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March 14, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Courtesy Polydor We’ve seen the future of the U.N., and it’s cheesy as hell resident Bush shocked observers who somehow still cling to their ability to be shocked by President Bush this week, nominating two-time Grammy winner and bald mullet inventor Michael Bolton as U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. Though lacking in diplomatic experience, the president’s supporters believe the 51-year-old soul crooner will be just as popular among the U.N.’s General Assembly as he is among people with truly horrible taste in music.
“I’m certain Michael’s smooth, soulful style will serve to soothe relations with our European neighbors,” Bush suggested, wiping tartar sauce on his ever-present lobster bib.
Regardless, political observers believe this move to be Bush’s latest and ultimate “Fuck You” to Europe, whose representati...
resident Bush shocked observers who somehow still cling to their ability to be shocked by President Bush this week, nominating two-time Grammy winner and bald mullet inventor Michael Bolton as U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. Though lacking in diplomatic experience, the president’s supporters believe the 51-year-old soul crooner will be just as popular among the U.N.’s General Assembly as he is among people with truly horrible taste in music.
“I’m certain Michael’s smooth, soulful style will serve to soothe relations with our European neighbors,” Bush suggested, wiping tartar sauce on his ever-present lobster bib.
Regardless, political observers believe this move to be Bush’s latest and ultimate “Fuck You” to Europe, whose representatives will now all have to spend time with Michael Bolton.
“We were excited at first when we heard a rumor that the new ambassador would be American beach bunny David Hasselhoff,” explained Germany. “But then we got the real news. This is worse than an insult.”
“Michael Bolton is an asshole,” explained France. “And we do not like him.”
Spain was more diplomatic.
“He’s not going to sing, is he? I mean, if he has something to say in meetings, he’s just going to say it, right? Not sing it out like it was one of his cheesy goddamned songs, right? If we have to sit through some bullshit like ‘When a Man Needs a U.N. Security Resolution,’ we’re going to quit the U.N., no shit. Spain is not kidding.”
According to insider reports, Bush’s first choice to fill the position was Ronnie Gaylord of the pre-rock white vocal trio The Gaylords, but the president was disappointed to learn he had been dead for thirteen years.
“Michael Bolton has sold over 52 million albums worldwide over the course of his career,” boasted White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan. “How many albums have the president’s detractors sold? Probably not as many. Unless you count The Eagles. They sold an awful lot of records.”
Bolton came to a very small fraction of the public’s attention in the late 70’s, as the lead singer for the heavy metal band Blackjack. However, Bolton’s lush, pussified style didn’t mesh well with hair band riffs, and by the mid-eighties he had discovered his true gift for making music fans vomit with the whitest of all possible R&B sounds.
“It’s always been my dream to lead,” explained a surprised Bolton upon hearing the news. “Actually, my dream was to make a lot of money, but I’ve already done that. Now leading sounds pretty good.” the commune news is surprised as anyone by Bush’s recent choice, seeing as we all had our money on Luther Vandross. Lil Duncan is back on the Washington beat this week, after beating would-be White House beater Ivana Folger-Balzac with a tire iron and being the first one to find the laundry chute escape route out of the hospital. According to reports, Ivana Folger-Balzac remains duct-taped to her bed, in stably enraged condition.
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 June 9, 2003
Ape Skills"It takes a nation of millions just to keep a shitty sitcom on the air."
My dad once told me, "Boy, it takes a smart man to get a job these days. But it takes a good man to…" At that point the dog had gotten firm hold of his throat and I couldn't understand what he was saying anymore, but it was probably something about a good man knowing when to admit he's wrong or something. That dog came out of nowhere, now that I think about it.
Dad was a grease monkey, but he preferred the term "motor-fixin' ape." That was as good as he could talk everyone into calling him anyway. He worked at the garage down the street, fixing in any broken cars they would bring in. Or not fixing them, if they were difficult or took a long time or something. He wasn't crazy. But my dad always used to say, "Son, a man with skills is a man who can…" Something. I don't remember the rest of it. I only heard the full version once or twice, usually some birds would crash into his head or a marmot would leap out of a garbage can and latch onto his goodies like a vise.
It doesn't really matter, because a man with skills is probably a good thing, is what he was meaning, and I don't have any. It's not a big downer to me at all. Some people are good at certain things, while I'm good at not being good at anything. It bothered me when I was little, then I started spending a lot of time in unventilated rooms that were just painted. Now I don't worry about anything....
º Last Column: Genuine Draft º more columns
"It takes a nation of millions just to keep a shitty sitcom on the air."
My dad once told me, "Boy, it takes a smart man to get a job these days. But it takes a good man to…" At that point the dog had gotten firm hold of his throat and I couldn't understand what he was saying anymore, but it was probably something about a good man knowing when to admit he's wrong or something. That dog came out of nowhere, now that I think about it.
Dad was a grease monkey, but he preferred the term "motor-fixin' ape." That was as good as he could talk everyone into calling him anyway. He worked at the garage down the street, fixing in any broken cars they would bring in. Or not fixing them, if they were difficult or took a long time or something. He wasn't crazy. But my dad always used to say, "Son, a man with skills is a man who can…" Something. I don't remember the rest of it. I only heard the full version once or twice, usually some birds would crash into his head or a marmot would leap out of a garbage can and latch onto his goodies like a vise.
It doesn't really matter, because a man with skills is probably a good thing, is what he was meaning, and I don't have any. It's not a big downer to me at all. Some people are good at certain things, while I'm good at not being good at anything. It bothered me when I was little, then I started spending a lot of time in unventilated rooms that were just painted. Now I don't worry about anything. Maybe age makes you wiser. Budweiser. Sure, I could go for one about now.
The best thing about not being able to do anything is that nobody calls on you to do them a favor. No one gets pissed if you can't remember who called while they were out because they know your memory is shitty. No one asks to help you move once they know you drop stuff like it's chili pepper hot and their furniture is all expensive. No one asks you to cover for them if the boss shows up because they know you're not even good at lying. So if you see the bright side, it's better not being able to do anything.
I guess that's one thing I do well, see the bright side of everything. Like when life gives you lemons and you make lemonade, then you taste and realize someone pissed in your lemonade. I'm the kind of guy who says, "Well, now I know what piss tastes like so I'll never have to wonder." Then the kids tell me I spoiled all their fun and they won't sell me anymore lemonade, even with piss in it. But that's just more money I can spend on mouthwash. Always a bright side, dudes.
But if that's one thing I do well, now I gotta worry about people bothering me to do that. "Hey, Loser—I just woke up with a hobo's dick in my mouth. What's the bright side of that?" I've created a whole new avenue of work for just me.
Sometimes I really am a dumbass. º Last Column: Genuine Draftº more columns
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|  April 11, 2005
My Dear, Your New Children Have Become a NuisanceMy dearest Deidrebane, it pains me acutely to have to write you this column and expose our personal goings-on to the somewhat wider audience of the world at large, but I can't find any of our personal stationary and I'm not about to go tearing up the entire house when the computer is right here.
Simply put and plainly typed, your new children have become a nuisance.
I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim these children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible. To the best of my knowledge your plumbing has not been snaked in a generation. And word on the street is that things are drier down there than a jerky stand in the Sahara. For the sake of decorum, I shall fail to go into the gruesome details, though believe me when I say the word is out.
I can only imagine how our first wave of real children feel about this latest batch of imposters, suckling at their mother's dry, unproductive teat. Wherever they are, Deidrebane, out in the world making their fortune or spending ours, it is surely a sad day for them. If I could remember their names, I would send my condolences by post card or...
º Last Column: I Promised to Stop Smoking Crack º more columns
My dearest Deidrebane, it pains me acutely to have to write you this column and expose our personal goings-on to the somewhat wider audience of the world at large, but I can't find any of our personal stationary and I'm not about to go tearing up the entire house when the computer is right here.
Simply put and plainly typed, your new children have become a nuisance.
I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim these children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible. To the best of my knowledge your plumbing has not been snaked in a generation. And word on the street is that things are drier down there than a jerky stand in the Sahara. For the sake of decorum, I shall fail to go into the gruesome details, though believe me when I say the word is out.
I can only imagine how our first wave of real children feel about this latest batch of imposters, suckling at their mother's dry, unproductive teat. Wherever they are, Deidrebane, out in the world making their fortune or spending ours, it is surely a sad day for them. If I could remember their names, I would send my condolences by post card or fruit basket, whichever we have in stock at the moment.
And no, I will not refer to these new hangers-on as "our" children. I fell for that trick once, many years ago, and shant repeat my folly. I'm quite convinced I never had anything to do with the first batch, and so I'm not about to piss my markings onto these latest home-invaders. These are your children, Deidrebane, and I've had enough of them playing "bakery" with my angel dust collection.
Firstly, there's the matter of your oldest new son, Montpellier, who I recently heard through the grapevine was kicked out of the Hentwistle Correctional Facility for Incorrect Boys. It had been my understanding that Hentwistle was nothing more than a nicely-named prison house, and if they're offering expulsion for misbehavior these days I fear for the message this sends to baddies and goodies alike. Montpellier must truly be a special child.
But the one sycophant I truly cannot abide is your new young son, Cartegney. This one is really the tops. Just last week he got into my gun collection, and you don't need a fertile imagination to discern what happened next. That's right; the child organized my guns by model number, then put them all away neatly in the gun safe! Now what am I supposed to do if I need to shoot something in a hurry?
I shall fail, I fear, not unlike your newest daughter Steenburgen when she tried to bake us an anniversary cake last week. You can say what you want, but if a child doesn't understand the concept of needing to bake the cake before hiding yourself inside, I say she has a valuable lesson to learn from the skin grafts. I know I've kept nothing but fond memories from the summer I spent as the Human Torch at a county fair in my youth, and not just because the unpleasant parts are either blacked out from my memory or masked by a thick curtain of Vicodin.
No my dear, these new children just aren't working out, and I think it's time they were sent back. Dig up your receipt and return them to the adoption cart at the mall or Kids "R" Us or wherever it was that you picked up these wayward moppets in the first place. I would rid our house of them myself, but my plot was already foiled by Cartegney, who informed me that the car I had loaded them all into did not have an adequate safety rating and regardless, he was too young to drive. So do what you must, Deidrebane. I won't have these precocious ragamuffins pointing out the folly of my planning. Now if you need me, I'll be in the den, watching the Crusades on pay-per-view. º Last Column: I Promised to Stop Smoking Crackº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Na-na-na-na-ne-neh-neh-na-neh-neh-neh-neh-va-va-va-va-va-neh-na-neh-neh-va-va-va-va-va-va-va-neh-va-neh-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma—nevermind.”
-Stutterin' Tom TulaneFortune 500 CookieEight is enough: time to face the fact that you're wearing too many cock rings. Try watching where you vomit this week: it never hurts to make a nice first impression. It says here that once word gets out you ate all those locusts, you'll be beloved in Kansas, and unwelcome everywhere else. This week's lucky germs: floor-funk, spazzolycene3, urinalia-hangaroundicus, wheat, Pat Smear.
Try again later.Top Reasons Why You Couldn't Have Killed Your Dead Wife| 1. | What, and miss the prime Christmas Eve fishing season? | | 2. | Too busy having extramarital affair to plot murder | | 3. | Pregnant wife-killing totally against religion | | 4. | Ha. I wish! | | 5. | Spirit too crushed from living with soulless bitch for years | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Albert Daddyton 9/30/2002 Murder in the FoyerThe well-to-do upperclassmen (and the two women) stood in the close quarters of the foyer. The mansion was huge, but the foyer was small. Which was why they were demanded to gather here by the detective.
"I say, this is most uncalled for," said Lord Diamondswatter, in his best English accent. And he was from England, you know it was good. "Tell me why we must be subjected to this humiliation!"
"I agree, Lord Pissweather," said Lady Diamondswatter, known by Betty to her close friends, which was no one. "How ungentlemanly of you to force us all to stand in the foyer of such a beautiful mansion."
"I'm afraid it's utmost necessary," said Lord Pissweather, fingering his Chinese finger trap, his peculiar detectively affectation. "If I were to allow us to...
The well-to-do upperclassmen (and the two women) stood in the close quarters of the foyer. The mansion was huge, but the foyer was small. Which was why they were demanded to gather here by the detective.
"I say, this is most uncalled for," said Lord Diamondswatter, in his best English accent. And he was from England, you know it was good. "Tell me why we must be subjected to this humiliation!"
"I agree, Lord Pissweather," said Lady Diamondswatter, known by Betty to her close friends, which was no one. "How ungentlemanly of you to force us all to stand in the foyer of such a beautiful mansion."
"I'm afraid it's utmost necessary," said Lord Pissweather, fingering his Chinese finger trap, his peculiar detectively affectation. "If I were to allow us to meet in larger quarters, it is all but certain the mysterious Fat Phantom would escape upon my revealing him."
"I say!" said fat Lord Eatswallow. "Then you know the identity of the Fat Phantom, Lord Pissweather?"
"I do," said the detective. "Damn! This Chinese finger trap… Lady Fascist, could you help me here…?"
Attractive Lady Fascist did as bade, which is totally cool. His fingers again freed, Lord Pissweather gestured with the middle one toward the roof.
"I say!" exclaimed quiet Lord Saidlittle, who rarely spoke.
"Up there," continued Lord Pissweather, "is where we first encountered the first body. No, wait… we originally encountered the first body. Yes. That's better."
"Yes," said Lord Diamondswatter, "Lord Freshcorpse was found stabbed in the back with a butter knife."
"True," said Lord Pissweather, straightening his purple velvet cloak, which was manly on him but obviously gay on someone else less manly. "But if you'll recall, the butter knife appeared not to break the skin at all. Which suggested to me Lord Freshcorpse had in truth been poisoned."
"No shit!" exclaimed Lord Eatswallow. "Poisoned by the Fat Phantom?"
"The one and same, or another one," said Lord Pissweather. "The second body was Lady Newkilled. Do you remember?"
"I must admit I had forgotten," said Lord Saidlittle, to which Lady Diamondswatter promptly agreed.
"Well, it happened. And this is where we found our most important clues," said Lord Pissweather, pausing for dramatic effect and to again remove his fingers from the Chinese finger trap. "Damn! Anyway… this is where we found the plate of butter cookies defiled and the heavy foot prints in the carpet, obviously created by a very fat, fat person. No offense, Lord Eatswallow."
"None taken," said the chunky lord. "So… do you suggest we're looking for a fat person, like myself."
"Funny you should say that," said Lord Pissweather, and all laughed. "Because I am about to reveal the murderer… and he (or possibly she, but let's just say he) is in this room right now!"   |