n the wake of the catastrophic flooding that hit New Atlantis/New Orleans this week following Hurricane Katrina, tens of thousands of refugees have been evacuated from their submerged homes and treated to an exciting whirlwind tour of America’s domed sporting facilities.

“Don’t worry, the government will take care of you all,� explained President Bush, who drastically cut funding for levee upgrades in order to pay for a war in Iraq, so terrorists wouldn’t be able to destroy a major American city like New Orleans. “We’re sending water wings and crossword puzzle books on the double.�

Upon being plucked from their rooftops and attics after breeched levees on Lake Pontchartrain submerged the city in up to twenty feet of water, thousands of New Orleans residents were transported to the Superdome, home of the NFL’s New Orleans Saints, for emergency lodging, beer, and giant cheese-filled pretzels.

“I really appreciated that they opened the Superdome to us,� expressed flooding victim LaTrevor Wynn. “But I gotta say they gouged the fuck out of us for boat parking at the stadium. I was saying we should park a few blocks away and swim to the stadium, but there was some guy in a wheel chair who wanted us to just pony up the money. I guess he was rich or something.�

Good spirits quickly turned foul, however, when the stadium’s power and sewage systems both failed, and they ran out of souvenir air horns. Before long, deteriorating conditions and asshole Saints fans forced the evacuation of the Superdome, which by then smelled strongly of poor people.

Refugees from the Superdome, which is now almost completely under water, were moved by bus to the Astrodome in Houston, formerly home to over 30 years of bad baseball courtesy of the National League’s Houson Astros, as well as the catastrophic 1992 Republican National Convention that offered America one last chance to listen to Ronald Reagan flapping his cheek meat.

Relief efforts at the Astrodome were short-lived however, as over 100 refugees suffered knee injuries from the stadium’s unforgiving Astroturf playing surface. Several reported serious cases of rugburn as well.

Re-refugees from the Astrodome were then bussed to Minneapolis, Minnesota, where a disappointing summer performance by the local Twins has left plenty of empty seats in the Metrodome.

“This place blows,� complained disaster victim and dome expert Marvin Milk. “It has all the ambiance of a bus station and the hot dogs are gross.�

Fellow refugees agreed about the hot dogs, but gave high marks to the stadium’s nacho hats, a popular refugee staple. Problems arose at the Metrodome, however, after some disenfranchised dickcheese left the stadium’s back door open, allowing all the air to escape and collapsing the dome’s pressurized roof. Some blame the mishap on the Metrodome’s short-sighted no-smoking policy.

The remaining refugees who didn’t take to wading through Minneapolis’ many metropolitan lakes out of sheer habit were shipped to either the Skydome in Toronto, Canada, or the Tacomadome in Tacoma, Washington.

“Man, this sucks. I knew we were going to get the Tacomadome,� bitched flooding victim Marcy Flobere of New Orleans.

A few lucky victims were bussed instead to Tropicana Field in St. Petersberg, Florida, which has a part time gig as the home of baseball’s Tampa Bay Devil Rays in-between housing refugees from the region’s monthly hurricane disasters.

Tropicana Field has not been without its share of problems, however, ranging from occasional hurricane damage to the roof and overcrowded bathrooms to the stinky, lousy baseball taking place on-field.

“This has been a disaster. I’ve had to watch four Devil Rays’ games this week,� groused Tropicana Field refugee Homer Angus. “This is worse than the hurricane.�

Government officials have assured the tired, huddled masses that they will be allowed to return to their homes in New Orleans as soon as disaster-relief workers can find the city.

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Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment

Brace yourself, good people. I have news of the biggest importance: My wife Arvelyn and I have split up.

That's right. After 30 years of marriage, there are issues which sometimes just cannot be worked out or addressed. It's true, Arvelyn and I could not have been more alike had we been split from the same zygote, but thankfully it was a less disturbing and more natural coincidence, and our genitalia synched up perfectly. But all that is over. Our disagreements could not be overcome.

As we ate dinner one night, just Arvelyn and me—our cat Makeshift had prior arrangements he had to meet—we enjoyed some of the most delicious soup and meat loaf you'd ever tasted. We're not sure where it came from, Arvelyn claimed she didn't make it and the door to our house was open when we came home from our respective jobs. But possession is nine-tenths of the law, as the cliché goes, so we chowed down.

Now is where the trouble starts. The meat loaf, the soup—delicious. No argument. But there was a strange collection of yams, strange mainly because I'm not quite sure what yams were, they may have even not been yams, but I'm not going to belabor the story so I grabbed a random word. Arvelyn scooped some on her plate, sniffed it, and offered me a forkful. "Taste this," she demanded.

Well, that was it. I tossed up the table and told her I needed some time apart. I couldn't even stay to watch her clean up the mess, which I usually enjoy, that's how frustrated I was.

I will not be anyone's personal food taster, I tell you that much. I know if I was going to poison someone, yams, or whatever dish that was, is the first place I'd start. And Arvelyn knows sure enough, she'd better after all these years, how much I feel the rest of the world wants to poison her. I've told her enough times that all her sass back to the folks at Burger King could come back and bite her anytime, but she carries on in her cavalier fashion. That's fine, let her risk her own neck, but how dare she test her possibly poisoned food on me first.

It's a shame to flush 30 years of marriage down the drain in an instant, but I've done it before, you get over it after about five or ten more. There are so many mixed emotions, like rage and hate, anger and revile, not to mention complete disgust. How do you counter all of this? Maybe you can't.

First I imagine we'll sort out all the technical details. I assume we can divide the house down the middle like perfect sitcom fashion, as long as I get the half with the bathroom, never let anyone say I haven't learned from Peter Brady's follies. Arvelyn would probably like custody of Makeshift, but I would rather have him put to sleep than to argue about him. Plus, he's been eyeing me suspiciously as of late and I notice money is missing from my secret hiding place.

Perhaps the time has come for Rok Finger to get out there in the singles scene again, to fill up his cup with love and slurp it loudly and rudely. I'm ready, people. I'm dangerous.

Although I think to start I will mope around in my underwear for five or ten years.

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Dear commune:

You ever notice how people are really nice to you when they’re trying to get into your pants? I’m serious, it makes a huge difference. I used to think that men were just a lot nicer than women, who sometimes can seem like a bunch of cold, heartless, backstabbing cunts all the time. But then I met the girls on my bowling team, and they changed my mind by being so cool. Well, wouldn’t you know it, they just want to have a bowling-themed orgy! It figures. So anyway, my idea for world peace is that we should treat everybody else like we want to sleep with them. Wouldn’t that be nice? I think Jesus would have recommended the same, except talking about sex was against his religion. Let me know what you think.

Pam Peartree
Valley Park, CA



Dear Pam:

While "Do unto others as you would do unto a woman with tits out to here" is a catchy religious slogan, we have to wonder how successful it would actually be in practice. Although the attention would be nice, we probably could do without being inundated with smarmy pickup lines from the guys down at the garage, or getting hit on by our priest. Leave that for the ladies to deal with, we say. And having some bury biker guy offer to carry our groceries home might just push us over the edge. While this doctrine would undoubtedly prove woman-on-woman relations, we doubt most men are ready to have their heterosexuality challenged in such away. More likely than not, it would only increase the number of times a day the police have to hear "I had to tie him to the railroad tracks, officer, he said I had pretty eyes!"

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for the ever-widening gap between the rich and poor. If poor people aren’t willing to get up off their asses and turn their stock options into cash, then we say there’s no helping those people.

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