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White House Leakage Prompts ProbeOctober 27, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon "President" Bush smiles uncomfortably as another leakage joke is made at his expense
Speculation has grown about the cause of the leakage, with pundits and politicians alike advancing any number of theories as to its origin. According to one unnamed source, the alleged President has had "a whole lot of Olestra" in his foreign policy lately, while another closely-placed informant theorizes that the extraordinarily unprecedented...
eports of persistent anal leakage at the White House gained credibility today when it was learned that current resident and alleged President George W. Bush has consented to a deep intestinal probe to determine the source of those leaks. Said Bush spokesman Scott McClellan, "We're looking at this as sort of a Katie Couric-type fiber optic investigation, and anticipate that there will be quite a market for the subsequent tapes and DVDs."
Speculation has grown about the cause of the leakage, with pundits and politicians alike advancing any number of theories as to its origin. According to one unnamed source, the alleged President has had "a whole lot of Olestra" in his foreign policy lately, while another closely-placed informant theorizes that the extraordinarily unprecedented amount of "mainstream media butt-kissing" is having an adverse effect on the chief executive's digestive system.
"I mean, guys like Chris Matthews, George Will, Robert Novak, Bill O'Reilly, guys like that, they just get all up in there with their smooching and licking and sucking and so on, and who knows where else those lips and tongues have been?" said the aide, who asked not to be identified by name. "That's bound to be unsanitary, at the very least, and could be the whole problem right there."
Asked what could be done to curb such behavior, the source expressed doubt that there would be any changes made in the near future. "You know, the big guy (referring to Bush) just really, really likes that sort of thing. It would be awfully hard for him to quit now, to go cold turkey, especially with an election coming up and his poll numbers dropping."
While the analingus theory was popular among a number of people this reporter spoke with, there was yet another faction that maintained that the leak was a result of Bush's recent changes in diet.
"Ever since that brouhaha with the Old Europeans, he's switched his regular lunch of salad and baked baby Mexican hearts to a heavier Continental fare of cheese-covered surrender monkey souffle topped off with a brace of frog's legs and uncircumcised German weiners," one kitchen worker said. "Besides that, he puts that nasty Russian dressing all over everything, and that can't be doing him any good."
Doctors administering the probe said that they will be on the lookout for signs of all these possible causes and much more. Proctologist Quim Lubricus, M.D., suggested that they hope to find in Bush's upper GI tract, among other things, Air National Guard discharge papers from the early '70s, the correct pronunciation of the word "nuclear," and alleged Vice President Dick Cheney's undisclosed location. The only thing an anal probe of commune freelancer Boner Cunningham would discover is his sense of journalistic ethics and a spare toothbrush. On a similar subject, guided tours of the commune offices are available during working hours every third Wednesday and Thursday of the month.
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 June 9, 2003
Mornin' Ralph, Mornin' SamWell, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.
Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.
The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some...
º Last Column: Stick a Fork in the Whole Damn Team
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Well, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.
Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.
The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some semi-coordinated beer-league softball guys you pulled out of a hat, like the Devil Rays did. There's just no way major league teams should be spotting each other runs or having their outfielders play on their knees to make things competitive. If the Tigers were a movie, they wouldn't be Major League, they'd be My Left Foot.
The feel-good story of the year so far is the Expos, who are doing well playing half of their games in a stadium in San Juan, whenever there aren't live chickens running across the field. Word is the locals have never heard of baseball, but turn out in droves to see the strange men wave sticks at each other. A concession is a concession, though, and Puerto Rican fans even got into the MLB spirit by hitting Carl Everett in the head with a radish last week. He wasn't even playing, I hear he was just in town for the world-class cockfighting. It's truly a strange world for the man who doesn't believe in dinosaurs.
People were even getting excited about the Royals this year, but that's only because everybody else in the league is on the disabled list. I don't know who let all these crybabies into the sport, but lately the MLB is like a dodgeball game at a fat camp.
Everybody's talking about Roger Clemens' 300th win, which is about as fun as watching an asshole win at cards. Not that I'm saying Clemens cheats, but if you were playing poker with some guy who suddenly hit you in the head with the five of diamonds, there'd be some eyebrows raised. I hear that as a token of gratitude the Yankees are going to trade him to Detroit for a Cadillac. Go Tigers.
I went to a Twins game last week and Torii Hunter caught a tee shirt they were trying to air-cannon into the stands, that guy's an asshole.
I'll keep you updated on my attempts to get on the Yankee payroll this season. I can still play a little left field, and it's not like they've ever heard the phrase "expense control." So wish me luck, and if you see Steinbrenner, tell him I go to bed every night at 7.
Thanks. º Last Column: Stick a Fork in the Whole Damn Teamº more columns
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|  June 23, 2003
You Belittle Us AllQuiet now, George. The whiney nasal voice, the croaking complaining, all of it. You embarrass us both, and I won't stand for it anymore.
So what if you have to go to the bathroom and can't? Nobody cares. There—harsh, but high time someone said it. You're at best a spineless jellyfish, George, carrying on about your inconveniences while real suffering abounds in the world. At worst, you're a squirming parasite on the rest of the earth. Don't blame me—you brought it on yourself.
Like the entire town wants to hear about how you can't make water. We all have our crosses to bear, George, and you're no different. Instead of carrying on about how it hurts in your privates and how you fall asleep on the john, why don't you try putting everything in perspective? The War on Terror, the violence in the Middle East, that pregnant lady who was killed by her husband. Did you bother to think about that George? Not being able to drain the vein doesn't sound so bad, does it? You've got it pretty damn easy.
If nothing else, think of me. Me, you're loving wife of however many years. Is it 30 or 50? They blend together with you as a husband, George. You're not so much loving spouse as an unattractive ornament I keep forgetting to get rid of. Years of devoted service to you, for whatever insane reason, and you can't even give me the basic consideration of how ridiculous we look, we, the two of us as a pair, when you carry on about your inability to...
º Last Column: Who's Up for a Little Old School Rap?
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Quiet now, George. The whiney nasal voice, the croaking complaining, all of it. You embarrass us both, and I won't stand for it anymore.
So what if you have to go to the bathroom and can't? Nobody cares. There—harsh, but high time someone said it. You're at best a spineless jellyfish, George, carrying on about your inconveniences while real suffering abounds in the world. At worst, you're a squirming parasite on the rest of the earth. Don't blame me—you brought it on yourself.
Like the entire town wants to hear about how you can't make water. We all have our crosses to bear, George, and you're no different. Instead of carrying on about how it hurts in your privates and how you fall asleep on the john, why don't you try putting everything in perspective? The War on Terror, the violence in the Middle East, that pregnant lady who was killed by her husband. Did you bother to think about that George? Not being able to drain the vein doesn't sound so bad, does it? You've got it pretty damn easy.
If nothing else, think of me. Me, you're loving wife of however many years. Is it 30 or 50? They blend together with you as a husband, George. You're not so much loving spouse as an unattractive ornament I keep forgetting to get rid of. Years of devoted service to you, for whatever insane reason, and you can't even give me the basic consideration of how ridiculous we look, we, the two of us as a pair, when you carry on about your inability to tinkle.
And if I have to hear one more time about how public restrooms make you queasy, George, well, send for the undertaker, that's all I can say. I put up with so much bullhockey over the years already, that's where I draw the line. It's all I can stands, I can't stands no more, as the amusing cartoon character says. Was it Popeye? He's a little like you, George—bald, squinty, poor diction, bizarre huge forearms from God only knows what kind of hand exercises. The comparison ends there, George, for Popeye is at least amusing while you irritate me to the hairs on my head, and Popeye at least served his country valiantly in the Navy, while no one will claim your work at Denny's has done anyone any good.
Do I hate you, George? Indeed hate is a strong word, but let's not hastily dismiss it. Let's say your appeal diminishes more each year and leave it at that. And yes, I would even say every little utterance about your lazy prostate devalues you even more. I would not push a button and wipe you out in entirety, but the day when I could push such a button is not completely inconceivable. Getting closer each day.
The worst thing about you, George, and I hate to be limited to one thing, but I would say it's the disservice you do to the rest of the world. Even those who do not hate you have to admit they wouldn't be sad if you vanished into thin air, like David Copperfield, only to not return. It's not that you mar the world in an ugly way, like a scar, but you certainly don't add anything to the melting pot. You are much like a tambourine sound in a recording most people barely acknowledge, and certainly wouldn't regret losing if the soundman turned the sound out on it. I can mathematically prove the world would be a better place without you, using fractals and long division.
Still, with all that said, happy anniversary. You did remember, didn't you? Remember, you're on thin ground as it is. º Last Column: Who's Up for a Little Old School Rap?º more columns
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Quote of the Day“No poor bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country. Unless we're talking Gandhi, but what fun is it taking a cudgel to the nuts for your country? None, that's how much.”
-Gorgeous George SpattenFortune 500 CookiePrepare for a fantastic journey of whimsy and wonder, and it's going to cost you $20—don't forget you can't touch her. Your keys are always in the last place you left them, so try looking at the bottom of Lake Chappaquiddick. What's up grandma's ass? What a bitch. When this particular problem comes along, literally whipping it will only result in jail time. Lucky skin blemishes: blackhead, pockmark, knife wound, stigmata.
Try again later.Favorite Porn Magazines| 1. | Meat | | 2. | Swing | | 3. | Grunt | | 4. | Pump | | 5. | Tink | | 6. | Flute | | 7. | Smam | | 8. | Push | | 9. | Kinkle | | 10. | (tie) Tubes, Flap | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 11/18/2011 I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for...
I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for all the movies you made hits in the years since I last wrote.
Transformers (2007)
In the words of the great John F. Kennedy: Come on, America. We can do better than this. The Hollywood blockbuster has been boiled down to its basics, and its shiny robots, automatons, beating the shit out of each other in the middle of a city. Director of Godzilla, Roland Emmerich, reportedly watched this film and apologized to the world. There is not a single human anywhere on screen in this entire film. That Megan Fox Real Doll is not even convincing, though yes, I would strangle the fleshy giraffe watching her bend and writhe around a hot rod, if only I could stomach cars and my movie-viewing room at work had a lock on it. The only thing more nauseating than the dialogue is seeing an animatronic Pirate of the Caribbean feature that looks uncannily like talented actor John Turturro speaking it. I don’t know what he got paid to license his image to this cinematic holocaust, but I’m sure dignity cannot be bought with the fee. Did I mention they made two more of them? If my will was law, everyone leaving the theater would have been sterilized and the films would have at least done some good to the world.
The Dark Knight (2008)
After Batman Began, he decided to start talking like the world’s worst Fat Albert impression. Christian "Bail Me Out, You Fucking Bitch, Mom" stars as the titular hero, who either has throat cancer or has trouble speaking plainly with tight leather wrapped around his throat. If I remember correctly, Heath Ledger acted so well in this film it killed him, but most of it amounts to wisecracks and doing a McLovin voice all the way through the film. The plot is convoluted and involves more characters than a season of Deadwood, and the action sequences would have been far more enjoyable if they had decided to light them. But in the end, the film makes a great statement: Sequels work best when they raise expectations to unrealistic degrees, making the third film an inevitable stinkbomb.
Avatar (2009)
I don’t go to see 3D films. I’m less worried about the damage to the eyes or the high cost of tickets and more frightened that it’s all a ruse to take pictures of an audience full of idiots sitting in the dark and watching a $12 movie while wearing sunglasses. Has the wonder of 3D ever lasted past the 20-minute mark? I wouldn’t know. Thankfully, Titanic auteur James Cameron squeezed every drop of wonder out of this film in the script stage. A paralyzed Kevin Costner finds a tribe of very tall Smurfs and becomes one of them, and though he’s pulled by conflicting loyalties for a solid three minutes of screen time, he sides with the primitive but lovable Land Gungans and Wesa all happy by the end of this tired yarn. Cameron thought about removing all the people in this one, they didn’t quite look real next to the CGI animation, but he remembered the last time a director did that they called it Transformers, and the critics burned it to send it to hell. This one was a bigger success, despite its lack of sinking ships and a dastardly lifeboat-stealing Billy Zane. Spoiler alert: Everybody wins and is happy in the end. Oops, gave away the ending.
Inception (2010)
Based on the novel Huh? by WTF. Batmastermind Christopher Nolan takes on the world of dreams in a fast-paced mind-blowing adventure epic that wowed critics and audiences alike. The only problem is it seems Nolan has never had a dream and never bothered to write a plot anyone could understand. What might have been a daring, big-budget exploration of dreamscapes and the psyche boils down to a bunch of car chases and people getting shot. I have always prided myself on telling when the Emperor has no clothes, and this one’s sack is dangling in the wind, people. Dreams are not as depicted in the movie, these vast landscapes where you’re chased by organized subconscious thoughts and doing gravity-free Kung Fu on other badasses. If Nolan had been honest, the plot would have been Di Caprio driving a Hyundai around inside a Home Depot looking for a place that’s open to buy French fries, and then they stop at a P.F. Chiang’s, which doesn’t normally serve French fries but for some reason they have them, only the French fries turn into hush puppies halfway through eating them, and Avery Brooks is a sukiyaki chef, then before he’s finished cooking Di Caprio finds they’re all on Deep Space 9 and the Crest Cavity Creeps are attacking. Then he wakes up. That would have gotten you the Oscar, Mr. Nolan, instead of losing to some stuttering fey king.
Those were the biggest moneymakers since I last wrote. Don’t blame me, America—blame yourselves. If you don’t apologize before I write again, I may decide to take on your Oscar winners. I dare you to give me a shot at Slumdog Millionaire. I dare you.   |
