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Tom Cruise's Shit Don't StinkNovember 24, 2003 |
Winnipeg, Canada Sloe Lorenzo Pleasant-smelling possible gift to humanity Tom Cruise, seen here being admired from afar
"We've long suspected Mr. Cruise might have descended from a higher odor of stenchless man, and these findings have merely confirmed the innate superiority we've long gathered from Tom's demeanor and public statements," explained Dr. Remus Rooney of the Manitoba Center for Deep Thinking. The center, housed in a building once famously occupied by vice pioneer Brooks McNally's "assembly-line" brothel during WWII, is known ...
ccording to a troubling new study published today, Canadian scientists have found the shit of American actor Tom Cruise to be totally lacking in the offensive odor usually associated with common man-scat. The discovery raises a host of disturbing questions, not the least of which is what Canadian scientists were doing smelling Cruise's shit in the first place.
"We've long suspected Mr. Cruise might have descended from a higher odor of stenchless man, and these findings have merely confirmed the innate superiority we've long gathered from Tom's demeanor and public statements," explained Dr. Remus Rooney of the Manitoba Center for Deep Thinking. The center, housed in a building once famously occupied by vice pioneer Brooks McNally's "assembly-line" brothel during WWII, is known around the world for investigating questions of general scientific interest such as what those letters on zipper tabs mean and why some people insist on calling it "double-yew double-yew eye eye."
"When Tom looks at you, you can just tell his shit doesn't stink," added Rooney. "And now we have the research to back it up."
But how did this unusual study come about?
"Tom contacted us, actually," elaborated Dr. Rooney. "He was concerned that the cigar boxes of shit he was mailing to a local rival might not be having the intended effect, and sure enough it turns out the guy was using the stuff to insulate his house."
Rooney is careful to point out that Cruise's fecal matter is not odorless, which would just be creepy, but rather carries the robust odor of roasted almonds, a scent most who come in contact with the shit find pleasing. Through a series of tests at the Manitoba Center, Cruise's diet, lifestyle and religious practices are being examined as scientists attempt to probe the inner workings of the sweet-smelling actor.
"I hear he eats nothing but honeydew melons and bee larvae," insisted local roughneck Denny Lopez. "No shit. Or whatever they make that bee jelly out of. That shit's expensive. Damn but I'd like to get me some. My shit stink like death, yo."
"The defining characteristic of shit is that it stinks," explained leading fecalogist Roger Burns. "Which is what makes this case so unusual. If it doesn't stink, is it still shit? Or is Mr. Cruise instead shitting out something else? And if this is the case, is he still shitting it out, or do we need to come up with another verb for defecating a substance through one's anus? This is truly a heady day for science."
"Just a sec, I gotta take a shit," added Burns, excusing himself.
"Why don't you leave one instead?" countered Dr. Rooney, in jest. Both doctors chuckled heartily.
"That one never gets old," admitted Burns. the commune news' shit doth indeed stink, so much so in fact to warrant a recent local news report. Ramon Nootles is rarely singled out as the culprit in this matter, but only because of the overwhelming in-office opinion that commune columnist and resident alien Boris Utzov and his bizarre Eastern-European diet are to blame.
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 October 14, 2002
A Prank Call From the FatesSome guys have all the luck. Others just get a mouth full of boot heel and bloody tooth shards on a cold October morning. I heard a song about that once.
I'll give you three guesses which category Omar Bricks falls in this week, ladies and gentlemen. And the first two don't count since if you guess wrong I get to rap on your knuckles with a ruler. Something like that, it's an old saying from the bible.
But I'm not kidding, this has been a week for the record books. Assuming somebody somewhere keeps records on bad shit that happens to good people. And I think that's a fair assumption, since if there's some geek out there keeping a log of every time Spock scratches his ass on Star Trek, and I know there is because I lost a Frisbee in his yard one time, then anything's got to be fair game.
Make no mistake about it, this has been a four-alarm, hide the virgins, call out the National Guard variety of bad week. If two more things go wrong I'm going to hit up the president for some of that disaster relief cash you're always hearing about. It doesn't seem like there have been any massive floods or boat show fires lately, so I think he can spare the dough. Hell, if he could walk a few blocks in my Reeboks I think he'd fetch the big novelty check for me personally. If you've ever had your tits kicked in by the fates, you know what I'm talking about here.
Everybody knows about my well-publicized car troubles and my citywide...
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Some guys have all the luck. Others just get a mouth full of boot heel and bloody tooth shards on a cold October morning. I heard a song about that once.
I'll give you three guesses which category Omar Bricks falls in this week, ladies and gentlemen. And the first two don't count since if you guess wrong I get to rap on your knuckles with a ruler. Something like that, it's an old saying from the bible.
But I'm not kidding, this has been a week for the record books. Assuming somebody somewhere keeps records on bad shit that happens to good people. And I think that's a fair assumption, since if there's some geek out there keeping a log of every time Spock scratches his ass on Star Trek, and I know there is because I lost a Frisbee in his yard one time, then anything's got to be fair game.
Make no mistake about it, this has been a four-alarm, hide the virgins, call out the National Guard variety of bad week. If two more things go wrong I'm going to hit up the president for some of that disaster relief cash you're always hearing about. It doesn't seem like there have been any massive floods or boat show fires lately, so I think he can spare the dough. Hell, if he could walk a few blocks in my Reeboks I think he'd fetch the big novelty check for me personally. If you've ever had your tits kicked in by the fates, you know what I'm talking about here.
Everybody knows about my well-publicized car troubles and my citywide taxi ban. For most people, the parade of tears would end there, but for Omar Bricks they're just getting the marching band and sweater-wearing elephants out of cold storage.
I come home Friday night to find out that Foghat got into a can of Cream of Broccoli soup that I didn't even know was still in the pantry. It must have been left over from when I was selling those bottles of Turd Bird Ale, my homebrew bathtub beer, at the Fair a few years ago. There was a food drive for the homeless going on across the street, and I admit that I got into some bartering with the hobos by the end of the night. I didn't want to have to carry any heavy shit back to my car when the Fair was over and I thought some of those canned goods might come in handy if we ever got around to nuking the Russians or whatever.
Little did I know that Foghat is part Cream of Broccoli hound, and he went straight-on ape when I brought that crap home. I gave him a bowl just to get him to stop bouncing off the furniture and peeing everywhere, and sweet flaming Christ was that a mistake. If you can't imagine what happened next, give your own dog some foul-smelling cream-based soup some time. Just make sure you've got the carpet-cleaning place on speed dial.
Well, it turns out that just not giving Foghat the soup again wasn't enough, because that idiot dog figured out how to work the can opener and it was like déjà vu all over again. After the second episode I thought I'd purged the house of any trace of Cream of Broccoli soup, but Friday night I was rudely educated otherwise. Let's just end that tangent by saying that if anybody wants a couch that can blister paint at a distance of ten yards, you're welcome to come drag it off my lawn.
You don't even want to know half the rest of the heinous shit I've got going on right now. Yet another ludicrous paternity suit (like I've ever even been to Canada), the mouse I've got living in my refrigerator, the little six-year-old kid who's stealing my mail, and the list goes on and on. I'm starting to think it's some kind of conspiracy, though I haven't had time yet to work out exactly what the logistics of the whole thing might be. I'm biking over to Red Bagel's place later in the week to try and figure the whole thing out over a few beers; we'll see what comes of that.
All I know is I get the feeling like somebody's fingering Omar Bricks' asshole, and it ain't Omar Bricks. Somebody's got some explaining to do.
Bricks Out. º Last Column: Sub-Transportational Carsick Bluesº more columns
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|  April 25, 2005
Slow Change ArtistConfound it all! And then find it again and further confound it!
That damned Stigmata Spent was caught in a lie, ruining my chances of uncovering the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (hereby called BCW). Her insistent use of words like "sweetie" and "honey-doll" unraveled all my work pretending to be a secret shadowy former CIA agent, only an estimated 5% of which call everybody "sweetie." Or maybe her being a 6'2" black transvestite stood out as a noticeable change from when I wore the fake beard.
It matters not. The result is two-fold disaster: My previous cover is blown, leaving me out of the loop once more, and possibly worse, they've tightened the circle in their little conspiracy so I'm less likely than ever to get in. Nuts! I knew my luck would run out. I finally stumble upon the biggest earth-shaking cover-up ever, right in the early stages, and lose it all trying to win big at my annual secret-circle poker game. The irony is palpable.
But when I fall off the horse, I beat the horse to death, like they say. I don't give up. So I've already started putting together my newest disguise, and have even road-tested a few of them just to make sure.
One thing is sure: drag is out. Stigmata Spent might be able to play a convincing man, but it's probably due to the fact she was born one. I, on the other hand, make a less than convincing woman. In fact, children on the street point me out as "the fat man wearing a dress."...
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Confound it all! And then find it again and further confound it!
That damned Stigmata Spent was caught in a lie, ruining my chances of uncovering the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (hereby called BCW). Her insistent use of words like "sweetie" and "honey-doll" unraveled all my work pretending to be a secret shadowy former CIA agent, only an estimated 5% of which call everybody "sweetie." Or maybe her being a 6'2" black transvestite stood out as a noticeable change from when I wore the fake beard.
It matters not. The result is two-fold disaster: My previous cover is blown, leaving me out of the loop once more, and possibly worse, they've tightened the circle in their little conspiracy so I'm less likely than ever to get in. Nuts! I knew my luck would run out. I finally stumble upon the biggest earth-shaking cover-up ever, right in the early stages, and lose it all trying to win big at my annual secret-circle poker game. The irony is palpable.
But when I fall off the horse, I beat the horse to death, like they say. I don't give up. So I've already started putting together my newest disguise, and have even road-tested a few of them just to make sure.
One thing is sure: drag is out. Stigmata Spent might be able to play a convincing man, but it's probably due to the fact she was born one. I, on the other hand, make a less than convincing woman. In fact, children on the street point me out as "the fat man wearing a dress." Which is totally unfair, because though my weight may fluctuate, I'm hardly fat. I even shaved my beard and it didn't work, although my 5 o'clock shadow has already grown in by the time I hit the streets. Who knows, it doesn't have to be an entirely physical problem, it could just be my terrible sense for women's fashion.
Who wants to be a woman anyway? Besides women, of course, no cheap shot at you ladies. But I have a barrel full of disguises. A literal barrel, and they're starting to smell like pickles, since that's what I used to keep in the barrels. I can always explain away a pickle smell, however, so that's the least of my problems.
My ideal disguise would be something stylish and cool, a character that leaves the conspiracists in such awe of me they don't even ask me my name. My first choice is international Swedish jewel thief Borge Nills Wafer. 'Cause who better to add to the BCW than the world's foremost jewel thief? Of course, they may already have the world's foremost jewel thief, and then we'd have to have a major thievery contest to establish which of us is the superior thief, but that's pretty outlandish. Still, I have to plan on every contingency, I have to make my newest character infallible to their suspicions. My star-spangled jewel thief costume might not pass muster. In fact, the whole jewel thief thing may go out the window, since I'm basically a clumsy heavyset man who's never stolen anything worth taking.
I'm still working this all out on paper, as you can see.
I've got play to my strengths. I'm well-fed, spoiled, stinking rich, and obstinate in getting anything I want. Texas oil magnate seems a natural disguise, just off the top of my head. Hey! I could even go by the nickname "Tex." And conspiracists love Texas, just ask anyone in Deely Plaza in 1963.
I think it just might work. Assuming, of course, no one reading this column tips the insiders to my intentions. So let's all keep quiet out there, okay? Not only for the sake of my fun, but for the future of mankind as well. º Last Column: Pokered Faceº more columns
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Quote of the Day“A nation divided against itself, times three more nations, plus six more nations and an independent state, divided by two nations, is… shit. I always do this. I forgot to carry the remainder. Does anyone have a calculator I can borrow?”
-Abie Lincoln HayesFortune 500 CookieToday is the day the son of a bitch finally dies. You know what would be good right about now? Chili con carne. Isn't it funny how the one time you forget to wear a condom is the one time you end up catching a seriously painful contagious disease? Lucky for you, the world can always abide one more asshole.
Try again later.Top 5 Worst Zen Koans| 1. | What is the sound of two dogs fucking? | | 2. | If a tree falls in the woods, doesn't it kill a shitload of ants? | | 3. | Say, what's the meaning of life? | | 4. | Worms have no eyebrows—think about that for a minute | | 5. | (tie) Where's the beef?/Shut the fuck up | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 5/30/2005 G'day, America, we're phoning in this week's edition of Entertainment Police from an Aussie state of mind, and by that I mean I'm stuck in an airport in Austria. Word to the wise: don't accept an invitation to the Greater Chinese Film Festival, because there ain't one. It's all a clever white slavery ring that was apparently looking to get its hooks into one of Omar Bricks' neighbors, but lucky for her Omar's been collecting the neighborhood's mail as part of an experimental attempt to teach dogs to deliver mail, as a way to make his a two-income household without the downsides of getting married or going gay.
We've been raffling off the leftover mail here at the commune's offices to raise money for sick kids who are faking cancer, so I ended up with the film festival invite,...
G'day, America, we're phoning in this week's edition of Entertainment Police from an Aussie state of mind, and by that I mean I'm stuck in an airport in Austria. Word to the wise: don't accept an invitation to the Greater Chinese Film Festival, because there ain't one. It's all a clever white slavery ring that was apparently looking to get its hooks into one of Omar Bricks' neighbors, but lucky for her Omar's been collecting the neighborhood's mail as part of an experimental attempt to teach dogs to deliver mail, as a way to make his a two-income household without the downsides of getting married or going gay. We've been raffling off the leftover mail here at the commune's offices to raise money for sick kids who are faking cancer, so I ended up with the film festival invite, to the great disappointment of my would-be Chinese captors, believe me. There's a three-to-one male-female ratio over there, so they were happy to see me show up to that sausage-fest like I was a turkey baster full of the bird flu. But enough about my airline-gone-out-business limbo. Thanks to the magic of Wifi, I'm here as usual to offer another weekly glance at the magic of Hollywood, your portal to disinterest. In Theaters Now:Cinderella ManFinally, that Aussie meathead whose name I can't remember is a big enough star to make the film he's been dreaming about since he was a child: a serious dramatic retelling of the Cinderella legend with a man cross-dressing as a woman in the title role. Sure, we've all had that idea before, but who thought they could really pull it off? Only this guy, whatever his name is. Don't tell me, I swear it's on the tip of my tongue. Anyway, the resulting film is surreal as a Tupperware party at David Lynch's house, with the hairy and deep-voiced Cinderella going to great lengths to hide his manliness from his wicked stepsisters, his fairy godmother, several unperceptive mice, and the charming prince from the ball who's going around town trying to see whose foot fits into Cinderella's size-13 glass slipper. The results will jerk tears and several other body parts. The Gaylords of DogtownFinally somebody is giving the Weird Al treatment to that awful Nichole Kidman movie Dogtown, which itself was a cheap knockoff of Cats, except with more-loveable dogs played by unlovable big Hollywood stars. As anyone who actually saw Dogtown could tell you, what that movie needed was a whole lot more skateboarding, and this parody doesn't disappoint. But the real masterstroke was casting the entire movie only with real dogs, who, to a dog, easily trounce the performances of their human imitators in Dogtown. Watching real dogs skateboard is also pretty hilarious, especially if they're being pulled behind Jeeps and Ferraris and things and they put them in funny crash helmets and sunglasses. The Longest TurdHollywood's been going through a serious toilet-humor streak lately, which I can only think is a result of the "Go Young!" philosophy that has left us with a median age of thirteen for Hollywood studio execs. This mentality suits Adam Sandler just fine, however, and he's back from a recent detour into unfunny roles with this decidedly no-brow tale of a prison shitting contest and a little guy who could lay cable like nobody's business. Sandler really sinks his teeth into the role, if you can read that figure of speech without conjuring some disgusting mental image of Happy Gilmore biting a turd, and shines as the virtuoso ass-dropper. Burt Reynolds isn't nearly as funny in his cameo, but hey, fuck you, he's Burt Reynolds. MadagastroNever before has $90 million bought so little at the Hollywood rummage sale as in the case of this computer-animated film about a crazy scientist with the shits. Ben Stiller is back in his usual role as a lion with itchy balls, and other famous people use cartoon animal totems to spout the kind of hateful anti-diarrhea rhetoric that would get them blacklisted if it came out of their non-animated mouths. I think I heard Will Smith in there somewhere, and of course Bela Lugosi. As for the animation itself, it looks like a Special Ed class's homage to South Park, but I mean that in the nicest way possible for not hurting the feelings of retards. And that's all that we've got the time or life force to review this week, friends and neighbors, but be sure to check back in another two when we'll have an in-depth look at the amoeba and finally answer the hot-button question "Microscopes: real magic or phony bullshit?"   |
