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Legislators Mull National "Do Not Rape" List August 18, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Junior Bacon Defendant Kobe Bryant appears in court with his lawyer, who just finished a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats
Inspired by the sensationalized rape charges brought against NBA superstar Kobe Bryant by an unnamed Colorado woman, the registry would provide a way for U.S. women to proactively opt-out of unwanted sexual encounters with any of the growing legion of clueless sexual predators populating America’s bars and dark alleys.
The proposed list would mirror the recently created “Do Not Call” registry and the impending “Do Not Spam” list, and would mandate that all men intending to have rough sex with strange...
.S. lawmakers, called on to help clear the murky waters of consent in sexual situations between adults, responded today with a plan to create the national “Do Not Rape” registry, a centralized list of American women who are officially not asking for it. Inspired by the sensationalized rape charges brought against NBA superstar Kobe Bryant by an unnamed Colorado woman, the registry would provide a way for U.S. women to proactively opt-out of unwanted sexual encounters with any of the growing legion of clueless sexual predators populating America’s bars and dark alleys. The proposed list would mirror the recently created “Do Not Call” registry and the impending “Do Not Spam” list, and would mandate that all men intending to have rough sex with strangers would be required to check the list of names every three months or risk up to a $1,500 fine, jail time, or neither. “If a woman says no, but only fights you off half-heartedly, that’s the most encouragement many of these guys will ever receive,” explained defense attorney Richard Spackle. “It can be very confusing.” “Like what if she’s saying ‘No, no, no!’ but the guy’s Hawaiian or something and his name is Nono? That could happen. You gonna send Nono to jail just because he thought she was cheering him on? That’s discrimination, plain and simple.” Legal experts and sports fans applaud the proposal, hailing the list as a step forward into an enlightened new age when the public will no longer have to guess which of the two people involved in a rape trial is the total piece of shit. “This legislation could bring relief to many who desperately need it,” commented legal expert and student taxidermist Rutherford Wank. “Women who speak up with allegations of rape will be spared the muckraking and character assassination all too common in the modern rape trial. And even more importantly, American males will be free to fuck crazy bitches again.” Other proposed lists reportedly being discussed in Washington include a national “Do Not Kick My Dog” registry, a “Do Not Masturbate to My Image” registry, and the controversial “Do Not Exploit My Unskilled Labor” registry, which has already drawn harsh criticism from several U.S. corporations. As of press time, no exploitive, dog-kicking masturbators could be reached for comment. the commune news has always been a firm believer in the concept that “No” means “No.” Unless you’re in Russia, where we’ve heard “No” means “Pancake.” Ramon Nootles is loath to discuss his own rape trial, other than to mutter “she was black as night and the size of an panda bear” in a quivering, terrified voice from time to time.
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Controversial Rockwell Painting Found in Collection of War Criminal Spielberg Giuliani Woos Conservative Base By Killing Arab Bush Admonishes Tornados Cut and Run Policy |
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 July 22, 2002
Columnisting is for SuckersI'm sure when you ask little kids what they want to be when they grow up, a lot of them say "dildo model." And who could blame them? But the sad truth is that, thanks to unrealistic expectations built up by the movies and popular songs, there are also plenty who would answer "Internet columnist" instead. Well kids, I'm here to tell you that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Internet columnisting, that is, I'm sure being a dildo model is pretty awesome.
The dirty little secret of the industry, the thing they don't tell you until it's too late and you've already picked your career, is that Internet columnisting involves a lot of writing. And not just all at once at the beginning, I'm talking about every week, whether you feel like it or not. Sometimes twice a week if Red Bagel has his computer confiscated by the Feds, which happens just as often as you'd expect. And you know, the job's not all just about hitting home runs and dating supermodels, either, like the Internet columnists on TV. You have to get your hands dirty. One time a scary-assed rat tried to make off with the disk I'd saved that week's column on and I had to club the damn thing with a telephone receiver until it gave up the goods. And if you think that's bad, try explaining to Ramon Nootles why you used his phone to kill a rat. As if I want rat shrapnel all over my own phone.
So, if Internet columnisting is a fool's utopia, what should kids today aspire to be? I've given it some...
º Last Column: Thanks For the Memories, and the Seafood Medley
º more columns
I'm sure when you ask little kids what they want to be when they grow up, a lot of them say "dildo model." And who could blame them? But the sad truth is that, thanks to unrealistic expectations built up by the movies and popular songs, there are also plenty who would answer "Internet columnist" instead. Well kids, I'm here to tell you that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Internet columnisting, that is, I'm sure being a dildo model is pretty awesome.
The dirty little secret of the industry, the thing they don't tell you until it's too late and you've already picked your career, is that Internet columnisting involves a lot of writing. And not just all at once at the beginning, I'm talking about every week, whether you feel like it or not. Sometimes twice a week if Red Bagel has his computer confiscated by the Feds, which happens just as often as you'd expect. And you know, the job's not all just about hitting home runs and dating supermodels, either, like the Internet columnists on TV. You have to get your hands dirty. One time a scary-assed rat tried to make off with the disk I'd saved that week's column on and I had to club the damn thing with a telephone receiver until it gave up the goods. And if you think that's bad, try explaining to Ramon Nootles why you used his phone to kill a rat. As if I want rat shrapnel all over my own phone.
So, if Internet columnisting is a fool's utopia, what should kids today aspire to be? I've given it some serious thought over the years I've spent working at the commune, while looking through the want ads and building a potato gun in my spare time. And I have to say that if you think you can pull it off, go for being the Pope.
What in the hell did the Pope ever do to nail down a gig so sweet? I mean, there are a lot of famous guys out there with pretty cushy careers, from Ed McMahon to the Gerber baby and whatnot. But even the president has to walk around and wave and sign shit every once in a while. What does the Pope do? Wear a hat? Omar Bricks is all about getting paid to wear a fucked-up hat, people. Give me a break.
Not that Pope is the only cushy job out there. I have to imagine being a professional downhill skier would be pretty hard to beat; after all, gravity is doing all the work for you. Nice job if you can get it. And where was I when the TV bozos walked up to Robin Leach on the street and asked him if he wanted to host Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous? Exactly what kind of qualifications do you need to walk around and point at shit, like "Hey, nice drapes!" or "Holy shit, you've got six cars!"?
And you just know he's crashing at all of these fancy pads when the owners are out of town. Sometimes when they have shots panning across the house to show all of the swanky shit these rich folks have lying around, you can see Robin in the background, looking for a spare key under the doormat. Not that I blame him, if I was there I'd pick one of those big-assed houses and just move from room to room every day. It's not like those people can keep track of what's going on in each of their eight thousand rooms all the time. And if they were that worried about it, they'd put keycard scanners or something on the doors like hotels did after they got wise to my scam.
So, to sum up, if you're staring down the barrel of a chance to be the Pope, I say shit yeah, go for it. But if you're like me and the church has filed some bullshit restraining order against you, you could do worse than being a TV host or operating the projector at a porno house or something along those lines. There are a lot of options out there. And by the way, if some talk-show guy like Leno or Chevy Chase or whoever comes up to you on the street and hits you up like "Hey man, I could use a sidekick to laugh at my jokes on TV, what are you doing tonight?" I say jump on that gravy train and hang on for dear life. I'll give you great odds that you never regret that career move when you're raking in the dough for sitting on your ass, chuckling and pulling the occasional finger. Only an idiot would turn that down, and God knows Omar Bricks won't make that same mistake twice.
Bricks out. º Last Column: Thanks For the Memories, and the Seafood Medleyº more columns
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|  March 17, 2003
Can't Trust the RussiansIt's about time someone came out and said it, good people, and I will be the first, if you ignore the looming headline: We've been too lenient on those Russians!
What inspires this angry anti-red rhetoric, you ask? Nothing, none of your business. It certainly wasn't related to my decision to remain just friends with Russian bride Molga. It's just time someone reminded the rest of the world Russia hasn't changed their ways at all since the fall of the Soviet Union.
In the 1950s Stalin convinced the world everyone in Russia was living a perfectly happy, Wizard of Oz-like life. At first I was skeptical; but after that minute, I decided it looked good enough to try. That was my first attempt to visit Russia, and though I shouted unsavory thing about the Department of Foreign Affairs at the time, I now realize they acted in my best interest. It's plain from all that footage that turned up after Stalin's death that everything is dreary and ugly over there—they don't even have color. All this talk of the red menace I didn't quite expect so much gray.
I'm not afraid to step on politically correct toes, even mash them until the nails flake off and become bloody and swollen and bruised. I'll come right out and say it: The Russians are weird. It should be obvious, people, they kept that nasty shellacked body of Lenin in the Moscow equivalent of the town strip mall for years. You'd think somebody would wonder what that curious smell is...
º Last Column: I've Met the Alleged Woman of My Dreams
º more columns
It's about time someone came out and said it, good people, and I will be the first, if you ignore the looming headline: We've been too lenient on those Russians!
What inspires this angry anti-red rhetoric, you ask? Nothing, none of your business. It certainly wasn't related to my decision to remain just friends with Russian bride Molga. It's just time someone reminded the rest of the world Russia hasn't changed their ways at all since the fall of the Soviet Union.
In the 1950s Stalin convinced the world everyone in Russia was living a perfectly happy, Wizard of Oz-like life. At first I was skeptical; but after that minute, I decided it looked good enough to try. That was my first attempt to visit Russia, and though I shouted unsavory thing about the Department of Foreign Affairs at the time, I now realize they acted in my best interest. It's plain from all that footage that turned up after Stalin's death that everything is dreary and ugly over there—they don't even have color. All this talk of the red menace I didn't quite expect so much gray.
I'm not afraid to step on politically correct toes, even mash them until the nails flake off and become bloody and swollen and bruised. I'll come right out and say it: The Russians are weird. It should be obvious, people, they kept that nasty shellacked body of Lenin in the Moscow equivalent of the town strip mall for years. You'd think somebody would wonder what that curious smell is and bring up the suggestion of burying him, but no, not the Russians. And don't get me started on the way their awful cock rock bands completely ape everything off our awful cock rock bands. That bugs me to no end.
Then in the 1960s Kruschev goes on an on about how the Soviet Union will bury us. Fat chance, you can't even bury one crusty Russian cadaver, I don't see you digging 200+ million holes in the cold hard Siberian ground. They brag about sending the first man into space, but everybody knows they never got him back so it doesn't count. Then by the time the 1980s roll around they claim to have enough nuclear weapons to compete with us in a nuclear war, and now it's common knowledge they only had one jeri-rigged nuke put together with duct tape and Play-Doh. Yeah, that will help—we threw all that Star Wars money away on nothing.
If there's one thing that should be clear about the Russians by now, they can't tell the truth. They get a kick out of lying like I get a kick out of netted briefs—it's something they'll never admit to, but it thrills them like nothing else. Whether it's backtracking on a treaty with Hitler which he had good intentions of keeping or if it's an ex-KGB Russian mafia tough disguising himself as a woman on the internet to get a free plane ride over to the states courtesy of a short, handsome-challenged, sex-starved columnist. Hypothetically. What I'm saying is, don't trust 'em. Not now, not ever.
Incidentally, since I apparently have a few lines to spare to this column, I would like to make an announcement on behalf of Boguslaw Sadowski, the friendly cousin to fellow commune columnist Boris Utzov. He is seeking to start up a business involving the numbers and invites you to invest start-up capital, with extremely good odds you will receive a big, big return.
Boguslaw is quite a charming new foreign friend. In exchange for my recommendation to help him with his new business, he will help me find Camembert, who has recently turned up missing from our apartment. Boguslaw is nearly 100% sure Camembert will be in the same condition as when he disappeared. º Last Column: I've Met the Alleged Woman of My Dreamsº more columns
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Quote of the Day“What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is. Jesus, I'm wasted.”
-Dan QuayleFortune 500 CookieDon't stop thinking about tomorrow—we hear if you're late to your own castration they charge double. Anyone can be a hero to a small child, just buy a monster truck and never take your sunglasses off. Try eating more greens: we find it hilarious and it pisses off those asshole golfers. This week's lucky medical procedures not covered by Medicaid: assectomy, therapeutic genital massage, gene therapy for "itchy taint," installation of a second "failsafe" spare heart—baboon or otherwise, and goat removal.
Try again later.Top New Year's Resolutions| 1. | Quit being such an asshole | | 2. | Exercise every day. Every Arbor Day. | | 3. | Kill them all | | 4. | Lose 20 pounds to limey con artist | | 5. | Quit smoking halibut | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Stefan Myer-Wiener 1/27/2012 TweenightIt had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naïve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his...
It had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naïve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his face. I kept trying to tell him about the things that were bothering me, like the tag on inside of my shirt that keeps scratching that soft skin around my neck. Same old dad. He just didn't show any interest in anything I said.
When school started, it was even worse. All of the girls didn't want anything to do with me. I guess they all have money, all of them carry designer Trapper Keepers and wear the newest clogs. Mine are from last year. Mom makes a lot of money but she makes me wear second-hand clothes and get my hair done at the Dollar Salon because she says girls without money are much easier to relate to. Dad told me I can't go to the Dollar Salon anymore, unless my rich mother wants to pay for it, I'll have to cut my own hair in the car mirror.
So I was all alone, without a friend in the world, a virtual outcast in a brand new high school. I tried to tell mom I didn't like it here in Sporks, that I wanted to come home, and she just kept asking why school was in session during the summer. I can't talk to her. I'm all alone.
Or I was alone—until I met the new boy, Tedwin.
From the first time we saw each other in the cafeteria I was drawn to him. None of the other kids want anything to do with him. It's like he's an outcast, just like me. Everyone is turned off by the fact that he's so quiet, and that he looks like a male supermodel. Between that strange pale color and the fact all the girls and a lot of the guys want to have sex with him, he's got to be the most enigmatic outsider in all of this school, and this school is about 95% outsiders, you know. Oh, I forgot about Bleedin' Tits Pete. That guys like a super-outsider, but no one is drawn to him.
My dad forgot to pick me up at school one afternoon, sometimes I slip his mind when he finished having sex with my art teacher. So I was stuck walking home. I was heading down Puberty Road and most of the cars were passing me, but to my surprise, Tedwin pulled up on a sleek motorcycle, the kind all the cool mysterious outsiders drive.
"You're Bona… aren't you?" he said enigmatically. I nodded shyly, because I really got nothing else in my arsenal. He looked into the sky, in the distance, where they keep it, and noticed the sun was going down. It seemed to kind of worry him. "Are you… going home?"
I told him about my dad's forgetting to pick me up, and how my fish sometimes eats the whole leaf of lettuce but yesterday she didn't, and he gave me a smile. He asked where I lived, and I told him, and then I told him most people like Miracle Whip, but I think mayonnaise is actually better. He agreed—I've never had someone who listened to me before. And he was oddly beautiful, for a male supermodel outsider.
"I'll give you a ride, Bona." I got on the back of his motorcycle, hugging extra close to him for sexiness. It felt good to have another heart beating so close to mine. Other hearts feel best when they're inside finely carved pecs.
When we got to my house, we stayed up for hours, sitting on the porch. His family seemed just as screwed up as mind, all they ever did was nitpick and bite on each other. Both of his parents were dead, he told me, but he said they still tried to make time to see him now and then. I told him about my talent for counting words in sentences that are spoken to me (we used six-hundred and forty-two!) and my entire set of Suddenly Susan on DVD. He eventually looked outside and saw it was night, then got up to leave in a hurry. I noticed he was kind of… glowing.
"Bona… you're the most fascinating person I've ever met," he said, and I noticed he was nibbling at something in his hand. "I want to see you again… but I can't."
"You can't leave me without telling me why, Tedwin," I told him. "Even though we've only known each other for two hours, I've fallen in love with you. I think you love me, too. Tedwin— listen to me! Stop eating while I'm talking to you…!"
I smacked his hand and his food fell to the floor. It looked like… but I wasn't completely sure… brains?
"Tedwin," I said with a little gasp. "Are you… a zombie?"   |
