commune Chastised for Use of Word "Dick"

recent story run by the the commune news about the arrest of comedian Andy Dick has inspired a maelstrom of reader mail and telephone calls, with readers taking offense at the commune’s repeated use of the word “Dick“ in that article. This is an issue that has sent shockwaves through the publishing community, shaking to the very foundation the way news is reported in this country.

Many alternate names were suggested for future reference to the comedian in question. The Mennonite Express reprinted the commune’s article with the offending name changed to “Andy Penis.“ Yodum Yoder of the Amish American suggested a change to “Andy Yoder“ in future publications and reprints. Pointing out possible gendercentric leanings in the commune’s handling of the article, the Northern North Carolina Women’s Coalition has suggested the gender-neutral “Andy Genitalia“ for all future usage. Finally, a reader from Los Angeles going by the name Dandy Ick suggested the evocative “Andy Love Missile.“

The ruckus surrounding this issue has reached far and wide, leading to commune Issue 47 burnings all across the Southern US. Since the commune is an Internet-only publication, and isn’t at any point ever printed on paper, this led to the surreal scene of men in white robes setting fire to huge piles of PCs, laptops, and palm-top computers, in addition to telephones, phone chords, answering machines, reams of blank paper and sacks of kittens.

To appease the varying interests among our readership and to diffuse any potential further controversy, from this date forward the commune will refer to comedian in question as “Adolf Hitler.“ Thank you.

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My dearest Deidrebane, it pains me acutely to have to write you this column and expose our personal goings-on to the somewhat wider audience of the world at large, but I can't find any of our personal stationary and I'm not about to go tearing up the entire house when the computer is right here.

Simply put and plainly typed, your new children have become a nuisance.

I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim these children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible. To the best of my knowledge your plumbing has not been snaked in a generation. And word on the street is that things are drier down there than a jerky stand in the Sahara. For the sake of decorum, I shall fail to go into the gruesome details, though believe me when I say the word is out.

I can only imagine how our first wave of real children feel about this latest batch of imposters, suckling at their mother's dry, unproductive teat. Wherever they are, Deidrebane, out in the world making their fortune or spending ours, it is surely a sad day for them. If I could remember their names, I would send my condolences by post card or fruit basket, whichever we have in stock at the moment.

And no, I will not refer to these new hangers-on as "our" children. I fell for that trick once, many years ago, and shant repeat my folly. I'm quite convinced I never had anything to do with the first batch, and so I'm not about to piss my markings onto these latest home-invaders. These are your children, Deidrebane, and I've had enough of them playing "bakery" with my angel dust collection.

Firstly, there's the matter of your oldest new son, Montpellier, who I recently heard through the grapevine was kicked out of the Hentwistle Correctional Facility for Incorrect Boys. It had been my understanding that Hentwistle was nothing more than a nicely-named prison house, and if they're offering expulsion for misbehavior these days I fear for the message this sends to baddies and goodies alike. Montpellier must truly be a special child.

But the one sycophant I truly cannot abide is your new young son, Cartegney. This one is really the tops. Just last week he got into my gun collection, and you don't need a fertile imagination to discern what happened next. That's right; the child organized my guns by model number, then put them all away neatly in the gun safe! Now what am I supposed to do if I need to shoot something in a hurry?

I shall fail, I fear, not unlike your newest daughter Steenburgen when she tried to bake us an anniversary cake last week. You can say what you want, but if a child doesn't understand the concept of needing to bake the cake before hiding yourself inside, I say she has a valuable lesson to learn from the skin grafts. I know I've kept nothing but fond memories from the summer I spent as the Human Torch at a county fair in my youth, and not just because the unpleasant parts are either blacked out from my memory or masked by a thick curtain of Vicodin.

No my dear, these new children just aren't working out, and I think it's time they were sent back. Dig up your receipt and return them to the adoption cart at the mall or Kids "R" Us or wherever it was that you picked up these wayward moppets in the first place. I would rid our house of them myself, but my plot was already foiled by Cartegney, who informed me that the car I had loaded them all into did not have an adequate safety rating and regardless, he was too young to drive. So do what you must, Deidrebane. I won't have these precocious ragamuffins pointing out the folly of my planning. Now if you need me, I'll be in the den, watching the Crusades on pay-per-view.

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Everyone I know in the conspiracy community and the Niluminati were, of course, stunned by the big bomb drop this week. And you can hardly blame us, it has to be the news everybody has been wanting to hear for years. Paris Hilton marrying Paris ???? That's insanity. Two people with the same first name can't marry each other. That's the whole reason our country has stood fast against gay marriage for so long. The notion of a Steve marrying a Steve… brr! I'm chilled to the bone just thinking about it.

Imagine all the potential disasters that would happen in that household. A man calls there, asking for Paris, and the husband flips out, yelling and screaming and threatening violence, only to find out the caller was his best friend, Buddy. Plus, think about how gross it is to get out of the shower and use your wife, Paris', monogrammed towel. Dammit! If only the two of us didn't share the same name. What I'm mainly worried about, though, is the next time I download a bootleg video of Paris having sex with someone, it better be the female one. That's all I'm saying.

I can understand her wanting to settle down, though. Her movie career is finally starting to take off, what with that Carl Jr.'s commercial getting her such fantastic acting notice. She's apparently broken ties once and for all with that troublemaker Nicole Richie, and it's about time. I'm hoping she'll do the wise thing for the next season of The Simple Life, and get a reliable new influence like Kelly Clarkson to co-star. And, this is neither here nor there, but they should have to work in a Denny's all season. I have a hunch that would be classic TV in the making.

I have additional worries about Paris Hilton settling down once and for all, even though I think it might be in her best interest. I hope she doesn't balloon up like Elle MacPherson once she's married. A lot of super-models just let themselves go and lose their classic toothpick shape. But with a husband sharing the same name, plus him not being famous and multi-talented like her, that has to cause some torment, which always causes heavy drinking, which causes great preservation of eternal thinness. So that's working for her.

Interesting about this "Deep Throat" thing, too. Some people may have guessed Paris Hilton was actually Deep Throat, but that was another video entirely, rest assured. Plus, I don't think she knows anything about Washington politics, part of that younger generation that thinks politics are queer. I was surprised by Felt's admission, I had always suspected Linda Lovelace, Misty Sugar, or White House Counsel John Dean. Actually, I really wanted it to be Jimmy Dean, just for a real twist, but that wasn't too likely. I'm not sure how an actor and sausage magnate would be privilege to such information, but as I said, it was more a fantasy than anything else.

We in the conspiracy-cracking business owe a real debt to Mark Felt, not only for expanding our sexual consciousness, but for helping to bring down a president and making us feel, at last, like we could break some of these conspiracies, if we stayed on them long enough. I was a young cub reporter at the time, and I wish Felt had had enough confidence to come to me with the story, instead of Joanne Woodward and Leonard Bernstein. They should give him the biggest tribute of all, since bringing down the president helped launch Woodward's acting career, and Bernstein spent the rest of his life recording the tales of the Watergate conspiracy in his successful series of Bernstein Bears books. What I couldn't have done with such information.

Let's just say it would have been me in that Paris Hilton video then, not some jackass with a camera.

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