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Bin Laden Fails to Show Up for Terrorism Awards ShowOctober 29, 2001 |
Washington, DC Junior Bacon Even Destiny's Child's sizzling performance was not enough to bring the reclusive Saudi out of hiding
“Obviously, we’re sad to see not one of the big winners this year turned out,” said Special Forces Commander Joe Don Dawson, presenter of this year’s Outstanding Terrorist Event award. “It’s a huge shame. But really, it was sort of a longshot anyway. I mean, that they’d show up.”
Dawson then gave a hand signal and several dozen black-clad commandoes rappelled down the side of the auditorium walls, disassembling their weapons and moving single file to the exits.
<...
ast night’s Academy of Terrorism Awards show was a disappointment to all, as the coveted Terrorist of the Year award was won by no-show Osama bin Laden. The awards show, held at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., in fact failed to supply any of the terrorists who won awards. “Obviously, we’re sad to see not one of the big winners this year turned out,” said Special Forces Commander Joe Don Dawson, presenter of this year’s Outstanding Terrorist Event award. “It’s a huge shame. But really, it was sort of a longshot anyway. I mean, that they’d show up.” Dawson then gave a hand signal and several dozen black-clad commandoes rappelled down the side of the auditorium walls, disassembling their weapons and moving single file to the exits. Some news sources have claimed the Terrorism Awards show is an overt attempt to lure bin Laden and other Al Qaeda terrorist network officials out of hiding so the U.S. government can apprehend them. “Who told you—“ started President George W. Bush, then correcting himself in a calm manner, responded, “Of course not. The Academy of Terrorism presents these awards annually for outstanding, uh… you know, excellencism in the field of terrorism and such.” According to other news sources, despite the president’s claim, this is the first year on record for the Terrorism Awards show. In fact, no address for the Academy of Terrorism could be verified, and names given as leaders of the Academy are all obvious joke names like “Seymour Cox” and “Jacques Trap.” If the Academy of Terrorism and the Awards show are both genuine, it stands as a great coincidence all recipients of this year’s “Boomie” awards were also on the U.S. Most Wanted Terrorists list recently released by President Bush. the commune news is never as “news” as you want it to be and certainly not as much “commune” as you were expecting. Lil Duncan runs a tight ship here, boys, and no one gets off without her permission.
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Duke Prosecutor Disbarred, Accepts New Position as National Scapegoat High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman |
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 January 5, 2004
Witness the Healing Power of ProtectionI hate to be the bearer of bad news, otherwise known as a bad news bear, but this will be the last Giving You the Finger column for quite a while.
Yep, you read right. Why? you may ask, with my permission. I'll tell you: Because starting with my next edition, in this regular space, you'll be reading Giving You the Bellmont.
I do not jest, not even for fun, but especially when it comes to my column. Giving You the Finger is no longer possible, as Felchyana and I are now in the Witness Protection Program, following our late-December feeling to the FBI. For all intents and purposes, Rok Finger is dead. I'm not sure how he went, my money was always on being fatally shot on the subway in a dispute over a wheat penny, but I'll let the FBI handle those fine details, that's their show. This column is now coming to you courtesy of Godfrey Bellmont.
Before you start hem-hawing about losing such first-rate name material as Rok Finger, I promise you it was the only resort left. The mob was quite angry at me, even before I turned state's evidence, county by county. It was only a matter of time before they tried to kill us yet again, only more successfully. I talked to Felchyana about it, long and in-depth, and she called me a perpetrator and said my rhymes were wack. As you can see, her fondness for gangsta rap hasn't quite passed yet. But I took her insult of my lyrical science as agreement we needed to get away, and the FBI was our best shot. ...
º Last Column: The Night Before Testimony
º more columns
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, otherwise known as a bad news bear, but this will be the last Giving You the Finger column for quite a while. Yep, you read right. Why? you may ask, with my permission. I'll tell you: Because starting with my next edition, in this regular space, you'll be reading Giving You the Bellmont. I do not jest, not even for fun, but especially when it comes to my column. Giving You the Finger is no longer possible, as Felchyana and I are now in the Witness Protection Program, following our late-December feeling to the FBI. For all intents and purposes, Rok Finger is dead. I'm not sure how he went, my money was always on being fatally shot on the subway in a dispute over a wheat penny, but I'll let the FBI handle those fine details, that's their show. This column is now coming to you courtesy of Godfrey Bellmont. Before you start hem-hawing about losing such first-rate name material as Rok Finger, I promise you it was the only resort left. The mob was quite angry at me, even before I turned state's evidence, county by county. It was only a matter of time before they tried to kill us yet again, only more successfully. I talked to Felchyana about it, long and in-depth, and she called me a perpetrator and said my rhymes were wack. As you can see, her fondness for gangsta rap hasn't quite passed yet. But I took her insult of my lyrical science as agreement we needed to get away, and the FBI was our best shot. To cut to the post-chase, I spilled every bean I had on the mob, even made up some plausible sounding stories about something they did at Ruby Ridge. In exchange for my exciting information and guaranteed box-office quality testimony, they moved us to an undisclosed location which I haven't yet disclosed. I think it's Wisconsin, but it's awful warm for Wisconsin. I'll have to get back to you on that. All I know is people are not shooting at me anymore, that's a change in the weather I can appreciate. They also gave me a new name! Godfrey Bellmont, as I mentioned. Either they were all out of Jack Johnsons or the guy in charge of the names thought I called for a little extra flair. My wife, Contessa, would probably agree. I suppose I'm glad they come up with the names for you, my first choice would have been Edith Head, which really doesn't work for a new column title. I believe I'm just very uncreative when it comes to names, or creativity in general. Believe it or not, the FBI wanted me to cut off all contact with everyone I knew—including the commune and you, the loyal commune reader. I was aghast, as you can imagine. Just leave my faithful followers hanging, like the equipment within a pair of boxer shorts? No can do, my federal friends. Of course, I haven't told them I've returned to the column yet, even if I'm writing it from the safety of Undisclosed Location, Wisconsin (possibly). But they should be happy with it once they find out I'm going to use my new name. Things will not change, good people, just because my name and living situation has. I will still rail against the railable, stand up against the unstand-uppable, and continue to fill out the same amount of column space for weeks to come. Camembert and I are going to a costume party this weekend, and I'm sure that will make for the fantastic style of Rok Finger complaints you've come to expect. Just delivered by Godfrey Bellmont. Oh, yes, Camembert is just as safe as us. I managed to talk the FBI into including him in our Witness Protection deal. But as far as everyone is concerned now, he's my 13-year-old daughter Penelope Bellmont, and can even walk now, although his legs are slow to cooperate. Actually, the FBI assigned him the new name of Gerald, Godfrey Bellmont's brother, but I haven't told him. Dressing him like a girl was my idea. º Last Column: The Night Before Testimonyº more columns
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|  April 29, 2002
ome, Come to Jamaica!I've got to say, I've always laughed at those commercials urging me to "Come, Come to Jamaica." For one, it's stupid to say "come" twice—I'm not a dog, I get it, you want me to come there. Forget it. You said it twice like I'm some sort of dog or something. Jamaican jackasses.
For another thing, Jamaica's not even a state! It's a whole other country or something. If it's not American, forget it, you won't catch me tanning my backside on some communist beach in Castroland.
Third: Well, I don't really have a third thing. It looks pretty nice on TV and all, no problem with that. Probably the "ai" thing, that bothers me. Look, you hotsy pseudo-French dorks, you don't need an "i" if you have an "a" already, it's still pronounced "Juh-may-ka." I know from experience in America we pronounce "ai" like "i-ee," as in my friend Aisha. That bitch.
At least that's how I felt before I got on the wrong plane. I've flown out to Hollywood on planes so many times it's second nature to me, so forgive me for getting flight 34 to Jamaica confused with flight 43 to California. But I can honestly say it was worth the mistake, even if I missed the L.A. premiere of Desert Dogs and that audition for Promise margarine I was flying out for.
Jamaica is pseudo-American, it turns out. Some of the people talk funny and say things you can't understand, but just don't talk to them. They're locals anyway. Turns out Jamaica has a lot of people that speak...
º Last Column: Let the Buyer Beware
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I've got to say, I've always laughed at those commercials urging me to "Come, Come to Jamaica." For one, it's stupid to say "come" twice—I'm not a dog, I get it, you want me to come there. Forget it. You said it twice like I'm some sort of dog or something. Jamaican jackasses.
For another thing, Jamaica's not even a state! It's a whole other country or something. If it's not American, forget it, you won't catch me tanning my backside on some communist beach in Castroland.
Third: Well, I don't really have a third thing. It looks pretty nice on TV and all, no problem with that. Probably the "ai" thing, that bothers me. Look, you hotsy pseudo-French dorks, you don't need an "i" if you have an "a" already, it's still pronounced "Juh-may-ka." I know from experience in America we pronounce "ai" like "i-ee," as in my friend Aisha. That bitch.
At least that's how I felt before I got on the wrong plane. I've flown out to Hollywood on planes so many times it's second nature to me, so forgive me for getting flight 34 to Jamaica confused with flight 43 to California. But I can honestly say it was worth the mistake, even if I missed the L.A. premiere of Desert Dogs and that audition for Promise margarine I was flying out for.
Jamaica is pseudo-American, it turns out. Some of the people talk funny and say things you can't understand, but just don't talk to them. They're locals anyway. Turns out Jamaica has a lot of people that speak perfect English and they're ready and willing to take your bags and point you toward the pool, all the stuff you need to know.
And, boy, do they have beaches! Hot sand, warm water. That makes a beach. What beaches.
There were so many fantastic people I met. I've never met so many interesting people in a weekend, and I'm from Hollywood, you know. Jamaica is full of them. At least Jamaica was full of them, they all had to go back to the states since they were just visiting like me. But I'm sure more were arriving from fascinating places like Ohio, South Carolina, Nebraska, and other exotic places I've never been to.
All this unexpected travel made me think, and I've made an important decision—I've got to start asking the people at the terminal to check my ticket for me or something. In addition to that, however, I think I'm going to travel more often. Visit all these amazing places that exist out there. Call me crazy, but I'm even thinking of taking a trip to New Mexico. It's a little intimidating, I'll have to get inoculations and get a passport or whatever, but I just might do it.
Aw, who am I kidding? I'm not ready for something like that. Maybe I'll just rent a video about New Mexico first, at least then it will hopefully be dubbed and I can get a feel for what I'm avoiding. º Last Column: Let the Buyer Bewareº more columns
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Milestones1750: Antonio Salieri, second-rate composer and eternal inspiration to the commune. His alleged murder of Mozart, as portrayed in Amadeus, forever encourages us in our war with Crochet! magazine.Now HiringStepchild. Just sit around and eat and drink me out of house and home without ever raising a finger. Hey, I'm talking to you, you little shit. There ain't no law says I got to be nice to you just 'cause I'm knocking boots with your mom.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Sinning to Win | | 2. | The Dalai Lama: Gay Gay Gay? | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Lincoln Logs | | 4. | The History of Slob Literature | | 5. | Gain 15 Pounds for Winter | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 11/24/2003 Hello, America! Curious about what Hollywood's been hoarding in their vaults, waiting to spring on an unsuspecting public this fine Thanksgiving season? I hear ya squawking big chicken. Let's take a look and see if we can't separate the gobble from the sound turkeys make when they're not happy. On to the movies!
In Theaters
21 Grams of Fat
Cuban heartthrob Mauricio Del Toro sweats up the screen opposite sniveling wiener Sean Penn in this harrowing tale of a Subway sandwich gone wrong. Fans have been clamoring for years to know the juicy background story on how mumbling hunk Del Toro got so goddamned sloppy fat for his role of Big Fat Slob Lawyer #1 in the 1960's classic Feral Loving in Las Vegas, and...
Hello, America! Curious about what Hollywood's been hoarding in their vaults, waiting to spring on an unsuspecting public this fine Thanksgiving season? I hear ya squawking big chicken. Let's take a look and see if we can't separate the gobble from the sound turkeys make when they're not happy. On to the movies!
In Theaters
21 Grams of Fat
Cuban heartthrob Mauricio Del Toro sweats up the screen opposite sniveling wiener Sean Penn in this harrowing tale of a Subway sandwich gone wrong. Fans have been clamoring for years to know the juicy background story on how mumbling hunk Del Toro got so goddamned sloppy fat for his role of Big Fat Slob Lawyer #1 in the 1960's classic Feral Loving in Las Vegas, and this year they finally get their wish. 21 Grams of Fat tells the true story of Del Toro's innocent stop at a roadside Subway franchise and the Caramelized Gyro-Meat Sub that freakishly ballooned his ass up to Limbaughian proportions within minutes. Penn plays the pencil-necked counter jockey who sold him the sub, and the resulting tale or revenge and recrimination will leave you popping your heart medication and reaching for a thesaurus. If you've ever followed a fast food worker home and cut down the door to his mom's house with a skill saw in a berserk, flabby rage, then this is the movie for you. Unless that brings up some unpleasant memories, which is understandable. So maybe it's better if you've never done such a think and can just enjoy the film vicariously.
Battlestar Gothica
It has always struck me that Halle Berry missed her true calling by never starring in a bad Sci-Fi series, so it's comforting to see her finally correct fate's oversight. Answering the never-before-addressed question of what would happen if somebody went crazy in space, Battlestar Gothica also proves that while Halle Barry's increasingly public assets can spice up a routine action flick or a dull party, they do little to lend credibility to an ill-conceived space drama.
Black Santa
In what may possibly go down as the most offensive holiday movie ever filmed (notching in ahead of even Elvis' Dead Blue Christmas, Rudolph Giuliani in Red-Nosed Rehab and the chairman of the board, Santa Claus Cocksucks the Martians), Black Santa features redneck delight Billy Bob Thornton in riot-inducing blackface, stealing a role that probably should have gone to Eddie Murphy, DMX, or Whoopie Goldberg with a sock in her jockeys. Instead it's Thornton creeping down chimneys to deliver presents, only to be chased screaming out of the house and gunpoint in a world that's not ready to accept the fact that Santa is actually a black man. It's not easy being a black Santa in a white world, and it's really not easy sneaking your white ass out of the theater after watching two hours of white folks chasing a bag-toting black man across their lawn with a shotgun. I thought I was going to get some reparations stamped into the back of my skull for sure. Luckily for me there weren't any black people at the screening, though I'm not sure how eager other racial groups are for a sympathy riot. The two Korean women who were in the theater when I saw this one didn't seem too upset, at least not violently so, but I think I may have just caught them unprepared when I hit that fire door full tilt just before the credits rolled.
Dr. Seuss Shat in a Hat
At least they weren't pretending that the latest Dr. Seuss grave-robbery is anything but a crime against humanity when they named this cinematic turd du jour so fittingly. Mike Meyers picks up the grave-pissing-oning where fellow maladjusted Canadian Jim Carrey left off in this colorful assault on all that is decent and holy, striking a blow for the forces of shit everywhere. Learning a lesson from Now the Grinch Stole Christmas!, a film that made decent bank but alienated a generation of Dr. Seuss fans who remembered the book actually being good, this time around the filmmakers have chosen a title that suggests Seuss's original book sucked anyway, to give the impression that the film doesn't really ruin anything and you can buy your Shat in a Hat-themed tie-in pacemakers, burp rags, shotgun ammunition, prostate medication and other assorted shwag free of guilt. Thanks for freeing me from this burdensome faith in humanity, fellas.
The Haunted Manson
Apparently Eddie Murphy was unavailable for Black Santa because he had a prior commitment to keeping his cold streak going with The Haunted Manson, the first in what promises to be a long line of uninspired Being John Malkovich knock-offs. With all of that film's stoned reasoning and none of its charm, The Haunted Manson saddles Murphy and his cereal-commercial family with a distant cousin visiting from out of town, who seems at first to be a run-of-the-mill former cult leader and serial-killing ex-con, but turns out—just their luck!—to be haunted. Murphy's pretty funny as the stuffed shirt dealing with Manson's unexpected quirks and celebrity-murdering eccentricities, and Sean William Scott is loveably batshit as the baked noodle Manson. The CGI could have been better, as several of the dismembered bodies in the film are obvious fakes, but the picture is aimed squarely at a family audience that rarely scrutinizes such details.
Timeline
Don't you hate it when your dad accidentally goes back in time a thousand years and all he brings you back is a lousy pair of woolen undershorts? Such is the lament of whoever the nameless dweeb is that they stuck in the lead role of this painfully average paean to teenage lament. Apparently not only is it dangerously uncool to have a scientist for a dad, but if he doesn't bring you an awesome sword or golden goose or something back from medieval times, you might as well just curl up and die somewhere, gawd.
It just occurred to me indeed, that I forgot to heed, Universal's demand that all reviews, and all accounts in the news, of Dr. Seuss Shat in a Hat be written in verse, so they might to nurse, the last bit of magic from that tit, before we all come to despise it, so here it goes: the movie blows. You're welcome.   |
