efugees from the New Orleans disaster were thrilled this week by the news that Mayor Ray Nagin plans to re-open large parts of the city as early as today, allowing the many refugees spread across the American South like spilled milk to finally return home. The decision to return, however, is not so easy for the small number of lucky refugees who were relocated to the French Quarter section of the Disneyland theme park in Anaheim, California during the first days of flooding.

“This is great, it’s like being back home, except Disneyer!� gushed socialite Anita Bomes, thrilled with her new New Orleans, a quaint miniature version of the city located near a fake lake that, to date, has never flooded.

Others have not been so happy with their new home, claiming the $20 in Goofy Bucks they were given for food and lodging upon arrival does not go far in Disneyland’s helium-inflated economy, where food prices and housing expenses can bear little resemblance to the outside world.

“How are we supposed to live here?� questioned refugee Alanis DuPree. “A storage locker here costs more than my apartment back home did. And I can only fit my head in that locker. That makes for some mighty uncomfortable sleepin’.�

Others have found creative solutions to the problem, like Ethan Fromme, who now lives inside the popular Pirates of the Caribbean ride.

“Aside from the whole town being on fake fire all the time, this isn’t half bad,� explained Ethan. “Sure, there’s still lots of water everywhere like back home and the whole place smells like the pool down at the Y, but on the upside none of the lifeless bodies here carry cholera.�

Ethan also enjoys the attention of having scores of children in boats gawking at his lifelike appearance as he sits and drinks beer in front of his house façade.

In a televised national address Thursday night, President Bush promised additional aid for New Orleans refugees who have been frightened by the Haunted Mansion ride and who could desperately use a frozen banana covered in chocolate. Bush also surprised many by taking full responsibility for the federal government’s failure to properly address the New Orleans situation in the early days of the disaster. Bush’s remarks were in stark contrast to his reaction when first hearing about the disaster weeks before, when the startled president blurted out “Fuck this!� and ducked into a secret tunnel hidden in the Oval Office sideboards.

After the president’s speech, everyone even vaguely related to the tragedy rushed to take full responsibility as well, with Louisiana Gov. Kathleen Blanco taking full responsibility Thursday night, former FEMA head Michael Brown taking full responsibility after being ridden out of town on a rail Friday, and New Orleans homeless man Roger Dunkin taking full responsibility for the disaster on Saturday afternoon.

Louisiana residents are waiting with baited breath to hear if reclusive author J.D. Salinger will come out of hiding to take full responsibility some time in the next week.

Meanwhile, in Anaheim, refugees are wary of rumors that they may be relocated yet again to Frontierland if the New Orleans Square area’s shortage of caramel corn is not soon remedied.

“I’d rather die than live in Frontierland,� explained Ninth Ward refugee Darnell Hughes, wearing a humorous Donald Duck baseball cap. “If they move us over there I’m just gonna walk back. I’m serious, I don’t care how far it is,� boasted Hughes of the two-block walk separating Frontierland from Disneyland’s New Orleans Square.

Although many N.O. refugees arrived at Disneyland with little more than the shirts on their backs, most have since loaded up on Disney souvenirs dwarfing their previous collections of personal effects.

“We don’t have any way to carry all this stuff,� complained Ted Mooney, gesturing toward the generous heap of Disneyland merchandise he and his wife have had to rent two baby strollers to carry. “Now my wife wants one of those Goofy hats with the long ears. How are we going to carry that? Tell me, President Bush, where are we supposed to fit that?�

Others have grown disenchanted with New Orleans Square since local retailer La Boutique de Noel ran out of Disney-themed Christmas ornaments earlier in the week.

“I’m not going back,� explained a proud Chandra Miller of Bywater. “We’ve made a new life for ourselves here in Toontown. Why would we want to go back? Sure, maybe to visit, and ride Pirates. But live there? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice… You know how the rest of that goes.�

American Idol Finale Results: America Loses

Memorial Day Celebrated With More Memorials in Iraq

Congress Lobbied for More Material to Complete Brando Memorial

Impotent Landslide in China Kills Only Micro-Fraction of Glorious Population

"No one within shouting distance of the Hartwig home will ever forget the year dad got in trouble with the Olympic Committee for claiming that he invented tennis. It turned out that the game had been around for hundreds of years and bore only a passing resemblance to the game dad had invented at home with a couple of picture frames and a tomato. We went through the whole thing all over again a few years later with table tennis, but the Chinese had dad beat on that one, too. He tried to argue that they'd stolen the tomato part from him, but in the end dad was never able to prove that a tomato had ever been used in a regulation tournament.

The whole tennis debacle soured dad on inventing sports for several years, until Uncle Otto sold him the rights to his idea for a no-holds-barred fighting tournament. Dad worked out the kinks using my brother Goose and I as human guinea pigs, as per our usual role in the family. This lasted until the school counselor suggested to my dad that the ongoing 'Fight for Your Supper' tournament might be affecting Goose's scholastic performance. Few believed that Goose's grades could have possibly sunk below their customary level, so it was widely assumed that Goose had been caught stealing food from the cafeteria. This made sense, since he had gone 0 –for-17 so far in the tournament, even losing to Stephanie on several occasions.

Some in the neighborhood blamed me, and suggested that I could have let him win every once in a while. But until Goose figured out how to cut eyeholes into his mask, there wasn't much I could do to keep him from coldcocking himself on the banister and missing dinner every night.

Eventually dad sold the idea to another entrepreneur who had more resilient kids, and he reluctantly moved on to other pursuits. It was probably for the best, though, since Mom was getting tired of sanding teeth marks out of the banister every year."

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Dear commune:

Can you keep a secret? I’m secretly in love with my boss. Nobody knows except me, my cat, and the commune. What should I do?

Marcy Gaybridge
Hook, Vermont

Dear Marcy:

Though our advice may seem unconventional and dangerous to some, we highly recommend that you invent and build a time machine to go back in time to before you sent us your letter, and smack the pen out of your own stupid fingers. All things considered, this would probably be your best strategy, since we’ve already told everyone in a three-block radius the news, and have sent a singing strip-o-gram to your boss in your name, Marcy. Sorry toots, but whoever told you the commune could keep a secret was yanking your non-existent crank, honey.

the commune

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Yo commune:

What do I gotta keep telling you guys about printing stories making me look stupid? You wanta pig-knuckle sandwich or something, eh you poofy little shits?

Sincerely,
Turd McDowell
East Side, Chicago

Dear Turd:

Though this is not the first "Dear Turd" letter we’ve written today, we assure you that it is our favorite. We do sincerely apologize if the commune’s brand of insouciant wit and razor-sharp social commentary has left you feeling at a loss for properly-firing brain synapses, Turd, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Unless of course you’re the Turd McDowell we’ve been writing about in our delightful new weekly feature, "Turd McDowell is a Stupid Pig Fuck." In that unlikely for-instance, we understand your rage and encourage you to air your grievances at the commune’s home offices at 1 East Northern Street, Beirut, Lebanon. Fight the power, brother.

the commune

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Dear commune:

Omar Bricks is so funny. Soooo funny funny funny. When I read his column I can’t stop laughing and I get all dizzy and nauseous. Sometimes I can’t even stand up. And I can’t sleep at night, from all the laughing. I haven’t slept in seven weeks and all the time I hear salsa music in my head. I’m starting to think that brutally killing another human being with my bare hands is the only thing unfunny enough to get me to stop laughing so I can go back to a normal life. And get the birds to stop following me. Hey, on an unrelated note, any of you guys want to meet up for lunch tomorrow? It’ll be fun, I know a good place down by the pier. You bring that funny, funny Omar Bricks and I’ll bring the salsa music.

See you then,
Keith Bitner
Chattanooga, Tennessee

Dear Keith:

While flying to Tennessee for lunch with a psychopath does sound like a fun way to spend the day and about $1,000 tomorrow, to our detriment we’ve got the day, psychopath, and $1,000 locked up in a lunch tomorrow with Ivana Folger-Balzac and a gigantic iron-cast gun safe dangling from the roof by fishing wire. Good luck with your mental breakdown and keep reading the commune!

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for the United States’ failure at the 1972 Olympic games. Just thought we’d lay that on the table.

º Last Column: Volume 61
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