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May 26, 2003 |
Hollywood, CA ABC TELEVISION Bachelors Firestone (left) and Buerge (right), the lucky couple... of guys t was another surprise ending for The Bachelor, though this one was a little more Crying Game and a little less Americaâs Sweethearts. The question had been hanging in the air like a flatulent eagle all week: Would bachelor Andrew Firestone choose spunky Kirsten, whose ass heâd been blatantly checking out since the beginning of the season and who jealous former contestants gossiped was carrying his baby? Or would it be Jen, the slightly less stunning drama queen favored by the showâs viewers and the 23 catty former contestants who lay slain on the battlefield of bogusly contrived romance? Oh shit, dog.
When the answer finally came, it was with the bang of 25 pancake-makeupped jaws hitting the floor in unison. In an unprecedented and possibly illegal...
t was another surprise ending for The Bachelor, though this one was a little more Crying Game and a little less Americaâs Sweethearts. The question had been hanging in the air like a flatulent eagle all week: Would bachelor Andrew Firestone choose spunky Kirsten, whose ass heâd been blatantly checking out since the beginning of the season and who jealous former contestants gossiped was carrying his baby? Or would it be Jen, the slightly less stunning drama queen favored by the showâs viewers and the 23 catty former contestants who lay slain on the battlefield of bogusly contrived romance? Oh shit, dog. When the answer finally came, it was with the bang of 25 pancake-makeupped jaws hitting the floor in unison. In an unprecedented and possibly illegal move, Firestone passed up both Kirsten and Jen to give his final rose, and we guess a marriage proposal, to former Bachelor star Aaron Buerge. Asked on-camera what he was thinking when he made such an unorthodox choice, Andrew smiled to the audience and beamed proudly. âAre you kidding, all those bitches is crazy!â At that point viewers at home went berserk, throwing chairs and Kleenex boxes around like disappointed apes. In the background, Jen and Kristen held each otherâs hair back as they vomited in tandem into a bucket of champagne. âDonât get me wrong, Iâm not gay. I just couldnât handle hanging out with those crazy bitches any longer,â Firestone confided. âIf I hear one more girl talk about what font sheâd use on wedding invitations, I swear to God Iâm going to go all American Psycho on everybody. Shit! Anyway, I met Aaron backstage one night when he was cruising for some rejected bachelorette skank, and we really hit it off. We talked about handguns and the Red Sox, and not once did he bring up floral arrangements. It was the best time Iâve had in months. âThatâs when I realized marrying any girl desperate enough to let a gameshow determine her mate for life would be a huge boner. Woo, dodged a bullet with that one!â Firestone exclaimed, exchanging a high-five with Buerge. âTalk about âUntil me wrapping my lips around a shotgun barrel does us partâ! Damn!â Buerge, star of The Bachelor season two, ended up not getting married to that seasonâs winner Helene Eksterowicz, invalidating the gift certificate to Crate & Barrel that was provided courtesy of the show. âYeah, things with me and Helene didnât work out. After the excitement of the show had worn off, I realized all the bright lights and pressure made her seem better than she was. Kind of like on the old Wheel of Fortune when the winner would have all that money to spend, and theyâd get the bedroom set with the porcelain Dalmatians. It seems like a good idea at the time. But when you get home, what in the hell are you going to do with a set of life-sized porcelain Dalmatians?â Irate viewers expecting to see one womanâs heart crushed on national television, not two, flooded ABCâs switchboards with complaints, but Firestone insists it was all for the best. âAre you kidding me? Aaron saved my life back there. I felt like I was headed down a dark tunnel with no way to turn around. Then Aaron pulled up in a sweet convertible, or whatever the analogy is, and saved my ass. I could kiss that dude. Not literally though, just âcuz he wears my ring doesnât mean nothing but weâre buds. I go strictly for the easy poontang, as the last six weeks should have made clear.â the commune news advises against getting married on a game show, especially if itâs Nickelodeonâs Double Dare. Ramon Nootles wants it to be known that he also slept with the field of contestants for The Bachelor, but it was before there was a show so nobody made a big deal about it then.
 |  Several Newscasters Fired for Reporting Death of Don Ho  ".XXX" Domain Reserved for Adult Content Sites, Online Moonshiners Imprisoned white supremacist no longer pure
Jesus unseats Sandler at box office
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Youve Got Mail, Irans Got Nukes Da Vinci Code Author Found Guilty of Inspiring National Treasure New .eu Domains Popular Among Gross-Out, Childbirth Video Websites Sharon Still in Coma, Phyllis Still Total Slutbag |
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 July 7, 2003
Roll On, ColumbiaImagine my dismay when I was driving in the great state of Arkansas earlier this year, the window down and enjoying the smell of oppression, listening to Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" on the radio, when the local newsboy interrupts to tell me the news that the space shuttle Columbia had blown up on its way to landing. I could not have been more infuriatedâeveryone knows "Heart of Gold" is the best Neil Young song ever. The astronauts would not have been any more expired had they waited another few minutes to give me the news.
Not that I take the death of astronauts lightly. They are the pilgrims of space, without dressing in the stylish black as much. It was a shame, but I have been writing angry, rambling letters to NASA for years advocating the use of weaponry on shuttles, and it was sad that someone had to get killed before they'd realize the wisdom in the suggestions.
Yes, hopefully when they file the official report on the Columbia shuttle disaster, of course blacking out the good parts with ample use of a Sharpie, the one good piece to come out of all this will be the recommendation of equipping future space shuttles with high-tech cannons and other defensive machinations. The fact Columbia was wiped out so efficiently only proves we are getting closer than ever to the alien lifeforms we've been seeking all this time.
I'm the first person here on terrestrial earth to sing the praises of peace, of trying to work out all our...
º Last Column: SARS: Our Middle Finger to China º more columns
Imagine my dismay when I was driving in the great state of Arkansas earlier this year, the window down and enjoying the smell of oppression, listening to Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" on the radio, when the local newsboy interrupts to tell me the news that the space shuttle Columbia had blown up on its way to landing. I could not have been more infuriatedâeveryone knows "Heart of Gold" is the best Neil Young song ever. The astronauts would not have been any more expired had they waited another few minutes to give me the news.
Not that I take the death of astronauts lightly. They are the pilgrims of space, without dressing in the stylish black as much. It was a shame, but I have been writing angry, rambling letters to NASA for years advocating the use of weaponry on shuttles, and it was sad that someone had to get killed before they'd realize the wisdom in the suggestions.
Yes, hopefully when they file the official report on the Columbia shuttle disaster, of course blacking out the good parts with ample use of a Sharpie, the one good piece to come out of all this will be the recommendation of equipping future space shuttles with high-tech cannons and other defensive machinations. The fact Columbia was wiped out so efficiently only proves we are getting closer than ever to the alien lifeforms we've been seeking all this time.
I'm the first person here on terrestrial earth to sing the praises of peace, of trying to work out all our problems through non-violent means; but these green-blooded bastards have never heard of Gandhi, and non-violence means about as much to them as blassalbe grizzlesnorp means to us. Which is alien for "Whatcha cookin'?" if you must know. Yes, I say if the aliens want some, we bring it. Bring it hard.
Laser weapons are effective, true, but mighty costly and really only more visually fun to look at, not any strategic value. It is plain to the most uninformed observer, as I have observed, that laser weapons as used by the unidentified aliens, were used to some effect while Columbia was in space to wound the shuttle so mortally it wouldn't survive the return trip. But if these fancy pants think our weapons don't have enough pop to show them a thing or two, let's show them how it's done down here.
Traditional repeating firearms are more than enough for these pricks. Ample streams of gunfire will make our point quite nicely, and the fact you don't see a neon stream of green hurtling toward you gives you, as an alien, less chance to move out of the way. The real cool thing about space, should we engage in orbital dogfights, which I'm excited enough about prospecting to wet myself, is that with no friction in space and very little in the way of safe cover, these bullets will go on until they hit something, somewhere. Aliens can't outrun them! And even if they did, the things would keep coming, slow and steady, like the tortoise following the hare. Only this tortoise turns alien flesh into sloppy joe meat.
It goes without saying, until I say it, our first intentions should be to get on friendly terms with these aliens. No doubt they can help us with their endless advanced technology in areas of space travel and medicine and convincing an entire species to wear the same outfits. And we can help them become more profit-oriented and learn to argue amongst themselves.
But, just to make it clear, don't let them think we're pushovers. A size 10 shoe leaves a mighty big footprint on gray alien ass. º Last Column: SARS: Our Middle Finger to Chinaº more columns
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|  September 1, 2003
Not My Bag, ManI have never had my fingers pulled off one by one through my asshole. My wife Arvelyn used to tell me I should not knock things until I have tried them at least once, but I dare to say the experience is one I would not like even without trying it.
To avoid such an unwelcome new experience I have agreed to occasionally drop off packages for my new in-laws, i.e. the mob, to cohorts of theirs. Their reasoning was quite sound, even complimentary: "Rok, you are such a square as would not bat the eye of a policeman or G-man like Eliot the Ness, eh?" That's how my new cousin-in-law Yogi put it, and I agree. The police have no reason to suspect me for being a bagman for the vaguely-Russian mob. But it is exactly the case now.
The shame of it all! And imminent danger. Me, Rok Finger, champion of all things stodgy and establishment, delivering goofballs for no-goodniks! As I've made implicitly clear, the possible involvement in the Eurasian mafia by my wife Felchyana in no way diminished my love for her, but I cannot stomach doing wrong to the law. Unless I personally profit from it, for that's the American way, but being threatened into dishonesty, that's just plain⌠well, dishonest.
It's too bad to be forced to do favors for the mob in such a reprehensible way. Their might be some charm in robbing an armored truck or something fanciful like that. There might be a smidgen of honor in doing something like the old fashioned,...
º Last Column: The Honeymoon is Over º more columns
I have never had my fingers pulled off one by one through my asshole. My wife Arvelyn used to tell me I should not knock things until I have tried them at least once, but I dare to say the experience is one I would not like even without trying it.
To avoid such an unwelcome new experience I have agreed to occasionally drop off packages for my new in-laws, i.e. the mob, to cohorts of theirs. Their reasoning was quite sound, even complimentary: "Rok, you are such a square as would not bat the eye of a policeman or G-man like Eliot the Ness, eh?" That's how my new cousin-in-law Yogi put it, and I agree. The police have no reason to suspect me for being a bagman for the vaguely-Russian mob. But it is exactly the case now.
The shame of it all! And imminent danger. Me, Rok Finger, champion of all things stodgy and establishment, delivering goofballs for no-goodniks! As I've made implicitly clear, the possible involvement in the Eurasian mafia by my wife Felchyana in no way diminished my love for her, but I cannot stomach doing wrong to the law. Unless I personally profit from it, for that's the American way, but being threatened into dishonesty, that's just plain⌠well, dishonest.
It's too bad to be forced to do favors for the mob in such a reprehensible way. Their might be some charm in robbing an armored truck or something fanciful like that. There might be a smidgen of honor in doing something like the old fashioned, pre- GoodFellas gangsters would have taken part in. Rolling in barrel after barrel of illegal Canadian booze and firing a tommy gun at thick packs of Irish cops. Who would object to that? If only those damned teetotalers hadn't lost all their power in Congress.
But there's nothing respectable about hard drugs, like marijuana. Pot kills brain cells and makes people act like complete assholes. It has none of the charm of hard liquor. Plus, it's frequently used by hippiesâif you need a bigger case than that against it, I don't know where you're coming from. Hippie-lover. So, in addition to threatening to de-finger me and making my new marriage more complicated than it had originally been, these mob thugs have put me on a pro-hippie bandwagon. That I will not tolerate.
With all doors closed to me, some slammed violently on my feet, I have turned back to my reliable old friends Lee and Camembert. Well, I've turned to CamembertâLee was busy with another tour date for his new book, written under the pen name of Daili Lama. All of Camembert's suggestions were lame, of course, such as contacting the FBI or telling the local police force, but it was good to have someone I could boss around again, even for a little while. I would probably ask him to move in with Felchyana and I, but Yogi might take a liking to him and make him capo or something. That's the last thing I need.
So right now, in this little mob war I'm going through, Camembert is my secret weapon. The secret being what he's capable of doing against the mob, and I wish I was in on that secret. But it's good to have an ace in the hole, and Camembert can be a huge ace-hole when called upon. My plan as for right now is to play along with Yogi and the gang, deliver the packages and betray no disloyalty, while figuratively hiding Camembert up my sleeve. We tried it literally and even without the wheelchair there's no way he'll fit. º Last Column: The Honeymoon is Overº more columns
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Milestones1999: Eurocommune opens, burns down four minutes later after an electrical outlet misunderstanding.Now HiringGood Humor Man. Must be willing to drive around the commune offices in a circle 24 hours a day. Familiarity with The Farmer in the Dell strongly recommended. Dilly Bars a plus.Top 5 Ways for a Fantatic to Honor Favorite Musician| 1. | Break into house; masturbate in the bathtub. | | 2. | Nothing says "I love you" like your name in scar tissue | | 3. | Dress like Hootie. Talk like Hootie. Be Hootie. | | 4. | What the fuckâkill him so he can never make any more wonderful music. | | 5. | Talk loudly at parties about how much better his early work was. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Violet Tiara 11/25/2002 Spastic Gastric Function"Spastic Gastric Function"
is the social event of the year,
bathe your Clydesdales in lite beer...
Homeo-apathy as a viable career?
Flaccid pansies? I'd eat them gladly.
Anteaters play clarinets,
from the trunks of blue corvettes,
the gentlemen have placed their bets.
Take your chances
on pairs of pantses
that look lovely when they're nuzzled
between the ass cheeks of male models
who suck the rubber tit of baby bottles.
Terrorists?
Don't act so pissed,
just because your country's all full of sand.
Think sand castles all across the land!
Everyone's a king until the crabs attack.
The earth cries,
the French fries
have eyes and legs....
"Spastic Gastric Function"
is the social event of the year,
bathe your Clydesdales in lite beer...
Homeo-apathy as a viable career?
Flaccid pansies? I'd eat them gladly.
Anteaters play clarinets,
from the trunks of blue corvettes,
the gentlemen have placed their bets.
Take your chances
on pairs of pantses
that look lovely when they're nuzzled
between the ass cheeks of male models
who suck the rubber tit of baby bottles.
Terrorists?
Don't act so pissed,
just because your country's all full of sand.
Think sand castles all across the land!
Everyone's a king until the crabs attack.
The earth cries,
the French fries
have eyes and legs.
Holy shit McDonalds on acid!
There's a tarantula with Velcro knees,
George Bush honking on the Japanese.
Rubbery dumplings
shit out the ass of mumbling somethings,
green are their eyes but they only say one thing:
"Hello can I take your order?"
Ronald please,
no angry cow disease
for me.
I'll have the salad, plain as Jane,
and please hold the holes in my brain.
The world's a kaleidoscope
not an Al-Qaidascope
and we all try to hope
we'll live long enough to elope,
a wedding in mauve and taupe
with incontinents jumping rope.
Or at least a back-seat grope
with some kind of hot-ass guru or something
we met at the Spastic Gastric Function.   |