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 October 24, 2005 |
t’s almost the time of year to start pretending you’re Christmas shopping while you look for swanky new shit for yourself, and the commune is there for you with our first-ever annual Fall Gadget Guide. Join commune Tech Correspondent Mitch Kroeger as he guides you through the bewildering wilderness of the new and the shiny.
Casio Exslim EX-Z750
Now this is a nice little camera. The only problem is that the buttons are so small sometimes they get pressed when the camera’s in your pocket. This is a problem because I don’t wear any unde... 
t’s almost the time of year to start pretending you’re Christmas shopping while you look for swanky new shit for yourself, and the commune is there for you with our first-ever annual Fall Gadget Guide. Join commune Tech Correspondent Mitch Kroeger as he guides you through the bewildering wilderness of the new and the shiny.
Casio Exslim EX-Z750
Now this is a nice little camera. The only problem is that the buttons are so small sometimes they get pressed when the camera’s in your pocket. This is a problem because I don’t wear any underwear, so I end up with a lot of blurry shots of my dick. Still don’t see the problem? I didn’t either, but it made my mother in law throw up potato salad when she borrowed my camera. Advantage: Casio.
iPod Nano
This motherfucker is so skinny you can pick your teeth with it. Don’t, though: waterproof my ass! Also, don’t try tongue-kissing a girl when your tongue is all numb from electrical shock. There are only a few really kinky girls who don’t get all upset when you accidentally slip your tongue up their nose.
Roomba Discovery Vacuum Thing
This thing is absolutely the most expensive, funnest, and most high tech way possible to fuck with your dog. It’s awesome. You set this thing loose in your house and just crack open a beer and watch your dog go apeshit alternately trying to attack and flee from this bizarre little Star Wars vacuum droid. Of course, it’s all fun and games until your dog pisses on the thing in frustration, then it’s really fun games watching the finale as a tiny on-electrical-fire robot chases your dog around the house.
Sony VAIO VGN-TX670P
Now this is what I call a laptop. I don’t know if that’s technically correct or what, if it’s a notepad or tablet or UberPDA, Virtual Typewriter or whatever they’re calling this shit now. But I like this thing, whatever it is. It looks all space-age and shit and it flops open and shut so you can crack walnuts. Also, if you leave it on for a long time playing porn, it gets hot enough to make waffles. Fuck you, stewardess, you can keep your sad-ass little bag of nuts. I’m havin’ QWERTY waffles!
Motorola ROKR
This revolutionary new phone plays music, and not just when your phone’s ringing. About time, I say, I kept running up the bill on my old cell phone calling myself so I could hear “Tainted Love.” Motorola’s latest can play 100 songs, which is about 95 too many if you’ve got bad taste in music. But I guess technology can’t fix everything. I liked the ROKR plenty, except it sucks on the bus when you want to kick out the jams for everybody to enjoy, since it doesn’t play very loud at all. You’ve got to keep telling everybody to shut up and some people aren’t that big a fans of music or shutting up. Also, you’ve got to have a PHD to figure out how to get songs into the thing, it only comes with “Camptown Races” and I’m totally sick of that song now.
Motorola RAZR
I’ve always wanted to shave my balls while talking to my mom long distance, so Motorola’s RAZR cell phone seemed like a natural to me. I was actually pretty surprised that Motorola was on my wavelength there. Picture my disappointment though when the phone turned out to be pretty dull, causing some serious razor burn around the sack area even when used with shaving gel. Things improved markedly after I got it sharpened at the knife store at the mall, though. But you’ve got to remember not to leave the ringer on vibrate, or you’ll cut your fucking nose off if somebody calls while you’re shaving. Word to the wise.
Sharper Image Electric Dogshit Scraper
The best part of being an electronics reviewer has to be not having to scrape your own dogshit. Thanks a lot, Sharper Image. This thing will blast your shoe (or hat, really pretty much anything that’s got dogshit on it) with special ions that don’t do anything, and then de-poo the thing with a vibrating scrubber brush that’ll make your nads hard. The chicks dig it.
Querbo Dancing Robot from Sony
Gay, you have a new name, and it is Querbo. At first I thought this thing was kind of cool, like a midget robot henchman. I even named it Steve, surely an upgrade from Querbo. But when I brought it to the bar to show off, well let’s just say the night ended with yours truly being nearly kicked to death between the pinball machines. And Querbo. I’d rather not get into what became of that happy little dancing machine. Shudder.
Be sure to join us again next year when we’ll take a look at the iPod Video, the Petco Remote Control Dog Neuterer and the Nokia Earring Phone. Until then, stay tight. Mitch Kroeger is the commune’s resident resident, sleeping on the front stoop of the building as an urban legend hangover cure.
 |  October 10, 2005 |
Washington D.C. Junior Bacon Presidentish Bush delivers what many consider to be his most heartfelt speech to date
"Every rose has its thorn," Bush explained, addressing questions about the higher-than-expected casualty rate for U.S. soldiers stationed in Iraq. "Just like every night has its dawn. Just like every cowboy… uhm. Hmm. Yep," Bush nodded to himself in closure on that thought.
"How do we explain something that took us by surprise?" Bush continued after a thoughtful pause, addressing his administration's planning for the post-war rebuilding of Iraq. "Prom...
resident Bush's Thursday morning speech to the National Endowment for Democracy was greeted by supporters and detractors alike as an important milestone, outlining more clearly both the president's thought processes and his positions on topics ranging from global terrorism to the increasingly chaotic situation in Iraq. "Every rose has its thorn," Bush explained, addressing questions about the higher-than-expected casualty rate for U.S. soldiers stationed in Iraq. "Just like every night has its dawn. Just like every cowboy… uhm. Hmm. Yep," Bush nodded to himself in closure on that thought. "How do we explain something that took us by surprise?" Bush continued after a thoughtful pause, addressing his administration's planning for the post-war rebuilding of Iraq. "Promises in vain, what is real but in disguise. What happens now? Do we break another rule? Let the others play the fool? I don't know how to stop feeling this way…" "Hold on to the nights," Bush continued, finding his voice in the words of popular poet Richard Marx before trailing off in dramatic fashion. "Hold on to the memories. Wish that I could give you more, that I could be your…" Bush's comments were met by a stunned silence from the audience, except for one asshole who was waving a lighter. Coming under increasing pressure in recent months to justify the loss of life in Iraq, Bush also indulged the audience with his deepest philosophical thoughts on the subject of war and sacrifice. "We are strong, no one can tell us we're wrong," explained Bush. "Lo... Iraq is a battlefield." "Shooting at the walls of heartache, bang, bang. I am the warrior," Bush cocked his fingers in a pistol gesture to drive his point home. "And heart to heart we'll win, if we survive," Bush assured onlisteners, possibly referring to the administration's campaign to win hearts and minds in the Middle East. "Just a little more time is all we're asking for," Bush continued, amid questions of how long U.S. troops will remain in Iraq. "Cause just a little more time could open closing doors. Just a little uncertainty can bring you down. So if you're lost and on your own, you can never surrender. And if your path won't lead you home, you can never surrender." "Never surrender!" repeated an excited Bush, striking something of a pose. Addressing the recent flooding disasters in Louisiana, Bush dug deep again and offered words of consolation to the survivors, returning this week to their destroyed homes and ruined shit. "Don't be afraid to lose what was never meant to be," consoled a paternal Bush. "After the rain washes away the tears, and all the pain, only after the rain can you live again. I know the emptiness you feel inside, you're thinking if you break away, you'll never survive. I'm waiting as my heart beats just for you. Come on and take my hand and I'll pull you through. But things will never change until you want them to." "It cuts like a knife," Bush said in closing, when some wiseacre in the back row yelled a question about global terrorism. "Ooh, but it feels so right." Just when you thought the chance had passed, the commune news went and saved the best for last: this. Lil Duncan is the commune's Washington correspondent, and claims she will retain that title indefinitely, regardless of whether or not Denzel ever writes back.
|  Court Battle Continues as Worms Claim Ownership of Anna Nicole's Body  Controversial Rockwell Painting Found in Collection of War Criminal Spielberg  Bush Admonishes Tornado's Cut and Run Policy  OH MY GOD SNOW |
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 April 10, 2006 Stan Abernathie's Picks to SuckWell, I'm not quite sure how it happened, but another baseball season is upon us. It keeps coming back, like crabs, or that movie about the dog and cat that got lost and came back like crabs. But however it came about, we have to deal with it now, and the best way I know how is in detailing how much everyone is going to suck this year.
Let me get my first 2006 prediction out of the way early: Everybody is going to lose a lot of games this year. Take that to the bank. Even the best team in the league is going to have their pants handed to them at least sixty painful times this season. Sixty long, excruciating, face-first swan dives into mountains of Chihuahua shit, guaranteed. That's the dirty little secret about baseball that the league doesn't want you to know: Everybody stinks...
º Last Column: Joy in Mudville (Thanks, A-Rod)
º more columns
Well, I'm not quite sure how it happened, but another baseball season is upon us. It keeps coming back, like crabs, or that movie about the dog and cat that got lost and came back like crabs. But however it came about, we have to deal with it now, and the best way I know how is in detailing how much everyone is going to suck this year. Let me get my first 2006 prediction out of the way early: Everybody is going to lose a lot of games this year. Take that to the bank. Even the best team in the league is going to have their pants handed to them at least sixty painful times this season. Sixty long, excruciating, face-first swan dives into mountains of Chihuahua shit, guaranteed. That's the dirty little secret about baseball that the league doesn't want you to know: Everybody stinks. So the real debate is over who's going to be the least embarrassing team to follow this season, pretending like you've been a fan for years while your hometown nine brings new levels of meaning to the phrase "forcefully violated." For starters, everyone's favorite dickweed, A.J. Pierzynski, hopes to lead his Chicago White Sox to a repeat of last season's improbable championship run, a feat made more difficult by the unlikelihood of the stars being lined up in asshole favor two years in a row. My prediction is the Bite Sox win six games all year. Some may find this unrealistically pessimistic, but they just don't play the Royals enough times for me to hope for better. Sorry, Sox fans, I'd fear your reaction if most of you weren't already safely behind bars. Then of course there's the Yankees, but like I said, the assholes of the world used up all their good karma last year, which also bodes poorly for the White House in 2006. Once the Yankees' old-as-Moses rotation goes down in flames by mid-season, Yankee fans will be wishing for Small Wang, and that's never a good thing. Better to cut your losses and start rooting against the Mets now, Yankee fans. Everybody loves the Cardinals, of course, and by that I mean everyone in St. Louis, by decree of the king. Didn't know St. Louis had a king? They're lousy with kings down there, so much so that they have to start handing out qualifiers, like "King of Beers" and "King of March-June." Slavish devotion to the Cards is required of everyone in St. Louis, as their city crumbles around them, but nobody in the rest of the country gives two shits on a bun. The rest of us settle in to watch the Cardinals stomp so much ass during the regular season that by the playoffs they're tired and roll over like Beethoven on recalled vertigo medication. The Red Sox replaced a guy who looks like Jesus with a guy who sounds like cereal, which is only a good trade if the Jesus-looking guy is the dude from Blind Melon. Spoiler: It wasn't. While they were at it they tarred and feathered Edgar Renteria and smuggled him out of the city in a burlap sack, all for playing shortstop the whole of last season with a catcher's mitt. They brought in Josh Beckett to complete their impressive collection of "pitchers who once stomped the shit out of the Yankees but aren't that good any more." And as a final touch, they were able to trade the guy from Linkin Park to the Reds for Willy Mo Pena, all because some guy from the Twins doesn't like hitting. As a side note, I'm sure the thought has crossed all of your minds that they should just fold the Twins and Reds together, either ending up with an unstoppable juggernaut or else a team that can't pitch or hit, depending on how the meld works out. Entertaining either way, I say: Either we get a team that will pants the Yankees big-time or somebody to fool the Marlins into thinking they have a chance, which would be funny in its own way. So who wins this year? What's the name of that minor league team that started selling those bacon cheeseburgers on a donut? No, I'm not avoiding the question, I'm just hoping to convince my heart to put me out of my misery before I have to sit through another entire goddamned 12,078 game season. Seriously? You want a straight answer? All right: Barry Bonds wins, at least until a vain, insufferable steroid monster bursts out of his chest five years from now and starts talking about OBP and bitching about the media. Already happened? Well then, I guess we all lose. º Last Column: Joy in Mudville (Thanks, A-Rod)º more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Ask not what your country can do for you; cuz trust me, you ain't gonna get shit that way.”
-John Fitzpatrick KentuckyFortune 500 CookieOrganization is the key to surviving life's travails. Try sorting your problems large to small, then run like hell. Nobody can stand your face, voice or odor, but on the upside, everyone likes your car. This week's lucky ways to die: hanging plus drowning, three-year diarrhea, shop 'til you drop, the summertime blues.
Try again later.Top Surprising Oscar Snubs| 1. | Yentle 2: Yentler | | 2. | The Berenstain Bears Don't Care | | 3. | The Diary of Al Franken | | 4. | assBUSHhole: An Empire in Decline | | 5. | Jamie Foxx in Socks | |
|   Conservative Woman Found BY mitch kroeger 2/13/2006 The AristocratsEveryone knows I come from a show business family, and the stories from those days have more than once enthralled huge pockets of the coach section on boring trans-Atlantic flights. The best story of all, however, can’t be told on an airplane due to its tendency toward self-incrimination.
It all starts with my father, a proud and foolish man, who once had a bright idea for how to spruce up the family’s sagging vaudeville act: he had us all drop acid before the show. Everyone: my sister, my brother, our baby brother, our mother, our grandmother, and the family dog, Lucas. And dad was so confident in his newfound scam that he invited a top talent agent to the nightclub where we were performing, in hopes of spinning the new act off into a variety show on ABC.
The...
Everyone knows I come from a show business family, and the stories from those days have more than once enthralled huge pockets of the coach section on boring trans-Atlantic flights. The best story of all, however, can’t be told on an airplane due to its tendency toward self-incrimination.
It all starts with my father, a proud and foolish man, who once had a bright idea for how to spruce up the family’s sagging vaudeville act: he had us all drop acid before the show. Everyone: my sister, my brother, our baby brother, our mother, our grandmother, and the family dog, Lucas. And dad was so confident in his newfound scam that he invited a top talent agent to the nightclub where we were performing, in hopes of spinning the new act off into a variety show on ABC.
The show that night started off pretty normal, with dad playing "Swanee" on his armpit and grandma shooting hard-boilt eggs out of her snatch into the crowd like a Gatling gun. But then out of nowhere, a donkey that may or may not have been an official part of the show jumps on stage and starts sodomizing my older brother, who was already terrified of donkeys from a similar incident in early childhood.
Out of the corner of his eye, my dad catches sight of the donkey, which causes him to immediately and thoroughly upchuck his entire lunch and a martini he had for breakfast. The problem is, he’s French-kissing my mother at the time, and after a half-second delay the vomit gushes out of her nose like the soda fountain at a bulimia theme park. As my mother pulls back in disgust, there’s a wet piece of roast beef hanging out of her nose, and in that instant everyone realizes my dad had Arby’s for lunch. This fact grosses out everybody completely, and they start vomiting back and forth like a giant game of laser tag.
My father, still phased, blindly flails out and whips off my sister’s skirt, revealing a gang of Balinese pygmy midgets gang-fucking the corpse of Jackie Kennedy like a pack of starving rats underneath.
This guy in the back starts laughing so hard he throws up blood, which a pregnant waitress slips in, popping her baby out like a cork and the thing zips across the room straight into the donkey’s mouth. The donkey chokes on it, falls off my brother and dies.
The crowd screams, causing my father to flail again and tear off my grandmother’s skirt, which reveals Tom Cruise sucking Dame Edna’s cock.
Now the crowd’s reacting like it’s the end of the world, and then suddenly it is. Out of nowhere, the fattest man anyone there has ever seen comes out in a latex bikini and eats a mess of dried apricots out of Jimmy Stewart’s diaper, setting off another chain reaction of vomiting that climaxes in a priest somehow barfing up my baby brother’s ass. The worst part of it all is that the baby loves it.
Dad, still blinded by his own vomit and roast beef, falls into the rear curtain, tearing it down and revealing the oldest chorus line in Reno, Nevada, their dentures in a wet pile on the floor, struggling to stretch their gummy maws around Steve Urkel’s disturbingly monstrous dong. Urkel’s playing a Gameboy. Seemingly oblivious to his surroundings and the gang of great-grandmothers slobbering on his Pocahontas, he achieves a personal best at Tetris.
A cadre of underage Vietnamese girls run out and start mopping up the stage with their hair, while we take a short break to watch my drunken uncle Henry trying to piss on the family dog, which has been shaved, coated in butter, and is dog-dancing in a giant scalding frying pan on the side of the stage to the adulation of dozens.
For the climax, the entire state of Oklahoma comes out and shits on my grandmother.
Believe you me, the talent agent is blown away.
"Christ on ice!" he shouts over the din of applause and unconscious people falling into tables. "What do you people call yourselves?"
My dad, proud as an unrepentant felon, honks a horn and spreads his arms, beaming with a smile as wide as Louie Anderson’s ass, and proudly intones:
"The Kroegers!"
And at just that moment, a premature Negro baby flops out of my mother’s cooch and hits the floor with a wet slap, squeaking:
"No, fuck that!
THE ARISTOCRATS!"   |
