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Republican Majority Mandates Lobster Bibs for DemocratsNovember 11, 2002 |
Washington, D.C. Ansel Evans There's just no way to wear one of those things without looking like an asshole. ess than a week after the Republican smack-down known as the 2002 election, giddy conservatives were chomping at the bit to address their priorities for the upcoming session of Congress. Saturday night, an after-hours weekend meeting and weenie roast for GOP Congressmen both incumbent and newly elect set the tone for the upcoming session. Among the top priorities addressed were mandatory lobster bibs for all Democrats, the implementation of segregated Democrat bathrooms down in the basement behind the boiler room, and the requirement that Democrats sing the teapot song before speaking during congressional debates.
"Well, those boys is some messy eaters, so we figured we'd help 'em out so they can keep their shirts clean," chuckled Senator Thad Cochran from Tennessee.

ess than a week after the Republican smack-down known as the 2002 election, giddy conservatives were chomping at the bit to address their priorities for the upcoming session of Congress. Saturday night, an after-hours weekend meeting and weenie roast for GOP Congressmen both incumbent and newly elect set the tone for the upcoming session. Among the top priorities addressed were mandatory lobster bibs for all Democrats, the implementation of segregated Democrat bathrooms down in the basement behind the boiler room, and the requirement that Democrats sing the teapot song before speaking during congressional debates.
"Well, those boys is some messy eaters, so we figured we'd help 'em out so they can keep their shirts clean," chuckled Senator Thad Cochran from Tennessee.
"The American people have spoken, or more importantly they scribbled in some little bubbles with a pencil, and they've sent a clear mandate about what they want to see in the next two years. Few can deny that Americans are clamoring to see Democrat Representatives with embarrassing words like 'Dickless' and 'Miss Thang' sunburned onto their chests while they are chased by bears on rollerskates. The American people suffered through a long ballot, they had to fill in a lot of pointless bubbles for judges and people they'd never heard of just to make the democracy machine work, and now we owe it to them to hold up our end of the bargain. Let me be the first to wield the spankin' paddle in the name of the American Way," announced Sen. Pat Roberts of Kansas with a gleam in his eye.
When asked by a visibly concerned President Bush when Congress would find time to approve military action in Iraq, Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott looked confused for a moment before replying.
"Ira-? Oh, right, right. Don't worry yourself, Dub. There'll be plenty of time for that after we pass this hilarious bill Orrin's been working on. Get this, we're going to have all of the… Jesus, excuse me, it still cracks me up, we're gonna have all the Democrats carrying around these dog bowls with their names printed on them, to drink out of, you know. And whenever Moynihan goes off on one of his tangents, you know, like he does, I'm going to stand up and do the little pinky-finger thing, you know what I'm talking about. And I say 'Could someone please throw the Senator a frickin' bone here?' Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that we're going to keep a few cases of dog biscuits on hand for everybody to throw at Moynihan when I say that. Shit, let me start over. This is going to be great."
Lott was cut off by Rep. Elect Saxby Chambliss of Georgia, who was doing an impression of a Democrat Congressman in the upcoming 2003 session.
"I'm a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle and here is my spout! I object!"
The gathered Congressmen erupted into laughter and applause, which rose another notch when Sen. Elect Jim Talent of Missouri shot milk out of his nose. the commune news is a profoundly bipartisan organization that prides itself on giving equal coverage to both sides of the "Tastes Great/Less Filling" debate. Ivana Folger-Balzac is harder to get rid of than an Enron sweatshirt and has apparently outlasted the Japanese Mafia, who are entirely overrated.
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 May 16, 2005
Volume 63Hey commune:
Yo commune, I gots to get me a girlfriend, and pronto, dog! If I don’t get these boots knocked soon, my jizzbag’s gonna bust on me, yo. I ain’t playin’ dog, this is some serious shit. So what you say? You gonna hook me up or what?
"Teabag" Darnell Wynalotte, Texas
Dear Teabag:
Though few can deny the serious threat this issue poses to your jizzbag, we here at the commune are far more concerned with the photograph you sent in with your letter. We assume it’s either of you, an example of the kind of girl you want us to find for you, or a panicked evidence shot of a rare urban Sasquach. Whichever is the case, consider yourself triply screwed. But we’ll make you a deal, Darnell. You get Bush out of office for us and we’ll see to it that you get hooked up with a Sasquach-fetishizing-freak lover. Either that or Lil Duncan. Because if we have to put up with this Bush shit much longer, our jizzbag be gonna blow, yo.
the commune
Dear commune:
Inquiring commune readers want to know: boxers or briefs? Lois Arbuckle Panhands, Oklahoma
Dear Lois:
Though we here at the commune love all kinds of dogs, we must admit to being partial to snack-sized dogs like the Chihuahua or the Bansai. True, a larger dog like a Great Dane or a Mastiff can easily feed a family of four, but who in the city has a freezer that big?...
º Last Column: Volume 62 º more columns
Hey commune: Yo commune, I gots to get me a girlfriend, and pronto, dog! If I don’t get these boots knocked soon, my jizzbag’s gonna bust on me, yo. I ain’t playin’ dog, this is some serious shit. So what you say? You gonna hook me up or what? "Teabag" Darnell Wynalotte, TexasDear Teabag:
Though few can deny the serious threat this issue poses to your jizzbag, we here at the commune are far more concerned with the photograph you sent in with your letter. We assume it’s either of you, an example of the kind of girl you want us to find for you, or a panicked evidence shot of a rare urban Sasquach. Whichever is the case, consider yourself triply screwed. But we’ll make you a deal, Darnell. You get Bush out of office for us and we’ll see to it that you get hooked up with a Sasquach-fetishizing-freak lover. Either that or Lil Duncan. Because if we have to put up with this Bush shit much longer, our jizzbag be gonna blow, yo.
the commune
Dear commune: Inquiring commune readers want to know: boxers or briefs? Lois Arbuckle Panhands, OklahomaDear Lois:
Though we here at the commune love all kinds of dogs, we must admit to being partial to snack-sized dogs like the Chihuahua or the Bansai. True, a larger dog like a Great Dane or a Mastiff can easily feed a family of four, but who in the city has a freezer that big? You’re talking about a serious waste of dog meat there, unless you open a cart to sell Gyros on the street. But believe you us, getting a permit for one of those things is a serious bitch.
the commune
Dear commune: Boris Utzov must be stopped! As foretold in the Bible, this man is the harbinger of great doom, the amiable fool who shall lead them astray to the ruination of all mankind! And that English! If a pure soul cannot be found (obviously outside of the commune offices) to stop this great devil outright, would it kill you guys to at least get that motherfucker hooked on phonics or something? Damn. Ole Carpathiam Turnstile, NebraskaDear Ole:
While we agree that Boris must be stopped, our main goal is to get him to stop bringing his nasty Eastern European lunch meats in here. The man hasn’t been in our offices in nearly a year, and the break room still stinks like rotten Chernobyl ferret. As for Boris’ English, we weren’t aware he actually spoke any English, so this is great news to us. Now we can finally fire that interpreter and parlay the financial savings into about 400 of those car deodorizer trees to hang in the break room.
the commune Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for your lack of credibility in the scientific community. For an explanation of that one, we refer you to the time you glued a bunch of dildos onto a horse and then claimed to have genetically engineered a new species of giant porcupine. Just a thought.º Last Column: Volume 62º more columns
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|  December 23, 2002
Everyone's Half-Assing the Christmas SpiritNot to shit on everyone's Christmas spirit, but it just seems like no one is making an effort anymore. All year long I look forward to gathering up the toys and, quite frankly, busting my balls to get all the stuff to everyone and there doesn't seem to be much reciprocation on everyone else's part.
I'm not going to name names, but let's just talk about what some people are leaving under the tree. It used to be cookies and milk, and boy, does that ever get boring after the thousandth house, but at least they were homemade cookies and milk. These days I'm lucky if I can get some half-broken Oreos and a juicebox. I'm not saying the kids are to blame, they're probably the reason I get the Oreos, but somebody out there is just not giving a damn anymore.
You know what I want for Christmas? Well, since you ask, a big fat plate of babyback ribs sitting under the tree would be nice. Just one house, you know, not everywhere. I realize it's more of a hassle than you're used to, but at least in neighborhoods can't you get together and work something out? These cookies are going to give me a heart attack, it's really too much sugar. I have a family history of diabetes, you know. What I basically need is something high-carb 'cause I lose a lot of energy moving from house to house with a finger aside my nose. That burns calories.
And all you construction workers out there, you've got to start making the roofs a little flatter. I can't handle those...
º Last Column: If I Were a Carpenter I Would Build You a Home Out of My Heart º more columns
Not to shit on everyone's Christmas spirit, but it just seems like no one is making an effort anymore. All year long I look forward to gathering up the toys and, quite frankly, busting my balls to get all the stuff to everyone and there doesn't seem to be much reciprocation on everyone else's part.
I'm not going to name names, but let's just talk about what some people are leaving under the tree. It used to be cookies and milk, and boy, does that ever get boring after the thousandth house, but at least they were homemade cookies and milk. These days I'm lucky if I can get some half-broken Oreos and a juicebox. I'm not saying the kids are to blame, they're probably the reason I get the Oreos, but somebody out there is just not giving a damn anymore.
You know what I want for Christmas? Well, since you ask, a big fat plate of babyback ribs sitting under the tree would be nice. Just one house, you know, not everywhere. I realize it's more of a hassle than you're used to, but at least in neighborhoods can't you get together and work something out? These cookies are going to give me a heart attack, it's really too much sugar. I have a family history of diabetes, you know. What I basically need is something high-carb 'cause I lose a lot of energy moving from house to house with a finger aside my nose. That burns calories.
And all you construction workers out there, you've got to start making the roofs a little flatter. I can't handle those 45-degree angles anymore. Or just build a deck or something. I'm not worried about the lack of chimneys and the locked doors and security systems—they haven't built a house that can keep me out. But you build a house with a pointed roof and then put satellite dishes and all sorts of shit up there, you're just begging me to skip your house.
While we're on the subject of making my life just a tad easier… kids: Get into something a little easier on St. Nick, will you? Those goddamn Playstation 2s and video games by the ton are not only impossible to make, but they're starting to seriously do some damage to the ol' back. It would be a real crying shame if some of you got into sports again, just asked for a football or a baseball glove or sneakers or something—hardly any of you are in great shape, you know. It wouldn't kill you to go outdoors once in a while.
Oh, and you know what really pisses me off? All those kitschy adults who think it's so funny to write a Christmas list to Santa with their friends. Some group of half-baked intellectuals or cutesy-ass yuppies hang out at Starbucks for a half-hour penning some dumb-ass request for Gap clothes and S.U.V.s and you think it's so funny. Well, you know what? I'm legally obligated to answer all of those letters in some fashion. Yeah, the price-capping laws make it so I don't have to bring you the S.U.V. or anything, but what really pisses me off is that you're wasting my time when you're going to go out and buy the S.U.V. anyway. I have serious business to tend to, real kids who need real Christmas shit, I don't need your jerk-off Christmas lists cluttering up the naughty/nice ratio.
Whew. Sorry. Just bugs me, a lot.
It's not so bad, I guess. Despite everything, all the complaints, I realize I got a pretty good job. I spend about four months driving the elf workforce in the toy production, but they can basically run that themselves, then I bust my ass (and I really do bust my ass) one night a year, which basically leaves me with about eight months to just chill, do nothin'. And for that work I'm celebrated by children everywhere, more than their parents, who do at least half the work I get credit for. Yep, in some ways, it's the sweetest of gigs. Merry Christmas, everyone. º Last Column: If I Were a Carpenter I Would Build You a Home Out of My Heartº more columns
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Milestones1985: Ramrod Hurley flim-flams his way into the studio for the recording of We Are the World. Though his subversive lyrics go unsung, Hurley's taser-induced squeal can be heard two minutes into the track, a sound previously attributed to Cyndi Lauper.Now HiringConductor. General musical duties as expected: bossing around, waving arms, taking care of stick. Also needed to close gap in circuit between air conditioning unit and power main. Seeking an electric personality who loves going barefoot. Lack of close relatives or body hair a plus. Least Anticipated New TV Series| 1. | CSI Iraq | | 2. | The Farting Flannigans | | 3. | JAG's Pal | | 4. | The show where the former movie star washes up on a TV sitcom | | 5. | The Following Friends Time-Slot Show | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY John Boy Swick 9/2/2002 Gullible TravelsChapter One: A Prince Among Pansies
I set out on the fifth of May, in a sturdy craft packed with provisions. The Metro she was christened, and her maker assured me of many safe returns from far-flung voyages, and chicks like Chamberlain. I was held aloft by her chariot wheels, crafted by the master B.F. Goodrich himself, and I carried forth under the thundering power of nearly seventy horses.
The voyage was itself long and hard, like a Kennedy at a dorm shower window, and carried on for some days. Weather patterns were unfavorable for navigation, and a map confiscated from a fast-food eatery proved unreliable at best. Yet still I traveled on, through the thatch of roadways and bypasses which bore me forward across this great land.

Chapter One: A Prince Among Pansies
I set out on the fifth of May, in a sturdy craft packed with provisions. The Metro she was christened, and her maker assured me of many safe returns from far-flung voyages, and chicks like Chamberlain. I was held aloft by her chariot wheels, crafted by the master B.F. Goodrich himself, and I carried forth under the thundering power of nearly seventy horses.
The voyage was itself long and hard, like a Kennedy at a dorm shower window, and carried on for some days. Weather patterns were unfavorable for navigation, and a map confiscated from a fast-food eatery proved unreliable at best. Yet still I traveled on, through the thatch of roadways and bypasses which bore me forward across this great land.
Brave like an Indian, I sallied forth to lay claim to an uncharted land, one which I could then chart, so as not to be lost all of the time. And though this heretofore-uncharted land would then cease to be as such, it would be my own charted land, as indicated by the flag tied around that tree over there. Yes, the one that looks like an old ripped up work shirt. It is but a humble flag and knows it, your comments are not necessary.
Along my journeys in search of uncharted, or at least unattended, land, I've come across many a fantastic and unbelievable place. Many scoff at my tales of Friscopolis, but I assure you that there is such a location; I have seen it with mine own eyes and have carried the memory of that place in the seat of my pants for many years.
I was headed for the north of Wales when an easterly wind and a sale on box wine blew me off course, and I awoke in a roadside motel in a strange city by a beautiful bay. The people of this place looked to be normal but spoke in a strange, lisping dialect as if their tongues had been clipped in some unspoken primitive ritual. Their customs were also strange to me, and at first inflamed my anus. But with time I became acclimated to their culture and the strange physiology of the people, where many of the men had breasts and the women penises.
Stranger still was the general absence of children, as the women instead spent their time dancing, cooking and donning fantastic wigs for public exhibition. Their means of procreation were unknown to me, as the only children I saw while there were apparently shipped from another land and bore no resemblance to either parent.
I lived with the people of Friscopolis for several weeks in a latex-scented reverie, drinking in the culture and customs, having my hair done several dozen times, and being assaulted by the local police department several times in a string of unrelated misunderstandings. But before the month was out I contracted a strange itching rash around my genitals, which the natives told me was an allergic reaction to the high saline content in the Friscopolis air. Sadly, I had to depart this magical land, as I also owed a lot of money to a local element that could charitably be described as disagreeable.
I left Friscopolis with mine eyes opened to a wider world, and with several piercings and Cher tattoos that would later ensure a hostile reception in the next fantastic land I visited accidentally: Kentuckiana.   |