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 September 16, 2011 |
(Top) Media demands answers as Weiner comes up short; (Bottom) Bob Turner fans clash with electorate who can’t get enough Weiner
Rep. Weiner, a U.S. Congressman with a strong Democratic record since 1998, was the subject of a scandal in May 2011 for sending women illicit pictures of his namesake via Twitter. The accusation proved disastrous for the New York Representative and Democratic Party, and a windfall for bored and humorless newspaper publishers who were thrilled to be writing about naughty bits at long last. Boldface text announcing "Weiner Hanging Out on Twitter" and "Weiner Exposed Online" besieg...
ollowing the September special election of Republican Bob Turner to fill the Congressional seat disgraced by Democratic Rep. Anthony Weiner, newspaper headline writers are entering into a devastating period of depression as they face the prospect of never again writing a Weiner-centric news headline.
Rep. Weiner, a U.S. Congressman with a strong Democratic record since 1998, was the subject of a scandal in May 2011 for sending women illicit pictures of his namesake via Twitter. The accusation proved disastrous for the New York Representative and Democratic Party, and a windfall for bored and humorless newspaper publishers who were thrilled to be writing about naughty bits at long last. Boldface text announcing "Weiner Hanging Out on Twitter" and "Weiner Exposed Online" besieged the sleepy culture of America, increasing newspaper sales for people who found it funnier to read than just listen to a description of the disappointing sex scandal on CNN.
A little more than a week after the incident, the Congressman admitted to emailing links to women he was interested in polling, and by the end of June, the 9th District Representative resigned his seat. Headlines continued to roll, tongues firmly in cheek among the newspaper industry, proclaiming, "Weiner Loses Standing," "Weiner Ejected From Seat," and the timeless classic "Weiner Suddenly Pulls Out." Bad times for the sexually mischievous Congressman, great times for headline writers; although the news cut short some of the fun of the journalism industry, they were still guaranteed months of fun as a special election seemed some months off to fill the vacated position.
A confidential source from the New York Daily News, whose name simply isn’t as funny as Tony Weiner, remembered the past four months as if they were last year.
"As a copy editor whose only functions are to proofread stories and write headlines, let me just state for the record you’re lucky if you get big news story in your lifetime—think about it. A big-time politician exposing himself on the internet? That it in itself is gold. But the guy is named Weiner. Jesus H. Christ, that’s better than Cox. You gotta savor it," said the anonymous dude. "Even after he resigned we spent days writing headlines about him, just because dammit, we earned the right. I think we left three serial killings without coverage while we came up with ’Who Will Replace Weiner’? That was my favorite. Man, we’ll never get those days back."
This reporter reminded the confidential informant of the now classic, "No One Big Enough to Fill Weiner’s Slot," then we laughed ourselves stupid.
The halcyon days of headline writing seemed to fade as the date of the special election approached, and dull-as-dishwater Republican Bob Turner defeated the even-less-spectacularly-named Assemblyman David Weprin. The Republican election not only means a big GOP win in a district they haven’t held since 1923, but a promise that future Weiner-related headlines will only seem a desperate play for attention by print tabloids and newspapers.
At the New York Post, there was a somber feeling in the air on election night, and boos went around as a Republican victory was announced. All eyes were misty, and the feeling was best exemplified by copy editor Dawn Draper.
"Gentlemen… that’s our last Weiner." Half-hearted chuckles were all that met the dour atmosphere.
Draper spoke further on the subject as deadline approached, the staff rushing about us like mad men.
"Of course we’ll miss the chance to make Weiner-related headlines, and not just because it sold more papers," Draper said. "We at the Post have been doing Weiner write-ups before anyone else. I myself am responsible for our coverage of the firing of his Chief of Staff in 2006, which spawned the immortal headlines ’Weiner Loses Head of Staff’ and ’Behind Weiner’s Big Sack.’ But it’s never going to be enough for us again to write more Weiner coverage, to give the full skinny on Weiner—sorry, hard to stop doing that. For a while, it was a perfect storm of scandal and ’you’ve got to be shitting me’ names—everyone was game, we were all on board. Oh, the nights we sat here, giggling like school girls over Chinese take-out and writing up new Weiner coverage. We’ll never have that again."
Despite the morbid pessimism of some, others in the industry hold out some hope for the future. The New York Times, famous for its conservative coverage of news and events, has already announced their support for a fresh batch of congressional candidates in 2012, among them 8th District contender Penny Dick, 12th District candidate Patrick Dong, and 2nd District dark horse Mike Dixon-Kuntz. the commune news prefers to rise above getting a cheap laugh out of uncommonly silly names, and anyone who doesn’t believe us can ask former Breaking News Correspondent Ivana Folger-Balzac, or Gay Bagel, if you ever find him. Raoul Dunkin is no stranger to cheap laughs, or Weiner jokes. Sorry, un-capitalize that.
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Homeland Defense nominee withdraws name; no longer eligible for free ham
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Controversial Rockwell Painting Found in Collection of War Criminal Spielberg Giuliani Woos Conservative Base By Killing Arab Bush Admonishes Tornado’s Cut and Run Policy |
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 April 29, 2002
LeeGood people, whatever I said last week, optimistic it up by about 200%. I am feeling much, much better. Maybe it's the smell of fresh cauliflower cooking on Camembert's stove, maybe it's the neighbors and their loud enunciation of Shakespearian dialogue through the walls. Or maybe it's the fact my disruptive energy has crashed into a train of good vibes, as Lee says, and that's what I'm leaning toward.
Lee has yet to be wrong about things like this. It's Lee's opinion that somewhere along the line, in the past year, I've had a burp of negative karma that has totally blemished my natural green. Why? Quit asking me. Ask Lee. He's the genius that knows all of this stuff.
I just asked Lee and he said he's not quite sure, it could be any number of things. Most likely it revolves around my moving my office into the commune headquarters, where as before I worked out of my Dodge parked in front of my house. That was just to be a temporary solution until I could build an addition onto the house, then the addition I built would not stand up and frequently collapsed on me and the cat. I decided it was either hire a professional builder of additions or move into the commune offices, so I did the latter.
And there was the problem. So Lee says. There is a vortex of anti-vurga here that affects some people the wrong way. Namely me and Lee. I'm not quite sure what vurga is or what it's for, but Lee assures me he had not made it up and it exists, and...
º Last Column: Win A Dream Date With Camembert
º more columns
Good people, whatever I said last week, optimistic it up by about 200%. I am feeling much, much better. Maybe it's the smell of fresh cauliflower cooking on Camembert's stove, maybe it's the neighbors and their loud enunciation of Shakespearian dialogue through the walls. Or maybe it's the fact my disruptive energy has crashed into a train of good vibes, as Lee says, and that's what I'm leaning toward.
Lee has yet to be wrong about things like this. It's Lee's opinion that somewhere along the line, in the past year, I've had a burp of negative karma that has totally blemished my natural green. Why? Quit asking me. Ask Lee. He's the genius that knows all of this stuff.
I just asked Lee and he said he's not quite sure, it could be any number of things. Most likely it revolves around my moving my office into the commune headquarters, where as before I worked out of my Dodge parked in front of my house. That was just to be a temporary solution until I could build an addition onto the house, then the addition I built would not stand up and frequently collapsed on me and the cat. I decided it was either hire a professional builder of additions or move into the commune offices, so I did the latter.
And there was the problem. So Lee says. There is a vortex of anti-vurga here that affects some people the wrong way. Namely me and Lee. I'm not quite sure what vurga is or what it's for, but Lee assures me he had not made it up and it exists, and mine is being scratched, picked at, violated, and rubbed raw by the anti-vurga vortex I spoke of before. Well, I don't need to hear any more. As soon as possible I'm moving out of the commune offices and making an office at home.
It will be difficult, I'm sure, saying Camembert and my apartment is too small is an understatement, an understatement so large it will not fit in our miniscule apartment. I could not even squeeze it into the space between my bed and the radiator that frequently sets the bed on fire. But what else can I do? Bagel and company won't shell out the money to buy me space across town, they've already tried to sell my space on numerous occasions to tourists. I'll have to make room in the apartment, according to Lee.
Lee suggests that with a matter of such urgency I can afford to make space in the apartment. He said I should diagram the entire apartment on a piece of paper and sort out what can be moved where, and I should do it as soon as I get home. But he won't help, he has meditation this afternoon and doesn't want to get riled up.
Frankly, I don't see what I'm supposed to move and where I should move what I move. There's my bed, my television set-up, my grand piano, my standing closets, my sitting closets I usually refer to as drawers, my portable bathtub, the game of Twister—it's been out so long I'm certainly not going to put it away now, I'll just want to play again tomorrow—and the vaulting horse. Not to mention my workout space. A finely-planned house of cards it all is, I move one piece and everything tumbles down. I definitely cannot fit a desk, computer, and second workout space into my room.
Camembert's room! Of course, why didn't I think of it before I sat down and wrote all the above out? I'll simply annex Camembert's room and make it my office. It might be hard to convince Camembert at first, but he'll come around. I'll put a positive spin on it, that's what Lee always suggests. People are suckers for positive spins, he told me right after borrowing the money for that ass-reduction surgery that was so vital to his five-year plan.
Camembert will be more than happy to give up his room once Lee explains it. He loves Lee living on our couch so far, I heard him telling Lee so yesterday. As it is Camembert's room is a bulky waste of wheelchair rolling space, safety rails and bars and Camembert's personal effects. I can make his bed into a bunkbed and everyone will be happier, it will be like camping. As long as I get the bottom bed for I don't have to roll out of bed and land on that dangerous wheelchair at three in the morning.
I'm starting to look forward to this. Lee's right, a positive spin makes any disaster seem much more tolerable. º Last Column: Win A Dream Date With Camembertº more columns
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| December 23, 2002
'Tis the Season for Gifts with No Pleasin'Rok Finger's shopping list is full to bursting this year, like my bladder. This time last year I was a different man, though both of us the same height and with the same hideous facial features, and I bought only a few gifts, for my wife, Arvelyn, my cat, Makeshift, and the handful of bastard children I have spread across America like Jenna Jameson.
This year is a different story, though the similarities to the plays of Neil Simon are strong enough to invoke copyright-infringement issues; this year I've had to fall back on my friends, both at my new apartment home and here at the commune offices, so it's safe to say I have a long Christmas list this year.
I've never been good at Christmas shopping. In fact, a dispute over whether or not I owed my first wife of 30 years, Wyfe, a Christmas gift was what ended that marriage. It's just hard to find the perfect gift sometimes, especially for under $5.50. At first I thought I'd buy all my friends one of those Segway Human Transport thingamajigs—well, you won't believe what the snakeoil salesmen are charging for those things. I'd have to put in a lot of overtime to get even one, and I could probably supply everyone with a lifetime supply of shoes that would work just as well.
As I said, I have a long Christmas list. It includes everyone here at the commune, like Red Bagel, Ramrod Hurley, Lil Duncan, Ivan What's-his-commie-name, Omar Bricks, Raoul Dunkin (though everyone's chipping in on a...
º Last Column: Re-Decorating My Life
º more columns
Rok Finger's shopping list is full to bursting this year, like my bladder. This time last year I was a different man, though both of us the same height and with the same hideous facial features, and I bought only a few gifts, for my wife, Arvelyn, my cat, Makeshift, and the handful of bastard children I have spread across America like Jenna Jameson.
This year is a different story, though the similarities to the plays of Neil Simon are strong enough to invoke copyright-infringement issues; this year I've had to fall back on my friends, both at my new apartment home and here at the commune offices, so it's safe to say I have a long Christmas list this year.
I've never been good at Christmas shopping. In fact, a dispute over whether or not I owed my first wife of 30 years, Wyfe, a Christmas gift was what ended that marriage. It's just hard to find the perfect gift sometimes, especially for under $5.50. At first I thought I'd buy all my friends one of those Segway Human Transport thingamajigs—well, you won't believe what the snakeoil salesmen are charging for those things. I'd have to put in a lot of overtime to get even one, and I could probably supply everyone with a lifetime supply of shoes that would work just as well.
As I said, I have a long Christmas list. It includes everyone here at the commune, like Red Bagel, Ramrod Hurley, Lil Duncan, Ivan What's-his-commie-name, Omar Bricks, Raoul Dunkin (though everyone's chipping in on a bag of dead rats for him, so that saves some money), Sampson Hartwig, Boner Cunningham, the tall black drag queen, the short mealy-mouthed loser in the overalls, that castrating-bitch ex-wife of Ivan's, the girl from that old TV show, the pixie in the cupboard, the movie review guy, Ramon Nootles (or as some like to call him, "big bag of S.T.D.s"), those three photographers, including the one who charges Bagel five different paychecks by using different names like "Snapper McGee," Ned Nedmiller and the insane chicken (though I can probably get them one combined gift), the dead baseball player reporter, and the scary bitch who tells children's stories. Oh, not to mention all the Rent and Poet people, the Book people, the guys who do the tiny type, the copywriters, the cleaning staff… what I mean to say is, forget this malarkey, Rok Finger is getting cards for the entire office staff. Uno cards.
Which leaves the few important people in my life to get real gifts for, mainly Camembert and Lee. They'll be hard to buy for—Camembert will likely want all kinds of handicapped-oriented gifts, like books or sweaters. Lee will probably want things musicians like, such as bass strings, tuning forks, and primo grass. I can't afford these sorts of things. And I haven't even bought anything yet for the former pro-wrestler stalking me.
Very possibly I'll just go back to the old plan, buying something for Arvelyn and Makeshift—at least they never complained. Sure, Makeshift would release an antagonistic "meow" and soil my couch, but I don't count that as a complaint unless I hear, "Fuck you, Finger." Which he's only said once, so I'm in good standing. And Arvelyn, well, maybe I'll just drop the counter-suit and give her the alimony she's asking for. It is only $5.50. Ah, Arvelyn—say what you will about her, she knows a man's limitations.
Hmph. Now I feel very sad and depressed… doggone suicidal rage, all attached to the season. Christmas is here at last!
So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good gift—Rok Finger autographed press photos. They cost practically nothing since I clip them out of printed columns from work, and they say exactly how much everyone means to me. º Last Column: Re-Decorating My Lifeº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal. They have to, because let's face it—you're never going to support yourself as a fucking poet, cheech.”
-B.S. EliodeFortune 500 CookieExpect a big upturn in your finances when a bag of silver dollars dropped from a skyscraper nearly kills you. People flock to your show when The New York Times calls you "Stomp for people who wish Stomp would just fucking die already." The court case is decided this week and you now legally have bragging rights. Lucky meat substitutes: Soy, tofu, tofurkey, a McDonald's hamburger.
Try again later.Ill-Conceived Vacation Getaways| 1. | Locked in steamer trunk with mother-in-law. | | 2. | North Platte, Nebraska. Was thinking of a different North Platte. | | 3. | The hottest part of the sun. In July. | | 4. | Feral Monkey Zone Theme Park. Provo, Utah. | | 5. | The sweet release of death. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 6/24/2002 Well hey, America! Who'd have thought you'd be back for part two of our entertainmentalicious Summer Preview? I mean, what are the chances of that? I'm not a gambling man, but if I were I'd have to bet the odds were close to 100-7-245-9. Needless to say, I'm damned impressed. I looks like you've held up your end of the bargain, so I'm going to do my best to make this EP the policiest yet. This month we're taking a gander at the ass-half of the summer movie releases and asking the age-old question: where's the manager with those ticket refunds?
In Theaters
Austin Powers in Goldmember
Everybody knows Mike Meyers is a sharp guy, but does anyone really think he can make a spoof of Jerry...
Well hey, America! Who'd have thought you'd be back for part two of our entertainmentalicious Summer Preview? I mean, what are the chances of that? I'm not a gambling man, but if I were I'd have to bet the odds were close to 100-7-245-9. Needless to say, I'm damned impressed. I looks like you've held up your end of the bargain, so I'm going to do my best to make this EP the policiest yet. This month we're taking a gander at the ass-half of the summer movie releases and asking the age-old question: where's the manager with those ticket refunds?
In Theaters
Austin Powers in Goldmember
Everybody knows Mike Meyers is a sharp guy, but does anyone really think he can make a spoof of Jerry Seinfeld's American Express commercials work for 90 minutes? Sure, there's a lot of Superman material to be mined there, but once you get past the "Invisible Man boinking Wonder Woman" joke I think it's going to get old fast.
The Crocodile Hunter: The Main Course
Now here's a concept we can all get behind: that inbred Aussie redneck finally gets his ass eaten by alligators. Or crocodiles, whatever. I don't think anyone's going to argue about snout shape when they're being thrashed around in the water with their nuts in a croc's vice-like grip. This is a film idea that was about as overdue as Britney Does the Bad News Bears. Not to mention it's got a great soundtrack that includes Men at Work's cover of Crocodile Rock and that hilarious parody song Who Let the Ducks Out? that you've been hearing about on the net.
K-19: The Widowmaker
I hate to be the bearer of shitty news, but it looks like James Belushi and that fuckin' dog are back again. This time the twist on the franchise is that the dog's got some kind of hyper space-rabies and has acquired a taste for blood, so Belushi's got to track him down (surely stepping in shit along the way) and cut the dog's heart out with a pen knife before burning it in a crematorium, blah blah blah. This trend-aping is supposed to scare us, but I'm about as scared as I was when I first saw the cover for M.C. Hammer's The Funky Headhunter album. Which is to say, pretty scared, but not for the right reasons.
Like Mike
Kidflick that probably sounded like a better deal before Tyson started head-butting people's fists and getting his ass handed to him on a regular basis. Regardless, bedwetting rap sensation Little Misogynist displays some charisma in his acting debut as a pint-size boxer who learns he can suddenly hang with the big boys when he discovers that all of his punches fall at crotch-level.
Men in Black Tubes
Hey, it worked as a Madonna video, so why not drag it out onto the silver screen and let the general non-MTV-watching public poke it with a stick, eh? That's what I'm imagining the producers thought to themselves as they sat around a martini breakfast at some swanky Hollywood gyp joint and tossed around ideas like midgets at an Arkansas bowling alley. Apparently this is one of the ideas that stuck, probably only because the rest of the producers were afraid to admit they'd never seen the video. Anyway, the final product turned out pretty arty, and no one can doubt that the Maternal Girl looks good in a wetsuit made out of plastic six-pack holder rings, but the plot lost me when they were whipping the little Chicano guy out in the rain.
Milo & Stitch
Lovers of all-animal films like Woofers the Cross-Country Dog and Barnyard Porno Volume 3 have been waiting thirteen long years for a sequel to the dark coming-of-age tale Milo & Otis, the undisputed king of the kitten-chucking genre of films. If any of them were betting that 2002 would be their year, then somebody owes them a handjob because Milo the cat is coming out of string-batting retirement for one more turn on the merry-go-round called Hollywood. Diehard fans will be happy to hear that wooden-acting little dog Otis isn't back for the sequel, thanks to his being eaten by a hippo on the set of a shampoo commercial back in the original film's heyday. He's been replaced by a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig named Stitch, who starts out the movie cute, in an ugly-little-pig kind of way, but by the end of the movie has eaten himself into some kind of belly-dragging nightmare destined to be left behind on a family camping trip. Surely the DeNiro of animal actors, Stitch goes all the way for this thinly-veiled Elvis bio-parable, with Milo lending a purring dignity as Stitch's backwoods huckster of a personal manager.
Minority Depot
Bad as it was, NBC's liberal-pleasing sitcom at least served a purpose when it was on TV. With a cast representing every racial group on the planet, plus one ignorant, backwoods, racist, sexist and certifiably ugly white dude, the show at least managed to clam up the social critics who argue that there aren't enough Korean weightlifting champion women on network sitcoms. But there is such a thing as throwing a dog too many bones, as will be evidenced when this turkey sucks its way over to the silver screen this summer. And a note to the Hollywood bigwigs in charge of this one: if you think you can pass off Tom Cruise as ugly, you've obviously never been to Pennsylvania.
The Powerpuff Girls
A trio of New Jersey High School broads discover that a whole new world opens up to them when they spend their Sweet 16 birthday loot on breast enlargement surgery. Teaches the powerful lesson to young girls everywhere that money can't buy you love, but it can buy you a nice rack and a lifetime of popularity and marriage proposals, not to mention a sweet gig as a trophy wife. I tell you, chicks have the life.
Rain of Fire
Jesus Christ, somebody want to tell me who pissed off Prince so bad? Last time I checked he was a soft-spoken boogie machine with a flair for offensive asswear, now I turn around and he's some kind of Hollywood angel of death? I thought I was going to get some hot, half-naked dancing mulattos, not Nine Inch Nails, The Movie. I don't want to start any rumors, but I think somebody must have keyed his little red corvette something awful.
Road to Perdition
There are about three people on the planet who think you can make a Road… picture without Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, and apparently Tom Hanks is one of them. And whoever thought the snore-inducing berg of Perdition, Florida was an exotic locale on par with Bali, Hong Kong and Zanzibar needs to have his dentures rinsed off. Hanks and Paul Newman do their best to keep the laughs coming as a couple of numb-nutted mafia hitmen, but this series was old back when Bob Hope still had that "new guy" smell.
Stuart Little 2
Talk about timing. Everybody's been waiting since they were five for that lying little duck to get what's coming to him, and it looks like the sky's about to fall on Stuart Little. We all love to see a little comeuppance dished out to some hothead who never learned the lesson of The Boy Who Cried Wolverine, but I'll personally be in line just to see how far the technology of duck-bashing has come since the Daffy-blasting days of my youth.
Whew, America, I think that's about that. I hope your summer is full of big-screen thrills and painless sprints to the restrooms during the dull scenes. Check back in a month and who knows what you'll find in this spot? I'm serious, I'm not even sure myself. But if I know Hollywood, they'll keep churning out the review fodder and we should get along fine. One more thing America: I don't know if Jennifer Connelly is going to get naked in The Hulk, so you can stop emailing me about it any time now. What am I supposed to be, her girlfriend slash confidant or something? Just because you roll with the commune doesn't always mean everybody takes your calls all the time, or even if you're a commune writer pretending to be from E! Online. See you next time!   |
