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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
“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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 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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|  November 12, 2001
Raindrops Keep Falling on Ned's HeadNot long ago was the day when Ned was quicker than electrical intercourse. Damn the Yankees if Ned wasn't the fastest thing this side of the mongoose races over at Lambert Field, and anyone who says different is trying to sell you a boxcar full of Injun silverware. Ned could skin a rattlesnake in a minute, paint two states in an hour, and make minute rice in 13 seconds. "Hot Damn!" is what they once said about Ned. When it rained, Ned never once got wet since he was ziggin' and zaggin' between those raindrops like a turkey in a pumpkin patch. As a matter of fact, one day Ned drank a pot of hot coffee and was so hyped-up he swam across the Mississippi and back without once getting wet, neither.
But some say Ned got all greedy with his speed, and that might rightly be true. One day, on a lark, Ned stole away the sun into his shoulder-satchel and tucked it behind the moon, just to see the looks on people's faces when they couldn't find the sun that day. Well, it was a powerfully funny scene indeed, as them roosters crowed at all the wrong times, them people were eatin' chocolate tarts when they should have been eatin' their breakfast hams and everyone got all in a huff. Austria invaded Switzerland and all them geese flew straight into the moon, honest to Amos. Nedder laughed until he was horse and his horse laughed until he was Ned and then the horse rode Ned through town, a-yellin' "Otis Redding is Coming! Otis Redding is Coming!" and all the people thought that...
º Last Column: Migglio the Monkey
º more columns
Not long ago was the day when Ned was quicker than electrical intercourse. Damn the Yankees if Ned wasn't the fastest thing this side of the mongoose races over at Lambert Field, and anyone who says different is trying to sell you a boxcar full of Injun silverware. Ned could skin a rattlesnake in a minute, paint two states in an hour, and make minute rice in 13 seconds. "Hot Damn!" is what they once said about Ned. When it rained, Ned never once got wet since he was ziggin' and zaggin' between those raindrops like a turkey in a pumpkin patch. As a matter of fact, one day Ned drank a pot of hot coffee and was so hyped-up he swam across the Mississippi and back without once getting wet, neither.
But some say Ned got all greedy with his speed, and that might rightly be true. One day, on a lark, Ned stole away the sun into his shoulder-satchel and tucked it behind the moon, just to see the looks on people's faces when they couldn't find the sun that day. Well, it was a powerfully funny scene indeed, as them roosters crowed at all the wrong times, them people were eatin' chocolate tarts when they should have been eatin' their breakfast hams and everyone got all in a huff. Austria invaded Switzerland and all them geese flew straight into the moon, honest to Amos. Nedder laughed until he was horse and his horse laughed until he was Ned and then the horse rode Ned through town, a-yellin' "Otis Redding is Coming! Otis Redding is Coming!" and all the people thought that was one sour apple indeed.
From that day after not the sun nor the moon, nor the clouds nor the sea, none of them trusted Ned a lick. When it rained it rained sideways and them clouds furrowed up their brows and made sure Nedder got wetter than a seal in a vat of Vaseline. When the moon it did shine, it shined right in Ned's eyes, and the sea lived to make Ned sick.
Ned's refrigerator filled up with fog, and his basement got full of box turtles. All his clocks quit tickin' and went "boink" instead, drivin' Ned to the verge of Virgil. His toilet filled with hair and his hair all fell out and his pogo stick developed a terrible squeak and all his neighbors loved Polka. Them was the worst of times.
So Ned learnt his lesson, that life don't move at the speed of no train, an that a sloth in a grain silo has one hell of a lot of fun, if you believe them ol' stories. Now in these days them raindrops fall on Ned's noggin like that drummer boy gone bad, and Ned likes it this way. The sun does a dance in Nedmiller's pants and the sea rocks Nedrum to sleep. And excepting that hot air balloon incident, Ned and the moon get along just fine, thanks. º Last Column: Migglio the Monkeyº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Impartiality is a pompous name for indifference, which is an elegant name for Cletus, my inbred asscrack of a neighbor about whom I am far from indifferent.”
-CK FesterchildFortune 500 CookieYou wir find gleat rove in an ord flend. That's not an accented translation; you just have a really weird fortune this week. It's time to face the facts, or at least the facts of life: even if you manage to get that face you drew on your hand pregnant, it's just going to be one more mouth to feed. This week's lucky ringtones: Hangin' Tough, Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm, Two Princes, Kokomo.
Try again later.Top Tax Filing Mistakes| 1. | Classifying hooker money as charitable donations | | 2. | Taxes owed paid in solid gold krugerrands | | 3. | Claiming Willie Nelson already paid your taxes | | 4. | Online tax-filing with X-Box 360 Live account | | 5. | Attempting to personally deliver tax forms to president himself, accompanied by bonus ass-whupping | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 6/18/2007 Good day and good-bye, at least according to the rumors around here at the commune rubble. It matters not to me that we may not publish again, since I’m focusing my time and energy on a very lucrative weight loss research project starting up next week, and wouldn’t have time to continue reviewing movies anyway. And since my dwarf mage Welchy reached level 10 last week on World of Warcraft, I haven’t had much time to review new movies either. So I thought I would say sayonara with a different kind of column, Orson’s favorite movies of all time. What’s that? Movies I like? That’s correct. They are few, but they exist. Let’s see the “they” to which I’m referring.
The Great Muppet Caper
There has never been a wiser move in all of Hollywood...
Good day and good-bye, at least according to the rumors around here at the commune rubble. It matters not to me that we may not publish again, since I’m focusing my time and energy on a very lucrative weight loss research project starting up next week, and wouldn’t have time to continue reviewing movies anyway. And since my dwarf mage Welchy reached level 10 last week on World of Warcraft, I haven’t had much time to review new movies either. So I thought I would say sayonara with a different kind of column, Orson’s favorite movies of all time. What’s that? Movies I like? That’s correct. They are few, but they exist. Let’s see the “they” to which I’m referring. The Great Muppet CaperThere has never been a wiser move in all of Hollywood than to team up Charles Grodin with felt-headed puppets. Never. I challenge you to find one. Grodin is a daring jewel thief who attempts to manipulate Miss Piggy with a romantic relationship. Yes, you read that right. Simply for the tantalizing daydreams I’ve had about how Charles Grodin would get busy with a pig puppet, if that involves Frank Oz’s hand at all or not, this movie ranks very highly in my list. And like all Muppet movies, the human are not at all curious why these somewhat inarticulate animal puppets are welcomed rather than scorned by society, a great commentary on the generation gap of the 1960s and 1970s, though a bit dark for the taste of most. YojimboAkira Kurosawa’s samurai epic has been remade many times, but too many remakes miss the exceptional subtlety and style of Kurosawa. This movie is not as excellent as it is because it is a tightly-plotted story of a samurai in feudal Japan playing two greedy sides against each other; it’s brilliant because without telling us, Kurosawa has staged the timeless story of a collection of insane Japanese men who have taken up residence in the old west. When Sergio Leone remade this tale as A Fistful of Dollars, he unwittingly sapped all the brilliance out of it by staging it in the old west where it was originally set in Kurosawa’s version. The fact the main character has no name is a subtle testament to the fact everyone is completely out of their minds in this movie and that’s why they think they’re samurai. A searing and subversive indictment of everyone who goes to see a movie and expects the characters to be in full possession of their faculties. Toshiro Mifune was a god among actors with hyperactive attention deficit disorder. THX-1138Before George Lucas decided it was more fun to make money than cutting social commentary films, he made THX-1138, and we’re all the better for it. Contrary to Lucas’ opinion he was making a sharp attack on the drug-abusing rule-following fascism of pre-1960s culture, he was actually making a critical symphony that mocked white America’s subtle hatred of itself. Not only are very few of the actors in the movie black at all, but the lead actor, Robert Duvall, can only escape the dirty world of which he’s part and the dull silver automatons who enforce the law by crossing the longest expanse of pure white ever seen on screen. Fascinating. So only by running toward something even whiter can we at least be safe from our basic whiteness? No wonder people complained so loudly about the low-key racism in the Star Wars prequels. Lucas definitely has issues. Paris on FireThere is no better film alive than Paris on Fire. No, this has nothing to do with Hilton heiresses. Quite simply, Paris on Fire is the most damning fire safety film ever made in the French New Wave vein. The acting is excellent as Marie Chevalier plays “Woman Woken By Fire Alarm,” trying for the entire length of the film to find a way out of her burning house only to find fire behind every door. She tries each door several times, and while some audiences might find these repeated scenes fairly boring, they’re actually morons because it makes a pointed statement about the repetitive nature of trying to avoid burning to death in general. Paris on Fire makes the bold statement that, no matter how any of us might die, we are truly burning to death, slowly but surely, and we should probably enjoy it. Fucking genius. Is that all there is? Possibly. I know it’s not for me, as I have that research thing starting next week. I will miss these little chats we’ve had, but I suppose it’s all for naught, as we’re but burning to death slowly over along period of time. So enjoy.   |
