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Army Operating With Mannequin Troops, Says Soldier-ReporterDecember 13, 2004 |
Baghdad, Iraq Assad the Unseen Two pointmen in Falluja secure an area recently taken back from Iraqi extremists, while two very static soldiers cover their backs. cting quick on the heels of Thursday's stunning blow to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, the journalism's newest reporting hero, Spc. Jerry Wilson, shook the civilian world again when he revealed at least 30% of the Coalition troops operating in Iraq are, in fact, mannequins. White House and Pentagon sources would not verify or refute the claims, as they fled running from the hard-biting overnight sensation rocking the national media.
The allegation, if proven true, could be more bad news for an embarrassed U.S. government, who had to answer to Wilson's charges Thursday that American troops were being put in harm's way by being sent into battle without proper armor, due to military cutbacks. The question stunned Sec. Rumsfeld, who had only come to shmooze photos with the...
cting quick on the heels of Thursday's stunning blow to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, the journalism's newest reporting hero, Spc. Jerry Wilson, shook the civilian world again when he revealed at least 30% of the Coalition troops operating in Iraq are, in fact, mannequins. White House and Pentagon sources would not verify or refute the claims, as they fled running from the hard-biting overnight sensation rocking the national media.
The allegation, if proven true, could be more bad news for an embarrassed U.S. government, who had to answer to Wilson's charges Thursday that American troops were being put in harm's way by being sent into battle without proper armor, due to military cutbacks. The question stunned Sec. Rumsfeld, who had only come to shmooze photos with the troops and receive questions on how come the U.S. military was so awesome, dude. Spc. Wilson described instances when U.S. troops dug through dumpsters to find refuse they could use to layer the tanks for better safety.
Wilson followed that coup-de-grace on Saturday, at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a newly unveiled Kuwaiti McDonald's, charging that at least 45,000 of the U.S. soldiers serving in Iraq and overseas are mannequins, realistic-looking plaster models of real troops. A startled, non-English speaking Ronald McDonald had no comment.
"It's a tragedy, nothing short of a tragedy," Spc. Wilson eloquently spoke, addressing the many burger-loving Kuwaiti citizens and throngs of media, "that the United States would send its troops into danger so under-prepared to meet the threat of real, living terrorists. In a live combat situation, a solider has to be able to depend on the man guarding his back. If that man is, in fact, a doll, it makes for high casualties and even higher numbers of men killed in action."
Such news, if verified, gives fuel to opponents of the war in Iraq who accuse the Bush administration and its invisible allies of initiating the "regime change" with poor planning and a military force not ready for a combat operation of such a scale.
Defense Secretary Rumsfeld has been under fire for his answer to Thursday's question, "You go to war with the Army you have, not the Army you might want or wish to have." Rumsfeld, hiding under his desk at the Pentagon, was found by reporters and offered a Woody Allen-esque stuttering reply. "That's a good, uh, good question. We, er, that is to say, the government… who we all are, the government, you know… we are looking into, um, the, er, charges of this, uh… what was the name of the guy you wanted again? Oh, Rumsfeld! He left for the day. I'm, uh… Fumsreld."
While no one would go on record to confirm or deny the allegations, some sources in the Pentagon agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity, and that we at the commune would buy lunch. Applebee's, of course.
"What do you think we meant by 'stop-gap' measures to deal with the military shortage?" said one four-star general, whom we'll call General Mills. "It means, 'Stop asking for more troops, 'cause we got none—here's some replacements from the Gap, though.' You got a problem with it? Enlist, wiseguy."
Soldiers in the field were less willing to talk with us, even off the record, and some could not even open their mouths, refusing to move entirely while in our presence. the commune news has been inspired by Spc. Wilson's crusading citizen's journalism, and are currently considering replacing our accounting staff with any mannequins unfit for military service. Ivan Nacutchacokov, unfit for virtually anything, was not injured in the coverage of this story, unless you include receiving a case of splinters from one charming female soldier who apparently couldn't stop staring at him.
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 May 27, 2002
Adventures in DogsittingMy neighbor Mitch is away on a trip, and while he's out I've been watching his dogs, Benedict and Arnold. To tell you the truth, I didn't really want to, but he took care of Foghat while I was detained in Mexico a few years back, so I can't rightly tell him to jump up an elephant's ass the one time he asks me to do him a favor while he's in having his colon removed.
These dogs are a flaming, hemorrhoidal pain in the ass.
Benedict is, according to Mitch, an Australian Cattle Prod. I'm not sure if that's completely accurate. Nobody knows what the hell Arnold is, but he looks like what you'd end up with if you stapled bat ears onto a gigantic caterpillar. He's like a walking sausage with radar. Appropriately enough, he makes high-pitched squeaking sounds like a rubber pork chop every time anything happens. And I mean anything: car doors slamming outside, bacon grease catching on fire in the kitchen, the refrigerator turning on, foreign war, it doesn't matter.
I don't know what kind of social life Mitch has got, but I get the impression he doesn't exactly spend his spare time wolfing down speedballs in the Viper room. These dogs demand more attention than a live hand grenade. They watch your every move as if you might, at any moment, explode like a piñata and rain doggie treats all over the room. It's especially unnerving when you're in the bathroom.
I think Mitch may shower with these dogs. I'm not kidding, I'm pretty sure he...
º Last Column: Prohibition Here We Come º more columns
My neighbor Mitch is away on a trip, and while he's out I've been watching his dogs, Benedict and Arnold. To tell you the truth, I didn't really want to, but he took care of Foghat while I was detained in Mexico a few years back, so I can't rightly tell him to jump up an elephant's ass the one time he asks me to do him a favor while he's in having his colon removed.
These dogs are a flaming, hemorrhoidal pain in the ass.
Benedict is, according to Mitch, an Australian Cattle Prod. I'm not sure if that's completely accurate. Nobody knows what the hell Arnold is, but he looks like what you'd end up with if you stapled bat ears onto a gigantic caterpillar. He's like a walking sausage with radar. Appropriately enough, he makes high-pitched squeaking sounds like a rubber pork chop every time anything happens. And I mean anything: car doors slamming outside, bacon grease catching on fire in the kitchen, the refrigerator turning on, foreign war, it doesn't matter.
I don't know what kind of social life Mitch has got, but I get the impression he doesn't exactly spend his spare time wolfing down speedballs in the Viper room. These dogs demand more attention than a live hand grenade. They watch your every move as if you might, at any moment, explode like a piñata and rain doggie treats all over the room. It's especially unnerving when you're in the bathroom.
I think Mitch may shower with these dogs. I'm not kidding, I'm pretty sure he takes them everywhere he goes. I heard he got kicked out of Disneyland last year after Benedict threw up on the Matterhorn. And I don't mean the structure itself; that dog was buckled into a bobsled and screaming down the mountain at fifty miles an hour when it happened. Mitch came home with a black eye that I can only assume had something to do with the people riding in the sled behind him and Benedict. They certainly look pissed off in the picture on the refrigerator. Omar Bricks is not a violent man, but I have to admit I'd be strapping on my Jackie Chan shoes if I were ever hit with fifty mile-an-hour dog vomit.
Arnold will hump anything that's not moving: the couch, his bed, a box of crackers, Benedict. I've only looked directly at Arnold twice, and both times he was humping something. Now I just infer that he's in the room from the shallow panting noises. My biggest fear is that I'm going to look accidentally one time and see the lipstick in action. For a while I was worried about how I was going to explain the visible dick marks on the bathroom door to Mitch, but he's got to be used to this shit by now.
I decided to take the dogs for a walk the other day, since I was starting to feel bad about them being cooped up in their rooms all the time, with nothing but their record collections and board games to keep them entertained. Way to be the neighborhood hero, right? Wrong. Mr. Friendly Neighborhood Narc had a different idea. Did you know it's illegal to tie a dog's leash to your car and drive around the block? It's not like I was even going very fast. Somebody told me that's not "walking the dogs," but they looked like they were walking to me. Or running. Skiing, maybe. Whatever.
Since the neighborhood patrol had such a serious problem with the dogs getting any exercise, I had to resort to Plan B. I went to the pet store, bought a rabbit, and let it loose in the house. Shit if the dogs didn't love that! I don't know if I've ever seen a couple of dogs so happy. Arnold even humped the drapes. Granted, things got a little rowdy after I let the rabbit loose, but if Mitch isn't cool with a couple of broken lamps, a television on the floor or a cracked bathtub he shouldn't have got dogs in the first place. And if the guy can afford to have his colon taken out I'm sure he can afford to rent a steam cleaner, too.
Now I just need to come up with a way of explaining to Foghat why another dog wiped its nose on my pants. Bricks out. º Last Column: Prohibition Here We Comeº more columns
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|  July 4, 2005
The Fall of the Roman EmpireEvery educated person knows what made the Roman Empire great: stunning architecture, great hats, and Russell Crowe. But what in the hell happened to those guys? Last we heard, they were kicking serious ass and feeding their enemies to the lions, in style. But where are they now? It's not those dorks riding around on Vespas and feeling up American tourist girls, is it? Well then, what on God's green earth happened?
The fall of the Roman Empire has fascinated historians ever since about ten minutes after it happened, and has been the subject of films ranging from There's No Place Like Rome and Romesick to Desperately Seeking Susan. But unfortunately for historians quoted on TV by local news crews checking in on the topic, the real reasons are complex and many, and really hard to boil down to an eight-second soundbite. Not that many haven't tried, ending up talking really fast for about nine seconds before the buzzer goes off and they get dunked in a vat of acid.
First, some background on the Romans: They came, they saw, and they kicked all the ass they could find.
But eventually all this kicking ass and being awesome got tiresome and the Roman Empire gradually turned into a parody of itself, like Bob Dylan in the 80's or the Harlem Globetrotters after they ran out of real competition and started hot-dogging it. Rome became cartoonishly decadent, corrupt and tacky. Morality went out of style and cities fell into...
º Last Column: The Tunguska Explosion º more columns
Every educated person knows what made the Roman Empire great: stunning architecture, great hats, and Russell Crowe. But what in the hell happened to those guys? Last we heard, they were kicking serious ass and feeding their enemies to the lions, in style. But where are they now? It's not those dorks riding around on Vespas and feeling up American tourist girls, is it? Well then, what on God's green earth happened?
The fall of the Roman Empire has fascinated historians ever since about ten minutes after it happened, and has been the subject of films ranging from There's No Place Like Rome and Romesick to Desperately Seeking Susan. But unfortunately for historians quoted on TV by local news crews checking in on the topic, the real reasons are complex and many, and really hard to boil down to an eight-second soundbite. Not that many haven't tried, ending up talking really fast for about nine seconds before the buzzer goes off and they get dunked in a vat of acid.
First, some background on the Romans: They came, they saw, and they kicked all the ass they could find.
But eventually all this kicking ass and being awesome got tiresome and the Roman Empire gradually turned into a parody of itself, like Bob Dylan in the 80's or the Harlem Globetrotters after they ran out of real competition and started hot-dogging it. Rome became cartoonishly decadent, corrupt and tacky. Morality went out of style and cities fell into disrepair. Then some asshole invited the German barbarians to the party and it was all downhill from there.
Some blame the introduction of Christianity for Rome's decline, since the new religion replaced the old bloodthirsty ways and turned the Romans into pacifists who wouldn't hurt a fly unless it was gay or of a different race, religion, or social caste. So when the invading Barbarian hoards showed up cleverly dressed as Christian missionaries with a whole lot of "motivational" axes and spears and swords and whatnot in tow, the Romans welcomed them with open arms and cider.
Others blame the opposite: moral decay, which is even more deadly than gingivitis. By the end, nearly every woman in Rome had become a prostitute, which made being married an expensive nightly proposition for men. Fat-cat emperors like Caligula were throwing lavish barf parties almost nightly, where guests would eat until they honked, eat some more, take a break to feel awful, honk a few more times, and then go swimming. Most of the Roman Empire's high society drowned as a result of these get-togethers, and the unlucky few who didn't were constantly getting hurt after slipping on all the vomit everywhere.
The wealthy who survived the Roman nightlife were all polished off by Roman plumbing, which consisted entirely of lead pipes due to the extremely popular "Get Dead with Lead" slogan of the day. The poor lucky enough not to be able to afford this deadly plumbing had to make due with the crystal clear healthy water from Rome's aqueducts.
But the poor got theirs too, only at the Colosseum, where so many men and animals were slaughtered on a daily basis that they eventually just painted the whole place red to cut down on cleaning expenses. Games would begin early in the morning, and by sundown the corpses were piled so high that the fighting floor was level with the first row of seats, allowing the lions and berserk big hairy fighting guys to spill into the crowd, causing much mayhem and entertainment. The wealthy would take this as their signal to head home and clean up for that night's barf party, preferably before the lions could get to their box seats.
Having the general public come into contact with all this carnage on a daily basis also had a negative effect on Rome's public health, as jock itch became a major problem.
Also troubling were the rising levels of alcoholism among the general public. The wealthy had always been booze hounds, but now even the working class was pissing off their duties and wandering around drunk all the time due to water having been replaced by wine in many Roman homes, thanks to a misunderstanding of Christian theology.
The Roman government was also in trouble, because everyone had a different idea about how to choose a new emperor. Every time the old one died, almost always at the hands of his confidants, spouse or children, the senate would have to go through months of hearing every harebrained idea for emperor selection that people had been cooking up over the years. Drawing straws, throwing a bouquet into the crowd, pulling a sword from a stone, the Romans would try anything. In the end, it never mattered what they decided on, since the emperor was always assassinated within two weeks and they'd have to start all over again.
Soon, the Roman currency began to devalue, since the wealthy Romans had used up all the gold to make statues of themselves, and the public was unimpressed by any of the new Roman currencies made from lettuce, chocolate, or rocks with numbers painted on them. Forgery became a huge problem because no one was certain what real money lettuce was supposed to smell like. Eventually, the Romans had to turn to salt as their main form of currency, because it was the only thing everyone liked. Pepper was used as money on the black market, but even this system was not without its flaws due to expensive sneezing epidemics.
Crime on the streets became a major problem, and citizens in major cities were constantly being mugged for any stray salt they might have in their pocket bottoms or for the salty sweat off their foreheads. The police were corrupt and could easily be bought off for a sprinkle or two.
In the end, the Roman elite pulled too many of their soldiers away from the fight with the Germanic barbarians, in order to protect them from all the lions and scary motherfuckers running loose in the Colosseum, and Rome was lost. Alaric the Goth, a big-haired barbarian fond of dramatic fashion choices, captured Rome in 410 C.E. and had the entire city painted black. This made everything all hot and uncomfortable, though, and the Barbarians eventually left after painting "ROME SUX" in big letters on the front of the Colosseum. The Romans took Rome back, though nobody really wanted it by then, and the apathetic empire would eventually fall in 476 C.E. to the German Odovacar, who just came for a visit and didn't realize he had conquered anything of note.
So what lesson are we to learn from the sad fate of the once-great Roman Empire?
Woops! Sorry, pot pie's done. No lesson this week. º Last Column: The Tunguska Explosionº more columns
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Quote of the Day“The stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas! Except near Houston, Dallas or Fort Worth. Talk about your smog. Jesus, this song's gonna need another verse.”
-Clement B. DoogleFortune 500 CookieMama said there'd be days like this, but the bitch lied. The success or failure of this coming week hinges on your proper understanding of the word "gonad," so take our advice and go buy a dictionary now, Skippy. Order lots of Chinese food this week, but don't pick it up. This week's lucky accidents: back-flip off ladder onto hardwood floor, lip caught on drain while bathtub's full, wearing flammable jumpsuit to Great White concert, 15 car pile-up.
Try again later.Top Raoul Dunkin Nameplate Engravings| 1. | Excess Scrotal Flap | | 2. | Mr. Skids | | 3. | Fellator of Bono | | 4. | Living, Breathing Lung Chunk | | 5. | Abstract Barf | | 6. | The Dreaded Rear Admiral | | 7. | Charles Bronson Pinchot | | 8. | Prancing Machine | | 9. | Chowdermouth | | 10. | Latrine Archaeologist | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY R.L. Kuntz 4/25/2005 Charlie and the Fudge PackersThere were these two old farts living in a farty old house and they were Grandpa and Grandma. And before they were dusty and old they had children who grew up like weeds and had a son, but not with each other. And that son was Charlie Pugmuck. Forget all the rest of them, this is Charlie's story.
The rest of the Pugmucks are just there to show that Charlie lived in a crowded house with no money, on account of being poor. They were so poor that all they could get Charlie for his birthday every year was a single piece of fudge, which he had to chew up and then spit back into the wrapper, so they could wrap it back up and sell it to an even poorer family down the block. Charlie looked forward to his birthday fudge all year but sometimes he wondered who was chewing on it before...
There were these two old farts living in a farty old house and they were Grandpa and Grandma. And before they were dusty and old they had children who grew up like weeds and had a son, but not with each other. And that son was Charlie Pugmuck. Forget all the rest of them, this is Charlie's story.
The rest of the Pugmucks are just there to show that Charlie lived in a crowded house with no money, on account of being poor. They were so poor that all they could get Charlie for his birthday every year was a single piece of fudge, which he had to chew up and then spit back into the wrapper, so they could wrap it back up and sell it to an even poorer family down the block. Charlie looked forward to his birthday fudge all year but sometimes he wondered who was chewing on it before it got to him. He hoped it wasn't more than a few people.
So you can imagine Charlie's surprise when one year he was the lucky boy who got the fudge that was contaminated with the E. Spori Chrysanthemum bacteria. And as part of the legal settlement he got to tour the fudge factory, every boy's dream after his dreams of being a famous football player or president or going to a toy factory have been ground into the dust by cold, cruel reality. Charlie liked fudge.
Charlie saved up for months collecting bottle tops and wishing well pennies and tiny scraps of aluminum foil to be able to buy a pair of pants to wear to the factory that didn't smell like hot dogshit. In the end, the pants store didn't want anything to do with the bottle tops or aluminum foil, but they just so happened to be having a "Get These Pants Out of Here Sale" where tragically unfashionable trousers were being sold for 99 cents a piece. And it just so happened that over the months, Charlie had fished exactly 98 pennies out of the muck at the bottom of the wishing well and from urinals in the bathrooms of bars around town, so in the end he had to hit the store keeper with a bottle and steal the pants, but it was okay because he really wanted to see that fudge factory.
When the magical day finally came, Charlie could hardly contain his excitement. He was so excited that morning he could barely eat the bowl of twigs and surplus marshmallows his mother had lovingly prepared for him as a special breakfast. His hands were shaking too much from malnutrition—and excitement!
On the way to the factory, Charlie had his dad let him out of the wheelbarrow a half-mile from the factory, since Charlie didn't want the other kids on the tour to know his family couldn't afford a car or servants to push him around in a nicer wheelbarrow. Charlie walked the rest of the way, careful not to ruin the nice new shoes his grandfather had made him out of bread bags and duct tape just that morning.
All of Charlie's efforts at putting on an illusion of not being desperately poor turned out to be for naught, however. Upon Charlie's arrival, the factory manager, the magically mysterious Mr. Wanker, told Charlie that no one was allowed to wear pants inside the fudge factory, a strange rule but one that somehow added to the fun of the fudge factory atmosphere. Unfortunately, Charlie hadn't had enough time or bottles to steal himself any proper new underwear for the trip, and he was embarrassed that all the other snotty rich kids on the tour made fun of the gently used disposable diaper he wore inside out as underwear, owing to his poorness.
But all of this would be quickly forgotten once Charlie caught an eyeful of the glorious fudge packing going on inside.
For more of this great story, buy R.L. Kuntz's magical
Charlie and the Fudge Packers   |