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Missing Girl Big Fat HoaxAugust 4, 2003 |
Topeka, KS Topeka Police Dept. Donna Walker, described by authorities as an alleged "big fat cunt who should die" hat police officials are calling a "cruel hoax" perpetuated by a "big fat bitch" from "some Podunk town out in BFE" came to an end last Thursday with the arrest of Donna Lynette Walker, a 35-year-old Kansas woman. Walker had contacted the parents of missing Indiana girl Shannon Sherrill only days before, claiming to be the missing girl and renewing hope for the family after 17 years of grief.
Six-year-old Shannon disappeared in October of 1986 while playing hide-and-seek outside the family home in Indianapolis. Authorities had all but given up hope over the years, as leads failed to materialize and it became less and less likely that Shannon simply took hide-and-seek very seriously. Walker's call last week seemed to the family to be a miracle, but quickly turned out to be the ...
hat police officials are calling a "cruel hoax" perpetuated by a "big fat bitch" from "some Podunk town out in BFE" came to an end last Thursday with the arrest of Donna Lynette Walker, a 35-year-old Kansas woman. Walker had contacted the parents of missing Indiana girl Shannon Sherrill only days before, claiming to be the missing girl and renewing hope for the family after 17 years of grief.
Six-year-old Shannon disappeared in October of 1986 while playing hide-and-seek outside the family home in Indianapolis. Authorities had all but given up hope over the years, as leads failed to materialize and it became less and less likely that Shannon simply took hide-and-seek very seriously. Walker's call last week seemed to the family to be a miracle, but quickly turned out to be the shitty kind of miracle that people usually aren't referring to when they speak of miracles.
With the arrest came disturbing-yet-hilarious details about Walker's past. According to several poor bastards who identified themselves as her friends, Walker has frequently made crank phone calls in disguised cartoon voices ever since childhood, and as an adult her talent for being incredibly and flamboyantly full of shit has led to police records in California, Kansas, Virginia and Nebraska for making bizarre threatening calls, forging checks, reporting false fire alarms, placing bomb threats and using stolen credit cards to pay her telephone bill. Few involved can take even these charges seriously, however, since Walker often disguises her telephone voice in a spot-on stuttering impersonation of Porky Pig.
Friends of Donna Walker are at a loss to explain her motivation in contacting Shannon Sherrill's parents, or how they could possibly be this hard up for friends. All agree, however, that the Sherrills probably should have taken Walker's claims of "What's up Doc? I'm your kidnapped daughter!" with a grain of salt.
"I'm not surprised," said friend Kelli Wauch, who wasn't surprised. "I met Donna through a group where you go for support or if you're happy you go there and Donna is somebody who thrives off of other people's pain so it didn't surprise me that she did these things because she told me about a girl missing in Indiana and it being her parents and saying something along the lines about that and I just kind of blew it off because it didn't make any sense," rambled Wauch, prompting this reporter to slap her across the mouth in hopes of coercing a coherent quote.
That rambling narrative, coupled with the fact that Wauch has had to change her telephone number twice during the month she has known Walker to stop the tirade of threatening phone calls made in cartoon voices, begs the question of why Wauch still identifies herself as Walker's friend. Rather than sift through another verbal train wreck of a response, however, this reporter is satisfied to chalk it up as some kind of weird Kansas thing we're not meant to understand.
In Indiana, Walker faces a felony charge of identity deception and a misdemeanor charge of false reporting, as well as a life-long series of disappointed looks from the entire human race. In addition to contacting the missing girl's parents, she also repeatedly contacted the police regarding this case, posing alternately as two different women, the missing girl's husband, and a diminutive hunter with a speech impediment.
Attorney Billy Rork insisted that Donna Walker did not feel she'd done anything wrong, despite the fact that she is twelve years older than Shannon Sherrill would be today in addition to the minor details that Walker was never kidnapped and is in no way related to the Sherrills. Rork also communicated that Walker didn't feel like going to prison or being held in any way accountable for her actions. Additionally, she didn't feel like Italian or Thai food, though those details seemed less important in the big picture. the commune news does not condone identity deception in any form, but for the record we did claim to be members of Run-DMC once in a hilarious attempt to get laid. Ivana Folger-Balzac could hardly pass for anyone but her bitchy self, although she was once mistaken for Adolf Hitler in a wig.
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 November 26, 2001
Fortune 6I present to you, the King of throw-away island. Slicing a trench into the past, dogwoods spread their sprays like drifting clouds, the most wasteful member of the tree family. "King Trapper of the North" is how they'd like to be remembered. Hardly. Tubers, seeds, runners, corms, bulbs, rhizomes, roots and spores fan out like chuck wagons clattering in a figure eight. A boy sets out; a man returns, chromosomes aligning. Less secret are the lichens, and the groundhogs are without good cause, like spoiled vultures. Shaded by the cursed dogwood. Among the toughest of living things, A.L. van den Brandeler makes quick with the axe to help me single-hand her.
You will feed during summer's abundance, mate, lay eggs and die. Try again...
º Last Column: Fortune 5 º more columns
I present to you, the King of throw-away island. Slicing a trench into the past, dogwoods spread their sprays like drifting clouds, the most wasteful member of the tree family. "King Trapper of the North" is how they'd like to be remembered. Hardly. Tubers, seeds, runners, corms, bulbs, rhizomes, roots and spores fan out like chuck wagons clattering in a figure eight. A boy sets out; a man returns, chromosomes aligning. Less secret are the lichens, and the groundhogs are without good cause, like spoiled vultures. Shaded by the cursed dogwood. Among the toughest of living things, A.L. van den Brandeler makes quick with the axe to help me single-hand her.
You will feed during summer's abundance, mate, lay eggs and die. Try again later. º Last Column: Fortune 5º more columns
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|  July 22, 2002
If Pigs Could Fly I'd Wear a Tin SombreroHey commune folk. Stu here.
Thanks to a little bird who gave me the word I'm now officially up to speed on the whole situation. The Cubans, the whole acid rain deal, and the clandestine adventures of your friend and mine, Senior Swashbuckle. Some pretty wild shit if I do say so myself, and in case anyone's taking notes: I do. Now that I've got it all under control I feel comfortable sending you this. Yes! A human pancreas! Gross! No, but seriously, that was a joke, and if I really scared you then I think it's time to admit that you have absolutely no idea what a human pancreas really looks like. I think they have informational pamphlets down at the DMV that can help you with that. In actual actuality, I have sent you this column, at least in some loosey-goosey futuristic sense of the word "sent," you beamed it down or whatever from the intergalactic informational alcove where I had seen to it being stored. You know the score.
This is it, folks, the Stu Umbrage Show. What you see is what you get, and that includes more topless birds than the Tropicana and Charlie Sheen's house combined. So if you don't like it you can blame me, and also kiss my black ass while you're at it. On a side note, I was trying to get Diana Ross to be my column sidekick here, but it didn't work out because she had no idea who I was and also I use phrases like "kiss my black ass" far too often.
Sure, the idea of a sidekick for a humor column is a fairly...
º Last Column: Riboflavin Sounds Like a Brand of Edible Condoms º more columns
Hey commune folk. Stu here.
Thanks to a little bird who gave me the word I'm now officially up to speed on the whole situation. The Cubans, the whole acid rain deal, and the clandestine adventures of your friend and mine, Senior Swashbuckle. Some pretty wild shit if I do say so myself, and in case anyone's taking notes: I do. Now that I've got it all under control I feel comfortable sending you this. Yes! A human pancreas! Gross! No, but seriously, that was a joke, and if I really scared you then I think it's time to admit that you have absolutely no idea what a human pancreas really looks like. I think they have informational pamphlets down at the DMV that can help you with that. In actual actuality, I have sent you this column, at least in some loosey-goosey futuristic sense of the word "sent," you beamed it down or whatever from the intergalactic informational alcove where I had seen to it being stored. You know the score.
This is it, folks, the Stu Umbrage Show. What you see is what you get, and that includes more topless birds than the Tropicana and Charlie Sheen's house combined. So if you don't like it you can blame me, and also kiss my black ass while you're at it. On a side note, I was trying to get Diana Ross to be my column sidekick here, but it didn't work out because she had no idea who I was and also I use phrases like "kiss my black ass" far too often.
Sure, the idea of a sidekick for a humor column is a fairly revolutionary one, but I think it's solid. After all, I don't hear any of you laughing. Which may be some kind of technical issue we haven't resolved yet, but in the meantime I could use somebody to sit over here and laugh like I just pulled the tonsils out of the lead guy from Weezer when I type the punchlines. Carson made it work on the Tonight Show, which revealed the show's roots: him and McMahon sitting in Johnny's basement, smashed on Absolut and babbling incoherently about current events and Ed's supernaturally large goiter. But damnit, it worked. They didn't make an afterschool special about it, but it worked.
This has been a crazy year already, and I'm not even talking about those cannibals they found living in the walls at the White House. Those guys got a bad rap, you know what I'm talking about? It reminded me of the last few Public Enemy albums.
Anybody else out there realize that salsa is a food as well as a dance style? I've never been so embarrassed in my life; I always thought you had to be a bum to get kicked out of a Mexican restaurant. This country's going to hell and nobody's stopping for bathroom breaks, be advised.
I've often wondered what our medical profession would be like if cancer gave you really big breasts instead of just rotting out your organs and whatnot. Dollars to dodos says they'd be force-feeding skinny blonde broads asbestos in day spas all over L.A., and the doctors would all turn their attentions to curing whatever the hell is wrong with Pauly Shore. Mark my words, on the off chance something truly freaky happens and that situation actually comes up. º Last Column: Riboflavin Sounds Like a Brand of Edible Condomsº more columns
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Milestones1996: Red Bagel fires entire commune staff during "Crazy Bagel's Everything Must Go Liquidation Madness" phase of the commune's August Sale-abration. Analysts praise Bagel for ridding his staff of junkies and losers, who he promptly replaces with the current batch of junkies and losers.Now HiringBloodhound. Needed to track down former commune staffer Smilin' Jack Costello, who disappeared in May, still owing $8 to the office petty cash fund. Smart dog needed who is not fooled by turbans or overly distracted by running foxes. Generous wages to be paid in beef kidneys. Top Embarrassing Baby Names| 1. | Skyler Ridge | | 2. | Dakotah Ember-Trace | | 3. | Cheyenne Smokewindow Teardrop | | 4. | Dick Cheney | | 5. | Rat Face | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Flynnie Roth 2/3/2003 The Sunflower SeedlingsThe grass was scrapey as it struggled to escape the ground and clawed at the legs of all who ran through it in tiny shorts. In tiny shorts on this occasion were the two little girls. Biffy was frail and waif-like, a gentle sunflower stretching to grow in a dark wasteland; a fragile girl of 12, timid of things she didn't know, yet possessing a phantom experience that somehow guided her, gave her an advantage over all the other girls—somehow she knew things about the world, though her moon-like blue eyes and thin, cupid-bow smile never betrayed that truth. Peg was taller.
They ran across the grass field, jumping and bounding like little girls, which they could pull off convincingly. But in a few years, that youth would be gone; Biffy was faintly aware of this, and made the...
The grass was scrapey as it struggled to escape the ground and clawed at the legs of all who ran through it in tiny shorts. In tiny shorts on this occasion were the two little girls. Biffy was frail and waif-like, a gentle sunflower stretching to grow in a dark wasteland; a fragile girl of 12, timid of things she didn't know, yet possessing a phantom experience that somehow guided her, gave her an advantage over all the other girls—somehow she knew things about the world, though her moon-like blue eyes and thin, cupid-bow smile never betrayed that truth. Peg was taller.
They ran across the grass field, jumping and bounding like little girls, which they could pull off convincingly. But in a few years, that youth would be gone; Biffy was faintly aware of this, and made the most of her jumping and bounding years. She jumped and bounded with fervor, falling into the grass and laughing artificially.
"You fell!" shouted Peg, giggling girlishly and leaping forward to land on her face. Blood poured from her nose.
"You broke your nose!" squealed Biffy. Peg nodded solemnly, agreeing. "We should take you to a hospital. Or your mother."
"Forget it! I hate hospitals!"
"What about your mother?"
Peg shrugged. "I'm ambivalent. Still, let's play! We only have a very little while left—until the sun sets, I mean, literally. Do you like boys?"
Biffy thought about it. It was true, she supposed, she did like boys. Especially Tom Wopat from The Dukes of Hazzard. She imagined having sex with him in the back of the Duke boys' car, or maybe the jail set. She was young and didn't really know what sex was, but had a hidden suspicion about it. Years later someone would tell her how it actually happened and she would throw up.
"Yes, I like boys."
"Do you have a crush on anyone?" asked Peg, bright-eyed and childlike hopeful.
"I like one boy. He shoots arrows with dynamite tied on them."
"Do you like anyone at our school?"
This was a brand new, challenging question. Biffy considered it. There was one boy, Eric, who was always a little dirty and greasy, tall and freckled, but with a smile on his face. His clothes were always shabby. She knew if she told Peg who she liked she would think she was crazy.
"No. I don't like boys at the school."
"Me neither! I hate them!" yelled Peg, then pulled out a copy of Lillian Hellman's The Children's Hour to read from.
Peg had become inconsequential. Biffy laid back in the grass, her hands tucked up under her head, and stared at the sun. It hurt her eyes and she decided to stare at the clouds. She thought about Eric, and how he would wave at her when she saw him at school. He would talk loudly about how dirty the school was. Sometimes she would go into the bathroom and he was in there, cleaning the toilets, and yelled at everyone to leave. One time a boy threw up and he came to clean it up, and he was very angry. It was then Biffy realized he was a janitor and not a sixth-grader, but she still liked him.
Was there any rule that said girl couldn't be in love with a janitor? Yes, probably, at least rules about janitors being in love with the girls. But a girl is a tiny and breakable thing, like a sunflower seedling, growing from the ground only to become bent and twisted by the sun.   |