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October 24, 2005 |
t’s almost the time of year to start pretending you’re Christmas shopping while you look for swanky new shit for yourself, and the commune is there for you with our first-ever annual Fall Gadget Guide. Join commune Tech Correspondent Mitch Kroeger as he guides you through the bewildering wilderness of the new and the shiny.
Casio Exslim EX-Z750
Now this is a nice little camera. The only problem is that the buttons are so small sometimes they get pressed when the camera’s in your pocket. This is a problem because I don’t wear any unde...  t’s almost the time of year to start pretending you’re Christmas shopping while you look for swanky new shit for yourself, and the commune is there for you with our first-ever annual Fall Gadget Guide. Join commune Tech Correspondent Mitch Kroeger as he guides you through the bewildering wilderness of the new and the shiny. Casio Exslim EX-Z750
Now this is a nice little camera. The only problem is that the buttons are so small sometimes they get pressed when the camera’s in your pocket. This is a problem because I don’t wear any underwear, so I end up with a lot of blurry shots of my dick. Still don’t see the problem? I didn’t either, but it made my mother in law throw up potato salad when she borrowed my camera. Advantage: Casio.
iPod Nano
This motherfucker is so skinny you can pick your teeth with it. Don’t, though: waterproof my ass! Also, don’t try tongue-kissing a girl when your tongue is all numb from electrical shock. There are only a few really kinky girls who don’t get all upset when you accidentally slip your tongue up their nose.
Roomba Discovery Vacuum Thing
This thing is absolutely the most expensive, funnest, and most high tech way possible to fuck with your dog. It’s awesome. You set this thing loose in your house and just crack open a beer and watch your dog go apeshit alternately trying to attack and flee from this bizarre little Star Wars vacuum droid. Of course, it’s all fun and games until your dog pisses on the thing in frustration, then it’s really fun games watching the finale as a tiny on-electrical-fire robot chases your dog around the house.
Sony VAIO VGN-TX670P
Now this is what I call a laptop. I don’t know if that’s technically correct or what, if it’s a notepad or tablet or UberPDA, Virtual Typewriter or whatever they’re calling this shit now. But I like this thing, whatever it is. It looks all space-age and shit and it flops open and shut so you can crack walnuts. Also, if you leave it on for a long time playing porn, it gets hot enough to make waffles. Fuck you, stewardess, you can keep your sad-ass little bag of nuts. I’m havin’ QWERTY waffles!
Motorola ROKR
This revolutionary new phone plays music, and not just when your phone’s ringing. About time, I say, I kept running up the bill on my old cell phone calling myself so I could hear “Tainted Love.” Motorola’s latest can play 100 songs, which is about 95 too many if you’ve got bad taste in music. But I guess technology can’t fix everything. I liked the ROKR plenty, except it sucks on the bus when you want to kick out the jams for everybody to enjoy, since it doesn’t play very loud at all. You’ve got to keep telling everybody to shut up and some people aren’t that big a fans of music or shutting up. Also, you’ve got to have a PHD to figure out how to get songs into the thing, it only comes with “Camptown Races” and I’m totally sick of that song now.
Motorola RAZR
I’ve always wanted to shave my balls while talking to my mom long distance, so Motorola’s RAZR cell phone seemed like a natural to me. I was actually pretty surprised that Motorola was on my wavelength there. Picture my disappointment though when the phone turned out to be pretty dull, causing some serious razor burn around the sack area even when used with shaving gel. Things improved markedly after I got it sharpened at the knife store at the mall, though. But you’ve got to remember not to leave the ringer on vibrate, or you’ll cut your fucking nose off if somebody calls while you’re shaving. Word to the wise.
Sharper Image Electric Dogshit Scraper
The best part of being an electronics reviewer has to be not having to scrape your own dogshit. Thanks a lot, Sharper Image. This thing will blast your shoe (or hat, really pretty much anything that’s got dogshit on it) with special ions that don’t do anything, and then de-poo the thing with a vibrating scrubber brush that’ll make your nads hard. The chicks dig it.
Querbo Dancing Robot from Sony
Gay, you have a new name, and it is Querbo. At first I thought this thing was kind of cool, like a midget robot henchman. I even named it Steve, surely an upgrade from Querbo. But when I brought it to the bar to show off, well let’s just say the night ended with yours truly being nearly kicked to death between the pinball machines. And Querbo. I’d rather not get into what became of that happy little dancing machine. Shudder.
Be sure to join us again next year when we’ll take a look at the iPod Video, the Petco Remote Control Dog Neuterer and the Nokia Earring Phone. Until then, stay tight. Mitch Kroeger is the commune’s resident resident, sleeping on the front stoop of the building as an urban legend hangover cure.
 | Amazing new Atlas shoulders even more of this burden called Earth
Women have advanced enough to drive around in circles
Florida declared disaster area months before hurricane hits
Imprisoned white supremacist no longer pure
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Conservative Woman Found he White House, always on the search for rare species of human beings or close approximations, unearthed an impressive find last week: A female conservative. Defying usual stereotypes, the so-called “right-wing woman” is apparently not a career politician or from the deep rural South. In fact, she’s completed higher education and appears to be not at all an idiot of any sort—though field-testing leaves the possibility open. And, perhaps most startling of all, the administration found the rare species in the most unlikeliest of places—within its own ranks. The alleged female Republican is Harriet Miers, White House attorney and personal lawyer to the Bush clan for years. Born and raised in Dallas, a small state in the country of Texas, Miers earned several accolades for her legal work and previous appointments by Texas governor George W. Bush, no relation to the current president. Though she lacks any bench experience, discounting bus stops, Miers is a respected lawyer, despite being personal attorney to the president and the White House counsel. Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings he new television season barely underway, Fox executives are already lamenting the low ratings for their most calculated new show of the season, Desperate Alien Prison Escape. “We don’t understand it,” lamented stunned network executive Roger Bacon. “This show capitalized on every hot trend currently on TV. We even had swearing. It should have been the biggest hit of all time. Fuck.” Fox’s latest ratings hopeful follows the travails of Juk, a member of a secret alien invasion conspiracy who intentionally gets arrested for sleeping with a bored suburban housewife in order to help his cousin escape from jail, using a detailed map he had tattooed on his scrotum, which due to his alien anatomy is located where a human being’s eyelids would be. Conditions at Walter Reed Upgraded to “Nightmarishly Clive Barker-esque” Unveiling of First Black Disney Character Raises Some Concerns |
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 April 14, 2003
Volume 40Dear commune:
Thanks for standing up for me back at the bar, dickcheese. I thought we were friends.
Sincerely,
Randy Moate Riverview, KS
Dear Randy:
Though we appreciate your mail, we must stress the fact that the commune is a news organization made up of numerous individuals, office equipment, free-roaming egos and a Ford Fiesta we use for beer runs and other official business. We’re flattered by the feeling of closeness you have for our organization, however it is a logical impossibility for the commune as a whole to be considered your "friend" in any conventional sense. That having been said, we might stand up for you more often if you didn’t get in a dick-waving contest every time you get half a drink in you, asshole.
the...
º Last Column: Volume 39 º more columns
Dear commune: Thanks for standing up for me back at the bar, dickcheese. I thought we were friends. Sincerely, Randy Moate Riverview, KS Dear Randy:
Though we appreciate your mail, we must stress the fact that the commune is a news organization made up of numerous individuals, office equipment, free-roaming egos and a Ford Fiesta we use for beer runs and other official business. We’re flattered by the feeling of closeness you have for our organization, however it is a logical impossibility for the commune as a whole to be considered your "friend" in any conventional sense. That having been said, we might stand up for you more often if you didn’t get in a dick-waving contest every time you get half a drink in you, asshole.
the commune Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for Barry Switzer of Elk Plain, MO. What’s with that guy, anyway? Talk about an Olympic-caliber jerk. Man. the commune would love to know what makes that guy tick. Some kind of high-octane asshole fuel, we think.º Last Column: Volume 39º more columns
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|  December 20, 2004
Homer VanSlyke's Twelve Days of ChristmasWhen I was young, we only had nine days of Christmas. That was years before capitalism went nuts and we started tacking on Christmas days like they were candy, to give people more time to buy fruitcakes, hunting rifles and salad forks. There was a real ugly period there where America was doing everything to excess; we even added a half-dozen states just for the hell of it. Nevada? Give me a break. Two hookers and a bag full of dirt does not a state make. Same thing for Hawaii. And those Hawaiian assholes even paid us back by getting us into WWII. If that's a Hawaiian's idea of gratitude, they can keep their pineapples and fat chicks, thank you very much.
But thanks to this haphazard propagation of Christmas days, many people have forgotten what the original nine days stood for. Some people think they know, but that's just like them. The true meaning of the nine days of Christmas has been all but lost from the modern world, a knowledge maintained only by myself and Chester D. Arthur of Whitebridge, Illinois. And that big sack of wrong thinks the eighth day is for purple horseshoes, so you might be experiencing your last shot at the real scoop right here.
Nine Ladies Dancing. The ninth day was always for stoning people who couldn't be properly shamed into following society's rules about things like women not dancing or Welch people trying to vote.
Eight Maids A-Milking. Again, the past was not kind to the fairer sex. The...
º Last Column: Einstein Was an Asshole º more columns
When I was young, we only had nine days of Christmas. That was years before capitalism went nuts and we started tacking on Christmas days like they were candy, to give people more time to buy fruitcakes, hunting rifles and salad forks. There was a real ugly period there where America was doing everything to excess; we even added a half-dozen states just for the hell of it. Nevada? Give me a break. Two hookers and a bag full of dirt does not a state make. Same thing for Hawaii. And those Hawaiian assholes even paid us back by getting us into WWII. If that's a Hawaiian's idea of gratitude, they can keep their pineapples and fat chicks, thank you very much.
But thanks to this haphazard propagation of Christmas days, many people have forgotten what the original nine days stood for. Some people think they know, but that's just like them. The true meaning of the nine days of Christmas has been all but lost from the modern world, a knowledge maintained only by myself and Chester D. Arthur of Whitebridge, Illinois. And that big sack of wrong thinks the eighth day is for purple horseshoes, so you might be experiencing your last shot at the real scoop right here.
Nine Ladies Dancing. The ninth day was always for stoning people who couldn't be properly shamed into following society's rules about things like women not dancing or Welch people trying to vote.
Eight Maids A-Milking. Again, the past was not kind to the fairer sex. The eighth day before Christmas used to be all about telling your wife to get back in the kitchen and a-milk you something, pronto. I'll let you be the judge of what results our society has reaped from letting that one slip.
Seven Swans A-Swimming. The seventh day was about remembering the seven steps of proper car maintenance: gas it, wash it, wax it, oil it, vacuum it, put out all fires, and park it inside when it's hailing. Anyone who ignored those steps would get a visit from the Swan of Poor Performance, who has largely been forgotten as a harbinger of doom ever since his children's cartoon was cancelled in the 1970's.
Six Geese A-Laying. The sixth day was traditionally a reminder for everyone to take a good big shit before the holidays to make room for the copious feasting that was to ensue. This may sound silly to ears attuned to the hectic pace of modern life, but back in the day people only shat once a month, and every year people would die from forgetting how. The accelerating pace of modern life, and diets containing more than just meat, have made those days merely a happy memory.
Five Gold Rings. This one is pretty self-explanatory, a simple reminder to get yourself paid. Visa wanted to change this to "Five Gold Cards" in 1970, but the government shot them down because nobody should have five gold cards. That counts as serious wallet abuse and you can hurt your brain coming up with so many fake names.
Four Calling Birds. Again, a failed attempt by AT&T in 1987 to have this changed to "Four Calling Cards" served to fog over the verse's original meaning: a reminder for men to ring up some tail for a booty call or four before the long deep freeze of family time gripped them through the holidays.
Three French Hens. Should a Christmas reveler fail in finding enough birds for a satisfactory pre-Christmas orgy, European prostitutes were always a handy fall-back option.
Two Turtle Doves. This nonsensical verse served as a reminder to generations about the folly of making decisions while extremely inebriated, a state in which many spent the entire month of December. Urban legend had it that the song's composer was himself hammered by the time he got to this point in the song, thanks to his habit of taking a celebratory shot after every successfully completed verse.
And a Partridge in a Pear Tree. And finally, the Big Kahuna. A stark reminder to all that anyone who becomes too drunk and belligerent throughout the holidays is likely to end up locked outside, staring confusedly at a bird in a tree. So try to keep your shit within reason.
That's all fine and good, you're likely saying, but what are the 10th, 11th and 12th days for? For shit, is the truest answer. But rather than set off a national epidemic of insomnia with that riddle, I'll delve a bit deeper to explain. In 1945, Sears paid the government $10 million to have the tenth day added. So the tenth day is for Sears, as is explained in the popular Peter, Paul and Mary song, which mentions the ten lords o' leaping on the tenth day. As was common knowledge in that day, gaylords often hung out at Sears.
Similarly, the eleventh and twelfth days were bought by Macy's and Wanamakers, with the twelfth day passing on to the May Company after Wanamakers bit the silver bullet in 1960. Macy's is represented in the song by the eleven pipers piping, since in those days the ripe stench of pipe smoke was the surest sign that there was a Macy's nearby. Wanamakers only got stuck with the twelve drummers drumming because all the other good counting stuff had been taken already. º Last Column: Einstein Was an Assholeº more columns
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Quote of the Day“God help them that help themselves to my lemony cookies, for they is to be sorrowing at the whup I be borrowing from they ass.”
-Benji "Cookie Monster" FranklinFortune 500 CookieLove is a relative term, but even that nugget won't save your ass if you pork your cousin. Stay away from salty snacks this week, even if it means tunneling underground. Try wearing your watch on the other arm—maybe that's your problem. This week's lucky names: Alexia. Ephyn. Scatman. Toolio.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Vietnam: The New San Francisco? | | 2. | 10 New Ways to Weight a Body Down | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Ethnic Pudding | | 4. | Love: The Source of All Bad Poetry | | 5. | Pants You Could and Will Die In | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Wee William Williams 4/4/2005 Blown by the SunThe night air like a cheese, perfumed with sea water
A blocky, leaky, laggy cheese coating us all
We the three of us tramp through Panama City
Selling fake insurance policies for a dollar to
The tourists
The cops roust us here and there, upon catching sight of seersucker suits
A tighty, sticky, stocky kind of faded brown material
Each of us is having the time of his life, or the other's
Our last night in this foreign city before we ship out
To Vietnam
I remember the fire-hanging hair, weaved together on the head
Of the bouncy, busty, bubbling night club stripper
She seemed as if I had known her a dozen years or more
Like I'm the kind of person who would forget my
Own sister
I...
The night air like a cheese, perfumed with sea water
A blocky, leaky, laggy cheese coating us all
We the three of us tramp through Panama City
Selling fake insurance policies for a dollar to
The tourists
The cops roust us here and there, upon catching sight of seersucker suits
A tighty, sticky, stocky kind of faded brown material
Each of us is having the time of his life, or the other's
Our last night in this foreign city before we ship out
To Vietnam
I remember the fire-hanging hair, weaved together on the head
Of the bouncy, busty, bubbling night club stripper
She seemed as if I had known her a dozen years or more
Like I'm the kind of person who would forget my
Own sister
I ignite, stepping out into the dark city, with a bursting ejaculation of life
A creamy, glowy, semeny outburst of the soul
The three of us, friends from children, sharing a final night
Before we're raped and swept away by the bony fingers of time
The grave
Would we ever meet again, my eyes seem to ask, these gentle souls and I?
The chummy, brotherly, buddies of my youth and I?
If this night scatters under the eye of the sun, driving us into tomorrow
Will the foreign wars and cruelty of men butcher us and erase us from
History?
This poem is to these paper cutouts in my past, loved faces who might have dispelled
Like wispy, smoky, ghostly incense that may or may not have ever burned
By chance we meet again at a high school reunion of all places, go Barnacles
And they sob at my poetic recount, though everyone I read it for found the semen part
A little too nauseating   |