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Economy Fine, According to PollJanuary 21, 2002 |
Worshington, DC Snapper Dougal Enron CEO Ken Lay and George W. Bush at a recent square-dancing competition
Enron CEO and acknowledged Ponzi-scheme expert Ken Lay, queried while attending a White House get-together with his butt-buddy George W. Bush, the alleged president of the United States, put to rest rumors that the economy was about to go south, or was, in fact, already in the tank.
"That's a lot of horse shit," Lay said, laughing heartily. "I mean, sure, a few thousand people have been laid off recently, and maybe one or two of 'em are going to have to sell their boats or their vacation houses, but from where I sit... ha ha, excuse me, I just find this very amusing... from where I... ha ha ha!... from where I sit... oh, dear god, this is too much..." Lay ch...
n a recent poll of Enron CEO's, the American economy was said to be doing "just fine right now, just fine."
Enron CEO and acknowledged Ponzi-scheme expert Ken Lay, queried while attending a White House get-together with his butt-buddy George W. Bush, the alleged president of the United States, put to rest rumors that the economy was about to go south, or was, in fact, already in the tank.
"That's a lot of horse shit," Lay said, laughing heartily. "I mean, sure, a few thousand people have been laid off recently, and maybe one or two of 'em are going to have to sell their boats or their vacation houses, but from where I sit... ha ha, excuse me, I just find this very amusing... from where I... ha ha ha!... from where I sit... oh, dear god, this is too much..." Lay chortled convulsively for a few minutes, then paused to wipe tears from his eyes. He took a few deep breaths with the aid of what appeared to be a large canister of nitrous oxide, and shook his head vigorously. Finally somewhat composed, he continued, "From where I sit, the economy is just peachy-fucking-keen! Ha! Ain't that right, Cracky?"
Lay then reached over to smack the alleged president hard on his backside, which caused him to nearly drop the glass pipe and butane lighter he had been holding up to his face, and to cough and choke on the voluminous clouds of acrid smoke that billowed from his mouth and nose.
"Oh, yeah. Whatever you say, Kenny," Bush said, once he had regained his composure. "Kenny's my main man," he went on, "whatever he says, you can trust it to be truthorious."
When asked if he thought most other Americans shared his rosy view of the current economy, Lay said simply, "Ha! Who gives a flying fuck? What color are their parachutes?"
To which Bush chimed in, "Yeah. Joke 'em if they can't take a fucking."
Lay then stared hard at his compatriot for a few long seconds, and finally commented, "You know, you really are a fucking idiot, Cracky, just like everyone says."
"Shut up!" retorted Bush. "Am not!"
The two then engaged in a slap fight that lasted nearly ten minutes, with Lay appearing to get the best of Bush by feinting with his left hand and repeatedly connecting with his right on Bush's cheek.
Asked for further comment on the state of the economy, Lay just waved his hand in dismissal and chuckled some more.
Signaling that the interview was concluded, Bush then turned his attention back to the glass pipe and lighter, ignoring both Lay and this reporter.
The event was a simple Saturday morning gathering that featured Colin Powell doing a sprightly tap dance for the guests, followed by John Ashcroft demonstrating some of the latest torture techniques on a group of unnamed Middle Eastern detainees and a ritual deflowering of all the underage daughters of the White House staff. Brunch was served, and it was a hearty Texas-style repast, composed of hearts of retarded felon salad in a balsamic vinaigrette and baked Mexican baby head with truffles. the commune news said you were allowed to play your guitar until 10 and it's 10:01 now. There's more to Boner Cunningham than meets the eye, and no one disputes his prowess with a microphone, so just back off, bub. That's right, I mean you. Hit the bricks,
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 February 14, 2005
Losing in LoveMy life was a horribly small, dark, petty place, let me tell you. I was a shell of a man—worse than a shell, I was a magic shell, hardened by the cold ice cream of the world, and quite delicious, filled with nuts. I forgot what I was saying. Oh, yeah—my life was pointless and full of tragedy. That was before I met Melinda. And after I met Melinda, too.
Melinda was my girlfriend. What a day that was. Everyone said she was just using me to make her boyfriend nauseous, but I don't believe them. She was pretty mad when she said it, too, so I don't believe her either. I met her, both of them, actually, when I was working as a safety bar for an amusement park roller coaster. It was tough, but I got to ride for free all the time. Now who's the jerk, Mr. Big and Mighty Safety Inspector? I didn't see you ride one of the rides while you were closing the place down.
But in them halogen days, when I first caught a sniff of Melinda's perfume, I knew she would one day be my girlfriend. And then break up with me later that day—trust me, I know my luck by now. Doesn't mean I give up on love. I fell for Melinda hard, right off the top of the roller coaster, and she was the only one who came to see if I was alright. When she had safely removed all the money and metallic items from my pockets, she called for an ambulance. But I got up and skipped out before that, I ain't paying for no ride when you can sneak into a tire well and ride free. Before I left, though,...
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My life was a horribly small, dark, petty place, let me tell you. I was a shell of a man—worse than a shell, I was a magic shell, hardened by the cold ice cream of the world, and quite delicious, filled with nuts. I forgot what I was saying. Oh, yeah—my life was pointless and full of tragedy. That was before I met Melinda. And after I met Melinda, too.
Melinda was my girlfriend. What a day that was. Everyone said she was just using me to make her boyfriend nauseous, but I don't believe them. She was pretty mad when she said it, too, so I don't believe her either. I met her, both of them, actually, when I was working as a safety bar for an amusement park roller coaster. It was tough, but I got to ride for free all the time. Now who's the jerk, Mr. Big and Mighty Safety Inspector? I didn't see you ride one of the rides while you were closing the place down.
But in them halogen days, when I first caught a sniff of Melinda's perfume, I knew she would one day be my girlfriend. And then break up with me later that day—trust me, I know my luck by now. Doesn't mean I give up on love. I fell for Melinda hard, right off the top of the roller coaster, and she was the only one who came to see if I was alright. When she had safely removed all the money and metallic items from my pockets, she called for an ambulance. But I got up and skipped out before that, I ain't paying for no ride when you can sneak into a tire well and ride free. Before I left, though, I let Melinda know I was keen on her with an obscene gesture, and told her I'd be around the fair—I had no place to live, so I had to keep walking so as not to get busted.
Fate intervened later because I was picking up shells at the fair's shooting range (not much pay, but it tightens your reflexes for being shot at) I saw her fighting with her boyfriend two stands down, at the ring toss. I took a break and decided to hang close by, hoping I could nuzzle up close to her and leave my scent—my flirting skills ain't all that, maybe, but you always can tell when I like a woman. Then she surprised me, because she grabbed me by the head and gave me a big kiss. It was a shock, believe you me. I'll always remember what she said—"If you're not serious about setting a date, then maybe I'll just marry any retard that comes along!" It cracked me up. I love it when someone says "retard."
But it was not to be. Her boyfriend apologized immediately and they went out to get shitfaced, at least that's what I overheard. Still, I'll always have the memories. And her purse. She didn't notice that. I didn't want the money, of course, just the souvenir of my fiery Parisian romance. At least I think it was Paris. It could have been Austin. All Texas looks alike after awhile.
Valentine's Day rules. One of these days I'm going to spend it with someone who willingly spends it with me. º Last Column: Rebirthedº more columns
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|  October 29, 2001
Migglio the MonkeyWhen Ned was a boy he liked few things more than throwin' rocks at boats down on the shores of the ol' Pomak river. Them boats would steam on by, their big paddlewheels a splooshin' along like so many scum filters in the aquariums. The ladies in their hoopty skirts and the gentlemanly types in their bowties and ice cream suits would wave to Ned from the boats, holdin' them Martinis and smilin' like it was time to get a picture taken to send to some poor kids in Somnabiqua so they'd know who was the folks sent them all that pocket change and lil' bits of crackers and rice kernels. Them folks would smile and wave at little Neddy, and Ned would sure as April rains throw rocks at them peoples and try to knock them right out of their four-dollar shoes. When Ned was especially small, his flung rocks only made it about half-way and them ladies and gentlemen would laugh at Ned, pointing their fingers and breaking sweet wind in his direction. But each year that went by them peoples laughed a little less and looked a little more concerned, and some of them even took to carryin' umbrellas out on the deck in case Ned should hit a growins spurt and gain some extra yardage.
Finally, when Ned was eight he was able to fling them rocks right up onto the decks of them boats, and them peoples who formerly had been laughin' would yell and duck and sometimes throw rocks, and deck chairs, and Cuban waiters back at Ned. These were high times, and Ned would often find himself on the...
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When Ned was a boy he liked few things more than throwin' rocks at boats down on the shores of the ol' Pomak river. Them boats would steam on by, their big paddlewheels a splooshin' along like so many scum filters in the aquariums. The ladies in their hoopty skirts and the gentlemanly types in their bowties and ice cream suits would wave to Ned from the boats, holdin' them Martinis and smilin' like it was time to get a picture taken to send to some poor kids in Somnabiqua so they'd know who was the folks sent them all that pocket change and lil' bits of crackers and rice kernels. Them folks would smile and wave at little Neddy, and Ned would sure as April rains throw rocks at them peoples and try to knock them right out of their four-dollar shoes. When Ned was especially small, his flung rocks only made it about half-way and them ladies and gentlemen would laugh at Ned, pointing their fingers and breaking sweet wind in his direction. But each year that went by them peoples laughed a little less and looked a little more concerned, and some of them even took to carryin' umbrellas out on the deck in case Ned should hit a growins spurt and gain some extra yardage.
Finally, when Ned was eight he was able to fling them rocks right up onto the decks of them boats, and them peoples who formerly had been laughin' would yell and duck and sometimes throw rocks, and deck chairs, and Cuban waiters back at Ned. These were high times, and Ned would often find himself on the banks of the Pomak, doubled over with laughter or sometimes with a gushin' head wound from a particularly well-returned stone. One time this was the case, and Ned done fell over, with laughin or with takin a head shot, it's not Ned's time to recall which it was, but when Ned was on the ground some Gypsies come along and scooped Nedder right up into a sack and onto them horses.
Them Gypsies done built a little wooden cage for Ned, just big enough for him to crouch inside, with designs and little dancin' bears painted all up it and down it. They would carry Nedro from town to town, where they'd set up a little stage in the woods and charge the townfolk a nickel to watch Ned dance and sing little songs, and play poker with a little miniature monkey named Migglio.
Neddle and Migglio was fast friends, as they bonded over knowin' that Migglio was scooped up by them Gypsies in much the same fashion, one day when he was flingin' fig newtons at the King of Morocco. Ned an' Migglio was inseperatistable in them days, sittin' in their wooden cages and singin' Al Jolsen songs in them two-part harmonies.
One day Ned and Migglio come up with a plan to escape from them Gypsies. Them caravan of Gypsies was comin' back through the town where Nedder was from, and that night after Ned and Migglio done finished their show, Migglio went and hid in a big cast-iron pot while Ned went back to his cage like nothin' was the wiser. Them plan was for that Migglio to wait until everyone was sleepin', then go an' grab the keys to Ned's cage, and they'd be off like two jackals in a bobsled.
Ned sat up an waited for them Gypsies to fall asleep, but at the same time he done gone an' fell asleep hisself. Them Gypsies woke Ned up for dinner and they all ate some monkey soup and then them Gypsies went asleep. Ned waited and waited, but Migglio never come. Late into the night, when the moon were high as an opera star in a coca farm, it donned on Nedder. That little monkey bastard! Migglio done left without Ned!
Ned decided enoughs was enoughs so he stuck he legs out through the bars of his little wooden cage, tipped it on over and scrambled out of Dodge like a turtle made of wood. When Ned got home his parents was mad at him for stayin' out for eight months without permission, on a school night no less, and for not being there to tuck in the hedgehogs at night. They busted Ned out of his wooden cage and he went to tuck them hedgehogs in, cursing that little bastard monkey Migglio all the while. º Last Column: Lookin' a Gassed Horse in the Mouseº more columns
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Milestones1983: Red Bagel is thrown out of a casino for counting cards. He is not cheating, merely trying to settle a bet with a friend on how many decks the casino uses.Now HiringJames Bondian Action Hero. Must be proficient in fire arms and small mechanical gadgets with ridiculous capabilities. Responsibilities include killing unnamed lackeys and doing battle with bizarre supervillians of non-distinct European origin. Good benefits, adventure, and pussy galore. Funniest Fake Names Read Aloud on Nightline| 1. | Tad Shitbetter | | 2. | Grant Goodeve | | 3. | Phil Shitbetter, beloved brother of Tad | | 4. | Ho Chi Minh | | 5. | Royster Culpepper Ottowa Fantastic III | |
|   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.   |
