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Bush: Jesus Was a FagNovember 7, 2005
Washington, DC
Junior Bacon
President Bush, whose approval rating can be heard making a whistling "bombs away" sound every time he opens his mouth
F
acing falling approval numbers that recently dropped lower than Bob Hope's balls, President Bush this week resorted to his usual tactic of becoming more conservative when threatened. The president may have gone too far this time, however, alienating even his core base of religious assholes.

After having his personal dog walker rejected for a seat on the Supreme Court, and his backup neo-Nazi facing a similarly tough uphill climb, Bush outlined a bold new philosophy in a televised speech on Sunday.

"Jesus was a fag," the president announced to a stunned roomful of didn't-know-Jesus-was-a-fag listeners. "Love everybody? The meek shall inherit the earth? Give me a break. The man didn't even have a reliable hairstyle."

"Women should be seen, not heard," continu...Read more...


Playstation 2 now portable; many Playstation 2 players not

South Korea as unruly, embarrassing as South U.S.

Country named Myanmar apparently not some kind of joke

Obama: "Fine, you guys do whatever the hell you want."



September 16, 2002

Click for Biography

Lawsuit Settled, Advantage: Bagel

The good news here in the commune offices is my court case has resulted in a nice out-of-court settlement. The bad news is… well, I'll get to the bad news in due course.

Frequent readers of my column, or actually anyone who read the last one, will remember that I was taking legal action against the author of the play based on my life, without my authorization, Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale A Lot of Money. My lawsuit was on the fasttrack toward a big fat payoff for the commune, and me in particular, when we found out the author of the play was none other than black sheep of the commune family Raoul Dunkin. Now, insiders and outsiders with insider contacts know that Raoul Dunkin was the first reporter hired when the commune made the jump from publishing on the back of pre-published pamphlets to the internet, where the overhead was considerably lower and the journalistic standards likewise lower. Which made it all the harder when he and his money-hungry blade backstabbed me and his brethren by running off to become a hot-to-trot M-TV veejay.

Apparently, M-TV and Dunkin were a poor match from the get-go and even the coveted 3-5 a.m. timeslot couldn't make him a star. He pink-slipped that job and ended up writing plays off-off-Broadway, specifically the Vlanch Community Theater in Vlanch, Pennsylvania. Which is where I saw the Fred Scarsdale bit. Cut to September of 2002, and a very pissed-off Red Bagel demanding compensation. Now...Read more...


º Last Column: I Want Compensation for the Play Based on My Life
º more columns


July 22, 2002

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Shinto the Pinto

Shinto the Pinto was the nicest car anyone could ever reasonably hope to meet. He drove at reasonable speeds, signaled for turns, and hardly ever ran down baby carriages on the sidewalk merely for sport. His interior smelled like a freshly unwrapped deodorant tree, and his seat covers were refreshingly free of diarrhea stains. But still, nobody liked Shinto.

The problem was, Japanese cars had a reputation for reliability. Everybody knew you could trust a Japanese car to get you from the pig roast to the methadone clinic with no problems whatsoever. No biplane noises coming from the engine, no carbon monoxide pouring through the air vents, and no busted-out seat springs stabbing you in the ass while you drive. Life was good in a Japanese car. Unfortunately for Shinto, all of the other Japanese cars out there were Hondas and Toyotas and Nissans and they generally lived up to the stereotype, driving long hours without giving their owners a lick of trouble. Shinto was the only Japanese car anyone had ever heard of who also happened to be a Pinto, the gold standard for shitty, unreliable cars for years.

If he had been an American Pinto, nobody would have thought twice about the fact that he never ran for more than ten minutes without overheating, or the way his brakes squealed like pterodactyls whenever the pedal was touched. But everyone could tell from Shinto's accent that he was Japanese, and that's where things failed to add up.

Whenever...Read more...


º Last Column: Leland Was a Flea
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Quote of the Day
“Be always on the phone, so that when the devil calls, he will get your voicemail.”

-St. Jerry
Fortune 500 Cookie
Just because you don't like the message, don't waste your time killing the messenger. John of Lancaster already took care of that for you 500 years ago. New scientific breakthroughs now make it possible to wash your hair while it's still attached to your head: no more tedious cutting and re-attaching with naval knots. Try to remember: Chex are for breakfast, checks are for paying bills. You will mix those up again this week. This week's lucky dogs: Lassie's offspring still living off residuals, all Irish breeds, and the two-legged one-balled variety.


Try again later.
Top-Selling Pamphlet Books
1.Women Who Are Happy with Their Weight
2.The Reagan Memoirs
3.The Joy of British Cooking
4.A Complete Guide to Montana's Gay Bars
5.The Tao of Vince Lombardi
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North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie

View Past Columns
BY John Boy Swick
9/2/2002
Gullible Travels
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.
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