the commune Focus: Teen Mind-Control

n efforts to control crime and young minds in the past decade, many cities have followed the move of small towns to institute curfews and keep young people off the street. As part of the commune's ongoing attempt to bring you closer to the world around you, the issues presented to the American public, and eventually get you to buy our sociological journals, the commune brings you the commune Focus: Teen Curfews and Other Forms of Mind-Control.

Most recently, the town council of Vernon, Connecticut, some kind of state in the country, decided not to appeal a federal court ruling upholding a ban on their longtime teen curfew. Teens everywhere celebrated by playing X-Box, using swear words, and having unprotected sex in between backyard wrestling matches. The town council vowed to do nothing until hearing which way the parental outrage swung.

The ban on the town curfew came after ACLU (ack-loo) lawyers challenged the law on the premise it was written in Spanish. That having failed, the ACLU then challenged on behalf of parents' rights to set their own children's curfews, and then challenged on the idea it violated the rights of children themselves, best two out of three, but the court bit on the second suit.

The ruling could dissuade other pompous town council people in Footloose-type situations from passing legislation taking away the rights of anybody under the age of 21. Other issues in controlling teen thought are in dangerous territory with the frown on teen curfews, including a legal drinking age of 21, school uniforms, and chemical castration (for boys only).

"It's very important teens learn restraint in social situations," said Child Psychology professor Fett Geraldo, an ancient prick far too old to have any fun anymore. "Children lack the same wizened social skills and experience to make decisions of importance for themselves like what to wear and what time to come in, whether to obey their parents or not. I know you're thinking people once said that about women and non-white people, but I assure such assessments are only mostly accurate. Anyone under the age of eighteen, or twenty-one, if we're talking alcohol, is clearly not mature enough to make decisions for himself. Or herself. Hell, look at all these teen websites for just-turned-eighteen girls, you can see what I mean."

This reporter did look at the websites, and was quite impressed by Dr. Geraldo's point. And the flexibility of one particular Ukrainian girl.

Teens, however, were demonstrably pissed off by the professor's opinion, and modern music.

"This is just another example of one group claiming they know what's best for another," said seventeen-year-old Betty Fullback. "But I know what's best for them—just shut up already. Adults always think young people can't make decisions about anything, and it's stupid. It's just like the sixties—I hear. We need to mobilize and rebel and stuff, to get our rights like the African-Americans did in the 1600s. I'm trying to get some people together at my house this weekend, so if you know anybody who's interested in fighting for their rights, just—as long as I have approval, you know. Let me check the list. I'm on student council, you know, I have some respect to maintain."

Consequently, this reporter found himself uninvited from the party after a lewd pass and a little commune name-dropping.

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

It's about time the government dropped the ball, publicly, and proved me right. I told you years ago, in one of my earliest columns, about the top-secret anti-terrorist unit operating out of the Pentagon with free reign to go anywhere and do whatever they want to stop terrorism. The government at last admitted the unit exists, and they're now calling it the "SSB" (or Strategic Support Branch), operating under the direction of the Pentagon's Defensive Intelligence Agency. Their original name, you'll remember me telling you, was the True Badasses.

On Sunday, January 23, the Washington Post broke the mainstream news about the existence of the SSB, while the rest of us who read the commune or report the alternative news just sat back and yawned in a patronizing fashion. Nobody needed to tell me about the super-secret Pentagon anti-terrorism unit—and by nobody, of course, I mean my super-secret embedded Pentagon source, who I'll call Doggie Style. He told me early in 2002, after the unit's creation, that it had begun operating. They were the True Badasses back then, but the scope hasn't changed—they still were developed and hand-picked by Secy. Donald "Rumplestickdick" Rumsfeld, still dressed all in their black ninja outfits, and had the unconstitutional freedom in their mandate to operate any and everywhere they please, if it served counter-terrorism.

How could this happen? Too late to ask now, sir. It would have done us all well if somebody, besides me, had read the Patriot Act. They made it in really small type for a reason, you know. Since no one read it, no one found Clause 631 unusual: "The signing of this Act hereby invalidates all Constitutional guarantees of due process, and promises the creation of a group of elite terrorist-fighters dressed as ninjas and armed to the teeth with amazing ranged and melee weapons, a group herein referred to as 'The True Badasses.'" There it is, in bright red tiny type for us all to have read, and prevented. Damn you, M-TV-generation attention spans.

Nothing to do about it now. Our best bet at this point is to elect some exceedingly liberal leaders (we're talking Dennis Hopper and Karen Finley here) who can sponsor an "anti-Patriot Act Act" that will include the "complete reversal clause" that several of our early amendments cleverly contained. While we're at it, legalizing prostitution wouldn't be bad idea. As Las Vegas and Atlantic City have proven, the worst effects that can happen is having David Cassidy and Andy Williams put on an excessive number of shows in your city. Worth it? I'm not going that far.

That doesn't help us in the meantime, of course. What should you do if the True Badasses, or whatever they're calling themselves now, burst through your window, suspecting you of being a terrorist sleeper cell? Really, this doesn't differ much from the response outlined in my much-maligned self-help pamphlet, "Help! Ninja Attack!"

First, if you are capable of disappearing in explosions of smoke or shadows, by all means, do so. For the rest of us, I'm afraid you're left with stop, drop, and roll—I know this is customarily used to put out fires, but it also works well in Badass, ninja, or bear attacks. Bears run in fright from a clearly insane person, while a True Badass or ninja will often believe you're suffering a seizure, and attempt to put a wallet under your tongue. While they search for their wallet, take advantage of their distraction and wrestle the weapons from their hands. The numbers may be against you, but if you do it fast and well enough, you can at least stage a stand-off likely to last for hours and draw out the FBI and the media. There's nothing ninjas and True Badass terrorist-fighters hate more than public exposure. This will send them back into hiding for sure. Saved again! Now… as for how you can get rid of the media and the FBI, that's a puzzler. If you come up with any ideas, or write your own pamphlet, bounce it my way. I've been working on that one for years.

º Last Column: Gay Demographics
º more columns

Rest easy, faithful commune reader, and any friends you might have: the commune is once again back in our hands.

If the spate of month-long repeats we've been running haven't clued you in, the commune was in a bit of a sticky situation as of late. And it wasn't, contrary to popular belief, just an attempt for us to catch a few winks while our competition stomped us into the ground. I had planned a little time off for the loyal commune staff, and everybody else we employ, but something more like a week, or even a few hours with me just not poking everyone to keep them working at top speed. But it didn't turn out as expected at all. Not at all.

To sum up, terrorists invaded the commune offices. Nothing less than Al Qaeda terrorists, or at least it appeared to me when the small group of foreign men stormed our offices with machine guns and demanded we all choose who would die first. We all chose my brother Gay Bagel, of course, unanimous vote (can you beat Gay voting for himself? What's up there?) Raoul and Ramrod tied for second, somehow beating out my favorite, Ivana. I placed a distant fifth, and I think it has something to do with putting real caramel in the caramel apples at this year's commune Days fair. But anyway, back to the terrorists.

If you think we're going to sit around and let third-world demagogues gun us down, you're sadly mistaken. To stand there and let terrorists kill you would mean the terrorists have already won. So I "flipped out," in the modern vernacular, and began to toss body after body against the wall. Many were Ivan Nacutchacokov, always in my ever-loving way, but I'm sure I got a few terrorists in there, too. We had just enough time to vacate the offices and taking our most valuable possessions with us. I had just enough time to unleash my deadly security force of weasels for the bastards to choke on, while Gay Bagel had just enough time to change the website programming and select a variety of articles for a few "best of" issues, so we wouldn't lose precious advertising revenue after we fled the terror. You never know when you might be able to use ten bucks, I suppose.

The fact that Omar Bricks did not follow us, and was in fact found at his desk, business-as-usual upon our return, speaks volumes about the perceptive depths of Mr. Bricks. We did find he had strapped one of the terrorists to the back of a grizzly bear, but upon closer inspection it's apparent he had mistaken the infidel for Ramrod Hurley.

I could thrill you endlessly with tales of our life on the run, searching out hiding places from which to build a new commune and the way our reporters cobbled together stories out of dust and scraps so we could continue to get the truth out to you. But thrilling you would be contrary to the usual routine of this column. Let's just say we were stumped for days on end on how to get our offices back and rid ourselves of the invaders. Well, I was stumped. Everyone else told me to call the police, the FBI, or any number of establishment-serving official organizations who hunt terrorists for fun. I was convinced this was not the right path. Until I got sick of living day and nigh with my staff in an abandoned building. So a quick call to the feds and we had our offices back, and a hefty reward as well.

It turned out, by the way, that the "terrorists" were actually nothing more than some Middle Eastern mercenaries hired by Crochet! Magazine to end our longtime dispute once and for all. Needless to say, Crochet! gots to pay for its major league fuck-up. And if you see Omar Bricks on the street, thank him for that insightful 10-part investigative report on ben-wah balls he did, but tell him I can't publish it because he submitted it to the faux Bagel mercenary. Who is planning to publish it in a prison newsletter, I think.

º Last Column: The Adventures of Red & Rascal
º more columns