to make way for a midseason replacement. How sad to live such an anticlimactic life. If only I could have waited another fifty-four minutes before taking my catastrophic tumble, I could have died a fulfilled woman!
I'm afraid I'll never get to see which of those nice young men ate the rat testicles.
Alas, I keep beating my cane on the floor, hoping to thwart my Survivor-missing fate, but I don't think Mr. Humphreys downstairs has even noticed. Probably too busy watching Survivor, absorbed in its midseason-ending...
º Last Column: Christmas is Cancelled Due to Lack of Interest
º more columns
Help me!
Oh sweet lord, please help me up!
I'm old and I've fallen down and I'm afraid I may have shattered my pelvis on the cold, unforgiving tile of this floor! And I'm missing the beginning of Survivor!
No doubt they'll find me here in a few days, stuck to this floor like a squashed bug, once the smell grows strong enough to overpower my neighbor Gladys and her hellish brood of cats. Then some nice orderlies will come in and roll me onto a stretcher, my pissed pant-suit long since gone bitterly dry and packed with the pea-green product of my evacuated bowels. And they'll have a good laugh at poor old me, lying dead on the floor with no idea how this season's exciting Survivor midseason finale shaped up, the cold glint of unknowing flecked within my glassy eyes!
How cruel to live a life with no finale! Eighty-seven years and Edith Walker is cancelled to make way for a midseason replacement. How sad to live such an anticlimactic life. If only I could have waited another fifty-four minutes before taking my catastrophic tumble, I could have died a fulfilled woman!
I'm afraid I'll never get to see which of those nice young men ate the rat testicles.
Alas, I keep beating my cane on the floor, hoping to thwart my Survivor-missing fate, but I don't think Mr. Humphreys downstairs has even noticed. Probably too busy watching Survivor, absorbed in its midseason-ending magnificence. I can just imagine it. Eliza dancing a celebratory dance as Twila is voted off the island. Oh, no sense in torturing myself; the show's nearly half-over now. But by some cruel fate I've fallen within view of the bathroom clock, so I know by the minute just how much of my precious Survivor has ticked away.
Maybe if I press my ear closer against the floor I can overhear some of the show on Mr. Humphreys' television. Hmm. Nothing but muffled voices. It doesn't even sound like Survivor. Hard to be certain, but this isn't much like how the show sounded the episode after I'd dropped my hearing aid in the toilet. What could that old fool be watching? I bet it's Murder, She Wrote. I'm afraid I've long overestimated Mr. Humphreys, that tasteless old fart.
If only I'd thought to set up a series of mirrors in the hallway so I could see the television from the bedroom floor! That oversight seems foolish in retrospect. As well as ever turning off the TV in the first place. You never know what can happen right before Survivor, putting the TV knob cruelly out of reach! I should have thought to just turn my hearing aid off—that's like having a remote control with me all the time, and one that works through walls and around corners even if you're laid out on the bedroom floor like a pancake on the griddle.
Oh, how foolish I've been. What a foolish, wasted life. Hopefully the next old bag that takes my place in this apartment will learn from my cautionary tale and never turn off the television, lest she pick an inconvenient time to be voted off the island of life!
Oh, my. Is that a rat? Well, at least I won't starve to death. º Last Column: Christmas is Cancelled Due to Lack of Interestº more columns
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|  January 10, 2005
Burn, Blaming, BurnT'was the night before Christmas, and all through Bricks Manor, not a creature was sleeping, because my neighbor's house was all the fuck on fire. I shit you not, communauts, this was one bizarre-smelling Christmas. I barely saved the fireworks I keep buried in my lawn, and Foghat took a big black Christmas shit after gorging himself on some kind of half-melted attic insulation. This Christmas wasn't lacking Santa, just sanity.
As the most plausible recorded version of that night's events goes, Omar Bricks had just settled down for a long winter's nap with his trusty basset hound Foghat at the foot of the bed, watching for gremlins, when from out by the lawn there arose such a clatter, I jumped up and screamed "What the fuck??" like a pissed-off ninja. Away to the window I flew like The Flash, not as fast but just as naked. Or was that The Streak? One of those guys. And anyway, yeah, the new house they'd just finished building on Dale's old lot was way the hell on fire.
For a second, brave thoughts of dashing in heroically and getting all my shit out of there whizzed through my brain, like a half-remembered action movie. Then I realized the flames were like forty feet high and that camping gear was borrowed anyway. Sure, I'd left some boxes of crackers and shit in there too, but they were probably all brown on one side due to the raging inferno that was lighting up the neighborhood like the Griswalds' Christmas decorations. And in all likelihood,...
º Last Column: The Giving House
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T'was the night before Christmas, and all through Bricks Manor, not a creature was sleeping, because my neighbor's house was all the fuck on fire. I shit you not, communauts, this was one bizarre-smelling Christmas. I barely saved the fireworks I keep buried in my lawn, and Foghat took a big black Christmas shit after gorging himself on some kind of half-melted attic insulation. This Christmas wasn't lacking Santa, just sanity.
As the most plausible recorded version of that night's events goes, Omar Bricks had just settled down for a long winter's nap with his trusty basset hound Foghat at the foot of the bed, watching for gremlins, when from out by the lawn there arose such a clatter, I jumped up and screamed "What the fuck??" like a pissed-off ninja. Away to the window I flew like The Flash, not as fast but just as naked. Or was that The Streak? One of those guys. And anyway, yeah, the new house they'd just finished building on Dale's old lot was way the hell on fire.
For a second, brave thoughts of dashing in heroically and getting all my shit out of there whizzed through my brain, like a half-remembered action movie. Then I realized the flames were like forty feet high and that camping gear was borrowed anyway. Sure, I'd left some boxes of crackers and shit in there too, but they were probably all brown on one side due to the raging inferno that was lighting up the neighborhood like the Griswalds' Christmas decorations. And in all likelihood, eventually I would get more crackers.
So instead, Foghat and I broke out the lawn chairs and took in the show while those fire department nuts went all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the roof and shot us dirty looks for not sharing our toasted marshmallows. I think we had the entire fire department for three counties out there by the end of it, those guys get on their walkie-talkies and word gets out like it's a high school kegger. Most of them were just standing on the front lawn, trying to piss out the fire with recycled lite beer, so in all likelihood those guys actually had come from a high school kegger. But just the same, some of those guys were handy with a disposable camera, meaning Foghat and I did get some killer keepsake shots posing in front of the inferno plus some action shots of us dragging drunk-assed firemen away from the blaze like we were David Bowie-sized heroes.
So all in all, it was a good time and not a bad way to spend your Christmas Eve. That is, until the next morning, when I start getting calls from some crackpot arson inspector because the wiseass finally found my missing camping stove in the smoking wreckage. What a dickhead. Like I'm going to burn down an entire house just so I can collect the insurance settlement on a shitty Coleman propane stove. That dude must've got his arson license out of a box of Honey Smacks.
Tragic as my losses in the inferno may have been, I did have the satisfaction of being proved right in the public arena. That'll teach Martha Stewart to try and tell me you can't slow cook s'mores by setting a crock pot on fire. Once those arson vultures had dug out what was left of my crock and we cracked it open like a dinosaur egg, Foghat and I chowed down on the best s'mores this side of Valhalla. Shank that, Dragon Lady.
And truth be told, I had been a little sad after they finished building that house so fast, taking away my personal playground and cash cow, or as I came to call it, The Money Pit. No more guided tours or selling rolls of fiberglass insulation to tourists as souvenirs, no more crashing through unfinished walls like the Kool-Aid guy to the glee of neighborhood kids, and no more re-living the nail gun scene from Lethal Weapon with Foghat at two in the morning. Talk about your cold shower letdowns.
But now, by the grace of God, or at least the God of crock-pot fires anyway, I'll get to live it all again like some kind of glorious re-run. 2005 already looks like it's going to be an Omar Bricks kind of year. And regardless of what those contractors have been saying, I give them lousy odds at keeping the mysteriously destructive "neighborhood vigilante" out of the construction site this second time around. The trick is that you don't have to break into a house if you can fool the construction guys into building it around you after you're already inside.
Bricks out. º Last Column: The Giving Houseº more columns
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Milestones1921: Underground rumor begins that Lil Duncan, to be born in 50 years, will like the kinky stuff.Now HiringDeaf Mute. Duties include standing around, accepting blame for assorted office mishaps, and listening to Ramrod Hurley's stories about the one time he went fishing. Antidepressant prescription a plus.Top 5 Ways Bush Could Raise Approval Rating| 1. | Replace Hugh Jackman in next X-Men sequel | | 2. | Give out free abortion to pro-choicers on Roe v. Wade anniversary; for pro-lifers, kill convicted criminal | | 3. | Be seen everywhere with new wheelchair-bound friend | | 4. | Go on Leno, punch Tom Cruise right in sack | | 5. | Win war on terrorism, declare war on disagreement next | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 4/2/2007 Buenos Greetos, America! Do you know what time it is? No, I’m serious, somebody replaced my wall clock with half a live chicken and I have no idea what time it is. Come to think of it, I hope to hell that’s a whole live chicken with only the front half sticking out of the wall, because it’s going to freak me out all to hell if it turns out half a chicken is somehow staying alive on my wall. And have you ever had a clock you had to feed? I don’t recommend it. Anyway, forget that I asked, now that I think about it, by the time any of you read this and get back to me, it’ll be an entirely different time and I probably won’t even care then. Let’s just compromise and say it’s Entertainment Police time. Deal? Sweet.
Blades of Glory
Anyone want to...
Buenos Greetos, America! Do you know what time it is? No, I’m serious, somebody replaced my wall clock with half a live chicken and I have no idea what time it is. Come to think of it, I hope to hell that’s a whole live chicken with only the front half sticking out of the wall, because it’s going to freak me out all to hell if it turns out half a chicken is somehow staying alive on my wall. And have you ever had a clock you had to feed? I don’t recommend it. Anyway, forget that I asked, now that I think about it, by the time any of you read this and get back to me, it’ll be an entirely different time and I probably won’t even care then. Let’s just compromise and say it’s Entertainment Police time. Deal? Sweet.
Blades of Glory
Anyone want to write in and offer up a plausible explanation why it took the Hollywood bigwigs this long to finally bring a cinematic retelling of the amazing life of actor Ruben Blades to the big screen? The only rationale I can come up with involves a labyrinthine international conspiracy that would make Oliver Stone barf out his ass. But whatever the reason for the delay, the long wait was clearly worth it when you see the life of the genius behind Predator 2 and Disorganized Crime eat up the screen like it was a giant slice of bubble tape. If Hollywood makes a better biopic this year, well, good for them.
Honey, I Think I Love My Wife
Finally, Rick Moranis gets over his illogical fear of blackface and steps gracefully into the role he was born to play in American public life: The white guy who’s a really funny black guy in blackface. It seems like for years actors have been going the other way, Eddie Murphy hitting the makeup truck hard and playing the entire white cast on Entourage, and Martin Lawrence splashing on the whiteface to play a soulful white retard in Rain Man. Since when do only black men have a license to make us laugh by pretending to be a race they’re not? I want to see Chinese guys dressed up like they’re Australian and Cubans who can do a hilarious Samoan. Get on it, Hollywood.
Peter Pan’s Labyrinth
One of the most painful experiences from my childhood that still sticks with me today was seeing Disney’s Michael Jackson biopic Peter Pan in the theater and coming to realize, a sickly feeling rising up from my stomach as each minute passed, that they were going to leave out the part at the end of the book where Pan goes shithouse and chases the lost boys through the hedge maze with an axe. Why? It’s a painful lesson for a child to learn, about the compromises and cowardice of the adult world. Well, apparently I wasn’t the only one who felt this way, as brooding Spaniard Benecio Del Taco was scarred enough to wait until he grew up to set the record straight with this harrowing remake, true to the source material down to the last comma. Trust me, I counted. One word of warning for parents, however: You must bring your children to this film. I don’t care if you have to pull them out of school, permanently, you owe it to your children to tell them the story of Peter Pan, the whole story, the way it was meant to be told. All else pales in importance.
Rocky Balboa
Few thought soulful beefcake Sylvester Stallone would dare make yet another Rocky sequel after earning a lifetime of love and adulation from lingerie-clad weirdos for his genre-bending penultimate effort, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. But just like in the movie, Cobra doesn’t know when to quit, so he keeps churning these things out like an Amish dude who won’t accept that the town already has way more butter than it can use. But is it any good? If you’ve got a thing for watching old guys get beat up, but couldn’t score tickets to the latest Evander Hoylfield fight, then yeah, this one will probably scratch that itch. Fans of recognizable cinematic values would probably be better off hopping from theater to theater, watching the Coke commercials before all the main features instead. All in all the quality of the movie hardly matters, since lingerie-clad true believers will be driving midnight showings of this thing for decades to come regardless.
Well, America, I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for this week. I’m not actually afraid, I mean, I won’t be sleeping with the bathroom light on tonight or anything. Actually that’s a pretty bizarre figure of speech when you really think about it. Weird. Anyway, join us again next time so as not to be left outside in the cold dark void of the unknowing. Until then, I’m Roland McShyster and you’re some other person out there.   |
