| Loves That Woman ';
$dunkin='2005/0905/';
$dunkintitle='The New Anne Frank Diary';
$edit='2003/1222/';
$fanmail='2005/0516/';
$fanmailtitle='Volume 63';
$finger='2005/0905/';
$fingertitle='I’m Fresh Out of Haitian Cigarettes';
$fortune='2002/020121/';
$goocher='2005/0711/';
$goochertitle='Gwar of the Worlds';
$hanes='2005/0704/';
$hanestitle='Pink is Not for Men';
$hartwig='2005/0606/';
$hartwigtitle='Parade';
$hooper='2005/0228/';
$hoopertitle='Vernon Hooper’s Fifth Syphilis';
$hurley='2005/0404/';
$hurleytitle='Time of Healing';
$kroeger='2005/0822/';
$kroegertitle='Charity Case';
$loser='2005/0822/';
$losertitle='Lost Leavings';
$ned='2003/0818/';
$nedtitle='Cyantology';
$pickle='2002/020513/';
$pickletitle='State of the Art';
$poet='2005/0905/';
$police='2005/0905/';
$polio='2005/0905/';
$poliotitle='Omarelief';
$rent='2005/0829/';
$renttitle='I’m Not that Big a Fan of Talking';
$reynolds='2005/0425/';
$reynoldstitle='A Series of Unfortunate Evans';
$hartwig='2004/1206/';
$hartwigtitle='O Captain!';
$sickhead='2004/0419/';
$sickheadtitle='The Legendary Spot of Coco Hobari McSteve';
$ted='2005/0530/';
$tedtitle='The New War on Poverty';
$vanslyke='2005/0606/';
$vanslyketitle='Health Food is Full of Shit';
$zender='2005/0425/';
$zendertitle='The Sixth commune Enthusiasts Club Meeting';
?> | 
Judge to Miss North Carolina Pageant Contestants: "Girls, You're Both Pretty"September 16, 2002 |
Raleigh, North Carolina Junior Bacon/Ramon Nootles' Private Collection Judge Fox suggests girls put this behind them before they start getting frown lines.
Rebekah Revels had won the Miss North Carolina pageant, only to be forced to resign when a letter from her ex-boyfriend claimed he had topless pictures of her. Misty Clymer was chosen as Miss North Carolina afterwards, though Revels sued the pageant for the right to wear the crown. The winner of the lawsuit would go on to represent North Carolina in the Miss American pageant Sept. 21st.
The judge refused to pick one contestant over the other, leaving that to the Miss North Carolina pageant committee. Instead, the judge said in his ruling: "I see what this is really all about, Misty… R...
dispute over the rightful inheritor of the Miss North Carolina crown was settled Thursday when U.S. District Judge James Fox issued the ruling that both competitors were pretty.
Rebekah Revels had won the Miss North Carolina pageant, only to be forced to resign when a letter from her ex-boyfriend claimed he had topless pictures of her. Misty Clymer was chosen as Miss North Carolina afterwards, though Revels sued the pageant for the right to wear the crown. The winner of the lawsuit would go on to represent North Carolina in the Miss American pageant Sept. 21st.
The judge refused to pick one contestant over the other, leaving that to the Miss North Carolina pageant committee. Instead, the judge said in his ruling: "I see what this is really all about, Misty… Rebekah. Girls, you're both pretty. There's no need for all this fighting and competition."
The allegation of a forced resignation was the basis for Revels' case as she claimed the judges had rightfully chosen her to represent North Carolina. Pageant officials felt the nude photos taken by the ex-boyfriend tarnished the crown of the pageant and put dozens of future scholarships and sponsors for the Miss America and Miss North Carolina pageants in jeopardy. These photos, so crucial to the case, could not be obtained despite countless requests to both parties, but nude photos of Alyssa Milano were available on the Internet, as well as a compromising picture of Mandy Moore and two black men, but those pictures could possibly have been Photoshopped.
The case was settled amicably by the judge's declaration of equal prettiness. Miss North Carolina pageant representatives said Misty Clymer would go on to represent North Carolina in the national pageant. But the judge's ruling was a tremendous boost to Clymer's confidence.
"Like all girls, Misty needs a compliment every now and then to keep her going," said pageant representative Vill Gording. "And with all this stress of the case and the high pressure of being in a court setting, you can imagine she was a little down. The judge reminded her she was pretty—she knew it, but still, you like to hear it—and it made her day."
The declaration was also well-received by plaintiff Rebekah Revels and counsel. "Obviously, Ms. Revels is disappointed by the pageant's decision to uphold her resignation," said Revels attorney Wax Musstash. "But my client was more than satisfactorily compensated for her loss by the reassurance she is pretty. That's all she really wanted anyway—the judge was wise to acknowledge that."
"I'm glad that the court system is finally able to get past the frivolous lawsuits to the important stuff," said some smart-ass on the court steps as this reporter attempted to get better quotes from the lawyers involved.
The potential for future disappointments in both contestants' futures being high, the judge issued also his telephone number to both plaintiff and defendant, urging that they should call him sometime soon in the future for private rulings. That may or may not have been true, but this reporter certainly would have been disappointed to find the judge missed out on such an opportunity.
Again, if any informant has laid hands on the photos in question, please contact Ramon Nootles at the commune and we'll talk finder's fee. the commune news will frequently use Vaseline on its lips and duct tapes its ass, but for entirely different reasons.
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Christina Aguilera announces engagement to manwhore
Workplace shooting "had to happen on a Monday," says victim
Onlookers Awkwardly Try to Ignore Really High Guy at 9/11 Memorial Who Can't Stop Laughing
Late Playboy photographer Helmut Newton goes on to marginally better place
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Officials to Celebrities: Please Get Out of New Orleans isaster-relief officials in New Orleans made a stern announcement today to the thousands of celebrities descending upon the devastated city in hopes of providing humanitarian aid in exchange for career-boosting photo ops: We’re serious; you really need to leave now. “We’ve got to get these fucking celebrities out of New Orleans,” sighed an exasperated Lt. Mark Bolio of the Army’s 92nd Airborne. “They’re drinking up all our bottled water and bitching about the catering all day.” The influx of famous faces has weighed as a heavy burden on officials who have spent the last week scrambling to get everyone out of the city-shaped deathtrap. Receding water levels have exposed a nightmare world of toxic contamination, with nearly the entire city soaking in deadly levels of E. coli bacteria, lead, crude oil, PCBs, asbestos, leptospirosis, battery acid, herbicides, raw sewage, DDT, snakes, and according to at least one local, cooties. After busting a nut trying to remove the bulk of New Orleans’ stubbornly entrenched locals, many of whom refused to leave their pets or belongings, the Army was not prepared to deal with the celebrity occupation. Wisconsin Man Takes in Jazz Band he whole nation wants to do their part to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, but a Madison, Wisconsin man is doing so much he makes all the other volunteers and charity donors look like dried puke. For Albert Pohl Martinson hasn’t merely taken in three or four family members or refugees from New Orleans: He’s taken in a whole jazz band. “I just wanted to do what I could,” Martinson told a deluge of fawning media standing on his front lawn. “So I said I would take in the first group of refugees I could. I sent them bus tickets and had them carted up here immediately. And then, being a good citizen, I called the local news to make sure they were informed.” However, Martinson didn’t stop and giving the 5-man combo all the food, shelter, and clean water they needed; he also bought them sparkling fresh instruments so they could take their mind off their troubles. Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage |
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 March 18, 2002
The "M" Stands for Music!Loyal followers of All Things Coleman know my middle initial is M. Those of you who keep details anally (and I don't mean that literally, disgusting thought) think that stands for Mershowitz. Nope! The "M" stands for music! Legally, too, I had it changed at 3 a.m. a couple of days ago. I didn't even know they did that in Vegas at those hours.
Everybody's talking about the 80's right now, especially 80's music. And I couldn't be happier. Finally we're getting back to what makes rock great—synthesizers and pastel spandex. This time, Clarissa Coleman's going to be a part of the New Wave re-revolution.
That's right, I've started a band. We're still debating names. Some in the band want to call it The Clarissa Coleman Experience, but the rest of them don't want us to become a novelty act or something. I personally don't want to capitalize on my prior successes, unless it makes us really popular. Still, there's other names that could do that. We're considering Stone Cold Burrito, The Fat-Ass Quakers, Your Mother Likes My Dick, and The Flaccid Band. The guys in the band aren't real keen on that last one, so we'll probably go with something else.
I'm personally leaning toward something that sounds really New Wave, like my favorite bands. I've offered Kaja-Schitzu, Spandex Opera, B.O.M. (Big Orchestra Music), The Eurothmicks (legally we can't use that), The Bobble Heads, The Taliban Twins, and Flock of Assholes. None of the band likes any of...
º Last Column: I've Had Plenty of Inappropriate Relationships
º more columns
Loyal followers of All Things Coleman know my middle initial is M. Those of you who keep details anally (and I don't mean that literally, disgusting thought) think that stands for Mershowitz. Nope! The "M" stands for music! Legally, too, I had it changed at 3 a.m. a couple of days ago. I didn't even know they did that in Vegas at those hours.
Everybody's talking about the 80's right now, especially 80's music. And I couldn't be happier. Finally we're getting back to what makes rock great—synthesizers and pastel spandex. This time, Clarissa Coleman's going to be a part of the New Wave re-revolution.
That's right, I've started a band. We're still debating names. Some in the band want to call it The Clarissa Coleman Experience, but the rest of them don't want us to become a novelty act or something. I personally don't want to capitalize on my prior successes, unless it makes us really popular. Still, there's other names that could do that. We're considering Stone Cold Burrito, The Fat-Ass Quakers, Your Mother Likes My Dick, and The Flaccid Band. The guys in the band aren't real keen on that last one, so we'll probably go with something else.
I'm personally leaning toward something that sounds really New Wave, like my favorite bands. I've offered Kaja-Schitzu, Spandex Opera, B.O.M. (Big Orchestra Music), The Eurothmicks (legally we can't use that), The Bobble Heads, The Taliban Twins, and Flock of Assholes. None of the band likes any of my suggestions for band names, and they keep rejecting my songs and lyrics. Personally I think "I Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Flunked My Driver's Test" was a classic waiting to happen, and "Put on A Me Suit" still breaks my heart. Sooner or later they have to let me contribute. I am the backup singer and cowbell player, after all.
We've played three shows so far, and let me tell you, "backup singer" is just a title. I steal the show and everybody knows it. I've even had the lead singer Misha tell me to keep quiet or shut-up on occasion, everybody was listening to my vocals more. We actually got into a fight at the third show, but like all good bands and families, we make up afterwards, or just don't talk to each other for a long time until it's all forgotten. Apparently that bitch Misha is taking that route.
We're yet to record any demos, we're still in the process of gathering the money. The band naturally assumed I had millions of dollars, since I'm practically a household name like Sting or Lemon Joy, and were pretty upset to find out I had no money. We even talked about disbanding the band, starting with me, but I convinced them to hang in there and with all my contacts in the business and entertainment world I could get the money together for great demos.
It's just as well since we haven't really decided on our sound. Most of the audience doesn't even know we're New Wave yet. Most of the band doesn't know it, they think we're Christian Rock, hence the working name of Jesus Fish, but once we can agree on the way we sound and our name and how we dress (I still like the idea of purple Outbreak suits) we'll be the biggest new band on the planet. This planet, folks. Warzy, eh?
In the mean time I'm just going to be the silent team leader and be a professional about my rehearsals. I still can't really sing "the Lord is my savior" without laughing. º Last Column: I've Had Plenty of Inappropriate Relationshipsº more columns
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|  July 21, 2003
Dyslexic Monks"God and I have an understanding. I don't argue He doesn't exist and he won't argue it about me."
You know how some people are really smart but they're no good at tests? I'm like that—no good at tests. I'm not good at remembering stuff or thinking of things real fast either, and I'm not really good at coming up with ideas of my own or knowing things that people just sort of know. But I'm really bad at tests.
Some people call it test anxiety, like where you get really worried about how you're going to do and forget all the stuff you know. But that's not it. I mean, if I knew the stuff and forgot it, that would be bad enough, but I have no clue what they're talking about. One teacher tried to tell me I was dyslexic, but I told him I don't really go to church at all. I can't believe God would be such a dick, if He exists, and take away all my knowledge of everything just to be spiteful. If that's the way he's going to be about it, I'm never going to church. Just to be spiteful.
I have gone to church before, technically. You always hear about how a church is supposed to be a place where anybody is welcome at any time of day or night, no restrictions, but they're just hypocrites. Next time you're driving home Sunday morning with a little whiskey still sloshing around in your gut drive up the steps and into their doors while the dude, the what you call him, is giving his big God speech. See if you'll be welcome then. I can tell you...
º Last Column: Doctor Kiwani
º more columns
"God and I have an understanding. I don't argue He doesn't exist and he won't argue it about me."
You know how some people are really smart but they're no good at tests? I'm like that—no good at tests. I'm not good at remembering stuff or thinking of things real fast either, and I'm not really good at coming up with ideas of my own or knowing things that people just sort of know. But I'm really bad at tests.
Some people call it test anxiety, like where you get really worried about how you're going to do and forget all the stuff you know. But that's not it. I mean, if I knew the stuff and forgot it, that would be bad enough, but I have no clue what they're talking about. One teacher tried to tell me I was dyslexic, but I told him I don't really go to church at all. I can't believe God would be such a dick, if He exists, and take away all my knowledge of everything just to be spiteful. If that's the way he's going to be about it, I'm never going to church. Just to be spiteful.
I have gone to church before, technically. You always hear about how a church is supposed to be a place where anybody is welcome at any time of day or night, no restrictions, but they're just hypocrites. Next time you're driving home Sunday morning with a little whiskey still sloshing around in your gut drive up the steps and into their doors while the dude, the what you call him, is giving his big God speech. See if you'll be welcome then. I can tell you first hand you won't.
Every once in a while I feel bad about what I've done, or what I am, or the box of Cracker Jacks I got that didn't have no surprise in it, but it's not like I need someone to tell me it's God's plan or something dumb to make me feel better. It doesn't make any more sense to me that God thinks it's funny there's no prize in my snacks exactly when I'm in the mood for a lick-on tattoo.
Just for laughs I went to a church once and the church guy there told me they were full. It didn't sound full, that's what I told him. He said it wasn't full, but they were closed for the holidays, and he didn't want to hurt my feelings. Then he pushed me off the steps and ran back inside. I could hear him locking the doors and him and his friends were laughing. What do you call them? Monks?
I guess I could take better tests if I read books and such. I tried reading the Bible but all that "begat" stuff really pissed me off. They introduce like a hundred and something characters in the first few pages. I'm not much of a reader, but I can tell you that's the kind of bad writing that can keep your screenplay from being produced. I still read about five pages of it, two columns on each, and then nobody ever tested me on it. So you can see why I don't ever want to read a book again just because they say there's going to be a test on it. You never know, they're probably lying.
Nine out of ten times they aren't, yeah. Maybe even ninety-nine out of 100. But reading, you know… it's boring. º Last Column: Doctor Kiwaniº more columns
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Milestones1992: Lil Duncan's alternative band Fuck Off is signed to a major label, on the condition they replace Lil and change their name to The Cranberries.Now HiringGenie. Duties include magically delivering gifts of high monetary and social value on demand. Must have own lamp or bottle, no backtalk. Evil "wish becomes curse"-type genies need not apply.Best Unreported News| 1. | President Bush Built from Japanese Parts | | 2. | Dale Earnhardt Fans Waiting Like Fanatics for His Return | | 3. | Lawrenceville, KS Shoney's Buffet Huge Fucking Rip-Off | | 4. | RuPaul All Man Underneath Dress | | 5. | Country of Chad Non-Existent, Just Some Joke by Guy Named Chad | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Amstel Graves 5/13/2002 An American in TijuanaHe strolled through the courtyard of this small Mexican villa like the town was his own. He didn't really own it, not in the sense of actually holding property rights over every square foot of land in the town or anything, but really no one person can actually own a town, not really, so the fact that he didn't actually own the town shouldn't say anything about how much he felt at-home there, or how well he was loved by the townspeople.
As Sam Rothman strolled through the warm Mexican sunshine, he could faintly hear a band of mariachis (street musicians) playing in the town square up ahead. The spirited strains of La Cucaracha became clearer as Sam approached. It was his favorite song, and they always played it when they saw him.
"Yo burro es tambourine,...
He strolled through the courtyard of this small Mexican villa like the town was his own. He didn't really own it, not in the sense of actually holding property rights over every square foot of land in the town or anything, but really no one person can actually own a town, not really, so the fact that he didn't actually own the town shouldn't say anything about how much he felt at-home there, or how well he was loved by the townspeople.
As Sam Rothman strolled through the warm Mexican sunshine, he could faintly hear a band of mariachis (street musicians) playing in the town square up ahead. The spirited strains of La Cucaracha became clearer as Sam approached. It was his favorite song, and they always played it when they saw him.
"Yo burro es tambourine, Senioritas!" Sam shouted as he passed the mariachis, complimenting them on their playing. The Mariachis launched into La Cucaracha even more robustly, as if to say "You're Welcome!" back to Sam. Sam approached a happy shopkeeper who loved his family. "Buenos dĂaz!" shouted the shopkeeper cheerily.
"Quesidillas!" responded Sam. This was truly his town. All of the townspeople loved him; they looked to him as a father, a brother, an uncle, or a stranger on the street, depending on their individual inclinations. And the small children who played in the streets looked to him as if he were their father. Maybe he was, the subject had never really been broached.
Had it really been nine months since it all happened? It seemed impossible. To Sam it seemed more like seven. Seven short months since everything had gone down stateside, since his wife left him standing at the altar when they were supposed to be renewing their wedding vows, and he later found out from a sex tape he found in the VCR that she had left him for his best friend, Ted Spencer. What really hurt the most was that Sam had advised his friend to go for it, not realizing that the extramarital affair Ted was describing involved Sam's own wife. An irony bitter like vitamin pills. Seven months since he'd lost his job, refusing to toe the line with his company's vow of silence concerning the CEO's home telephone number.
"Buenos Nachos!" Sam greeted a group of young Mexican women who were weaving a rug. They smiled back, warmed by Sam's subtle charms and the beans they had been eating for lunch.
Sam fixed his gaze upon the most beautiful of the young Mexican women, a white-eyed beauty named Maria Conchita Consuelo Alonzo Montalvo Garcia Esteban Rodriguez-Gutierrez. "Oy," Sam said to her with a smile, flashing his expensively acid-bleached pearly white things. "Mai yabbos es frito bandito," he continued, laying the charm on thick like butter on a tortilla.
"Usted está bloqueando la luz," beautiful Maria CCAMGERG replied. Sam knew then that she was his for the taking, her delicate Spanish flower would open for him and him only. But he had to do this the right way, for in this foreign culture a woman's honor was all she had. For her there would be no cheap wine and horse tranquilizers, not like those street boys in Mexico City. No, this was a Mexican creature of rare grace and dignity. This would require some paper plates and a bottle of Electric Reindeer, at the least.
Just then a young man approached Sam, casually brandishing a machete big enough to hack the nuts off a cashew tree.
"¿Por qué usted está hablando con mi esposa?" he shouted in Sam's general direction.
"I know just how to handle this," Sam thought to himself. "Hola, mi amigo! Menudo la bamba soy capitan!" he said, tucking his penis back into his trousers.   |
