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 March 1, 2004 |
Port-Au-Prince, Haiti Shabozz Wertham Aristide opposition leader Louis-Jodel Chamblain, accompanied by hip-hop revolutionary Ice Cube, fears being forcibly recalled by the fickle populace before he can reach Port-Au-Prince.
"Thanks for nothing, assholes," Aristide was reported to have said as he climbed the steps into his private jet in a hurry. A short, emotionally-charged speech by the disappointed former leader of the country ending his 14-year role as a power player in Haitian politics.
The fly-by-night recall process demonstrated how strongly rooted in democracy Haiti has become since achieving its independence from France in ...
aiti reveled in democracy Sunday as President Jean Bertrand Aristide stepped down following the results of a spontaneous recall election held in the country during the past two weeks. When the grassroots campaign effort reached Haiti's capital of Port-Au-Prince, the defeated president made a quick recession speech and left the country by plane very fast.
"Thanks for nothing, assholes," Aristide was reported to have said as he climbed the steps into his private jet in a hurry. A short, emotionally-charged speech by the disappointed former leader of the country ending his 14-year role as a power player in Haitian politics.
The fly-by-night recall process demonstrated how strongly rooted in democracy Haiti has become since achieving its independence from France in 1804, even after years of violent revolutions and overthrowing of dictators. With its people suffering results of extreme poverty and allegations of government corruption, the country celebrated its bicentennial by holding an unwritten referendum to removes its first free-elected president from office.
In fact, so fast was the democratic recall held, no candidate had a chance to get on the ballot as an alternative to Aristide's platform. Insiders in the unofficial Aristide opposition party would not confirm if Gary Coleman or Ariana Huffington had been contacted to fill the open presidency. At press time, hypothetical control of the government rested in the hands of some guy who claimed to be the chief justice of the Haiti Supreme Court, who asked we refer to him as "Jimbo."
The United States initially sided with Aristide at the first sign of violent democratic reform, but changed its tune last week when opponents of Aristide demonstrated considerable political sway by unleashing anarchy in cities surrounding the capital of Port-Au-Prince. Sunday, following the news of Aristide's hasty concession, hundreds of Haitians took to the streets to celebrate pure, uncut democracy.
Professor Vander La Baptiste of Port-Au-Prince University's Department of Coups expressed pride in the country's grassroots political upheaval.
"For too long Haiti was content with sham 'representative democracy,' like a lot of the western world. Finally, we have instituted true democracy," said La Baptiste. "After years of low voter turnout, five percent or less in many cases, Haitians are interested in politics. You can look out any window—careful, watch out for gunfire—and see them expressing political dissent in a democratic fashion. No longer will we waste time voting on bills and budgets about who gets a television. If someone wants a television, they will exercise their democratic right to go right into the store and take it. The police have respectfully stepped aside and allowed us to express our opinions in every matter, whether you are pro-Aristide or anti-Aristide. Just make sure if you are expressing pro-Aristide opinion you are not in a prominent anti-Aristide party territory."
La Baptiste added that mob turnout was as high as 54%, but expected those numbers to grow much higher as political fever spread through the population.
On the part of the United States, President George "Whiter than White" Bush promised to show his support for the display of democracy by sending Marines in cooperation with U.N. forces to "visit" U.S. interests in the country—"You know, just to see how they're enjoying the expression of political opinion down there." the commune news would like to recall Gay Bagel back to wherever he came from, but the doctors can't quite prove he has defective parts yet. Shabozz Wertham is facing severe life-threatening danger in the midst of Haitian revolution, and foreign correspondent and hazard-magnet Ivan Nacutchacokov is more than a little jealous.
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Former FEMA Director Brown to start ignoring disasters in private sector
New cell phone/boning knife combo a painful tech hit
Flood-based sitcoms and movie scripts shelved indefinitely
Cruise portfolios remain strong, in spite of shaky economy
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Bush’s MySpace Page Traffic Way Down Plans for Tallest Ferris Wheel Scrapped; Yao-Ming Too Busy to Turn It Entwistle Pleads Not Guilty of Murder, Last Several Who Albums Condi Rice Hates the Way She Smiles in Pictures |
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 March 28, 2005
Highway to HellThe list of sins I committed in a previous lifetime must still be rolling out somewhere, without end in sight. I can find no other explanation as to why I'm back here at the commune. I'm not sure if I feel more like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now or Al Pacino in The Godfather III, but either way it's probably some Coppola movie that doesn't quite work.
You read that right: Back at the commune. My second dramatic exit, and my second crawling-on-all-fours return. There's no good explanation, other than fate driving by in a bus and waving its dick out the window. My fatal error was assuming I could leave this den in iniquity and make a clean break. I improperly assumed just because they hated me they wouldn't ever want to work with me again and get no satisfaction out of sabotaging my career. Guess who's the jackass, guys?
I should have done something sooner. I could see it coming like a freight train, how I was being set up for permanent commune employment. You see, the rest of these misfits, they're perfectly fit for working at the commune. They lack ambition, sensibility, any degree of talent—and while I'm being just plain insulting, they never pick up a check either. But I had a future, a rosy future I could practically smell. Well, I can smell it now, too, and it's more fertilizer than flowers. Over the years, Bagel and his co-conspirators torpedoed my reputation in the non-commune world with ridiculous insinuations I created the...
º Last Column: Burn, Bridges, Burn
º more columns
The list of sins I committed in a previous lifetime must still be rolling out somewhere, without end in sight. I can find no other explanation as to why I'm back here at the commune. I'm not sure if I feel more like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now or Al Pacino in The Godfather III, but either way it's probably some Coppola movie that doesn't quite work.
You read that right: Back at the commune. My second dramatic exit, and my second crawling-on-all-fours return. There's no good explanation, other than fate driving by in a bus and waving its dick out the window. My fatal error was assuming I could leave this den in iniquity and make a clean break. I improperly assumed just because they hated me they wouldn't ever want to work with me again and get no satisfaction out of sabotaging my career. Guess who's the jackass, guys?
I should have done something sooner. I could see it coming like a freight train, how I was being set up for permanent commune employment. You see, the rest of these misfits, they're perfectly fit for working at the commune. They lack ambition, sensibility, any degree of talent—and while I'm being just plain insulting, they never pick up a check either. But I had a future, a rosy future I could practically smell. Well, I can smell it now, too, and it's more fertilizer than flowers. Over the years, Bagel and his co-conspirators torpedoed my reputation in the non-commune world with ridiculous insinuations I created the "reporting style" here at the commune, a style which is just shy of pure fiction, to tell the truth. I know a lot of commune enthusiasts are going to be outraged to hear that, but if you're a commune enthusiast, let's face it, you have bigger problems to confront.
My "involvement" with the commune reporting style is strictly like that of the involvement of a witness at the site of the Hindenberg disaster. "The humanity" indeed. What started as a joke memo about a funny Clinton story I had heard became the first published commune story I did, and apparently that loose corroboration of the facts and incessant needling of Republicans was just what El Capitan Bagel wanted. Yes, I have to admit, there's a "moron bias" here at the commune. Made by morons, edited by morons, all under the watchful eye of moron number one. Facts? You'll find more Vitamin D in a commune story than facts. Sad to say, but if we're being honest with ourselves, you'll admit you had some suspicions since day one. I say "you" because I'm well aware, despite our preposterous ratings numbers, there's only one commune reader, and we love you here, Emil.
If you're wondering how I can write such inflammatory things about the organization I've just come back to work for, I remind you, being fired from this nightmarish existence would be a blessing in disguise. I have always tried, despite my rocky relationship with the commune overlords and staff, to maintain a polite "work face" to get me through the day. My reward? A slew of titles that have insulted everything from my income to my penis size, crude insinuations about my mother and even my cat on the men's room walls, and being sent on numerous stories where my death was an expected outcome. These motherfuckers play hardball, in short. But I've had it. No more Mr. Nice Dunkin.
Red Bagel's hat is absurd. There, I said it. Consider it the first in many brutal doses of truth I will be handing out, in between the reporting assignments that put me in jeopardy. I'm back, commune, and this time, it's personal. º Last Column: Burn, Bridges, Burnº more columns
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|  October 14, 2002
Mouse in My HouseThe mouse in my house
has the run of the land.
He pees in my porridge
and he shits in my hand
while I lie sleeping,
naively unaware
that the mouse in my house
is nibbling on my hair.
And eating my breadcrumbs!
And drinking my pop!
I have asked him nicely,
politely to stop.
But did this dissuade him,
persuade him to cease?
He just ate my cold pizza,
every last doughy piece.
And as if to taunt me
he loves to play
and roll in my bed sheets
while I am away.
He loves to go dipping
in my marinara sauce
and to leave marinara footprints
up, down and across,
and on up the stairs
to the top of my bedspread
where I sleep unawares.
He ate all my baloney!
Now this is no joke.
And he twice left the tops off
my toothpaste and Coke.
One went quite flat,
and the other went hard.
And this mouse in my house
left his bike in my yard!
It's not like it would kill him
to put the toilet seat down,
or wipe the mud off his feet
when he's been mousing around town.
There's just no reason he can't
put his playing cards away
or clean up his jigsaw puzzles
at the end of the day.
Or close the front door
when he's gone out to play.
Or whisper more quietly
when he kneels down to pray.
But...
º Last Column: The Boy From Demon's Bay
º more columns
The mouse in my house
has the run of the land.
He pees in my porridge
and he shits in my hand
while I lie sleeping,
naively unaware
that the mouse in my house
is nibbling on my hair.
And eating my breadcrumbs!
And drinking my pop!
I have asked him nicely,
politely to stop.
But did this dissuade him,
persuade him to cease?
He just ate my cold pizza,
every last doughy piece.
And as if to taunt me
he loves to play
and roll in my bed sheets
while I am away.
He loves to go dipping
in my marinara sauce
and to leave marinara footprints
up, down and across,
and on up the stairs
to the top of my bedspread
where I sleep unawares.
He ate all my baloney!
Now this is no joke.
And he twice left the tops off
my toothpaste and Coke.
One went quite flat,
and the other went hard.
And this mouse in my house
left his bike in my yard!
It's not like it would kill him
to put the toilet seat down,
or wipe the mud off his feet
when he's been mousing around town.
There's just no reason he can't
put his playing cards away
or clean up his jigsaw puzzles
at the end of the day.
Or close the front door
when he's gone out to play.
Or whisper more quietly
when he kneels down to pray.
But the one mousey caper
I just cannot forgive
is when he got my sister pregnant.
I hope you like d-Con, mouse. º Last Column: The Boy From Demon's Bayº more columns
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Quote of the Day“It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our capacity for customer service. Yes I'll hold.”
-Elvin EinschwartzFortune 500 CookieYou will find Love in a new job this week. Unfortunately it's Courtney Love, and she's your second-shift supervisor. Cheer up, it's not that nobody cares about you; it's just that nobody's willing to admit to it. Everyone's right: Your irrational hatred of the Chinese is starting to hurt your chopstick business. This week's lucky stars: Sirius, Orion, Omega 13, Pauley Shore.
Try again later.Top 5 Other Hasselhof Home Videos| 1. | Whoopsh!: Outtakes From the Drinking Videos | | 2. | 5 hours straight of sucking in gut until a rib pops out | | 3. | All-nude Batwatch starring some girls from the escort service | | 4. | Intense argument with his car over who is the real star of Knight Rider | | 5. | Imaginary non-German music awards show where Hasselhoff sweeps every category | |
|   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   |
