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 June 27, 2005 |
Cruise and Holmes celebrate the announcement by America’s scientists, while British Prime Minister Tony Blair performs a celebratory robot dance for no discernable reason
“It’s a natural fit, really,” explained Ralf Menu of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. “Science? Scientology? I’m actually surprised this didn...
cientology is in the news again this week, and not just because some green reporter made the mistake of sticking a microphone in front of Tom Cruise again. In a shocking revelation that has rocked the media world, fourteen year old actress and Cruise arm candy Katie Holmes has converted to the oddball religion, leaving the pope speechless and the entire Roman Catholic Church in disarray. But she’s not the only one, and this time it’s not only some weirdly shallow celebrity joining the ranks. In a lesser-publicized footnote, America’s entire scientific community has jumped on the bandwagon, too.
“It’s a natural fit, really,” explained Ralf Menu of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. “Science? Scientology? I’m actually surprised this didn’t come up earlier. I mean, from all available evidence, it’s really quite obvious that we exist on the seventh ring of the Dunabi, concentric to the Twelfth Dimensional Scrobang. No one seriously debates this.”
“I have to admit, I’d been curious about Scientology ever since I saw that commercial they used to play for Diatnetics,” admitted American Association of Cereal Chemists head Dabney Thomas, because he had to. “You know, with the volcano that’s all erupting and shit and answering questions like ‘Will I see my dog in heaven? Page 47.’ Ever since I saw that I was pretty interested. Because I had a dog when I was a kid, but he was a real bastard so I’m really curious if he got into heaven or not.”
The announcement comes at a crucial time for the funky techno-religion, founded by science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard in 1951 as a beautiful tax dodge. Scientology has been struggling for credibility after years of reports that it charges members tens of thousands of dollars to reveal its deepest spiritual secrets, all of which turn out to read like a really horrible John Travolta movie. But the concensus seems to be that a lack of credibility is the price one pays for following a religion founded by a man famous for making up implausible tales full of far-fetched ideas and fantasies designed to sell books.
“It’s sort of like having a weight loss program founded by Cookie Monster,” mused religious scholar Barnaby Told, who actually does botanical research but is also quite religious, thereby qualifying him for the title. “That’s a tough credibility gap to span.”
This latest conversion will likely change the way that millions think about Scientology, however, and the agreement of America’s scientists might help as well. But not everyone is thrilled with Holmes’ epic conversion from Catholicism, about which Vatican officials say the pope feels personally betrayed.
“The pope has been listless and non-responsive all week,” explained Vatican spokesperson Arnold Grubb. “He’s not even into mini-golf as much as usual. He seems kind of heartbroken, honestly. I hope she’s worth it, Tom.” the commune news doesn’t doubt that a tyrannical ruler named Xenu wiped out his own 76-world confederation of planets with hydrogen bombs after paralyzing billions of people and tying them to volcanoes 75 billion years ago, the problem we have with Scientology is that dude Hubbard had blue lips. Creep-y. Ivana Folger-Balzac was captured and deprogrammed after filing this story, not because we feared contamination by Scientologist ideology, we just hoped it might make her less of a giant bitch.
 |  June 27, 2005 |
Flushing Meadows, NY Sloe Lorenzo Billy Graham, golden-clad warrior of God, may or may not be in this armor and mail… though we’re leaning toward may not.
“They will be saved, or their blood will stain their heathen streets,” said Graham, his voice failing and his body frail as the 70,000 true believers in attendance rained their approval down on him.
It marks Graham’s final attempt to convert the world’s worshippers of false idols, as the 86-year-old scion of the Lord, who started as a si...
he scent of blood was thick in the air when withering mouthpiece for the Christian God Billy Graham met his legion followers in New York’s Flushing Meadows-Corona Park to bid them good-bye as he departed for the Middle East on this, his Final Crusade. Graham, long suffering from the many afflictions from God’s magic bag, vowed not to return alive until he had successfully converted the doomed to the one true faith.
“They will be saved, or their blood will stain their heathen streets,” said Graham, his voice failing and his body frail as the 70,000 true believers in attendance rained their approval down on him.
It marks Graham’s final attempt to convert the world’s worshippers of false idols, as the 86-year-old scion of the Lord, who started as a simple Protestant preacher before evolving into the leader of the final crusade of Christianity, continues to grow weaker from the countless ailments plaguing him, including water on the brain, prostate cancer, Parkinson’s disease, several fractured bones, and three arrows in the back sustained by a Cherokee attack in 1934.
“The devil wants to stop me, I don’t doubt that,” chortled Graham, clad in his shining suit of armor, and supported by six fellow Christians to keep from being ground into dust. “Let the devil come, I say! The Muslims, the Buddhists, and those—what do you call them… the Indian religious guys… not the Hari Krishnas… anyways, they’ll all call their false idols and the devil in to torture me, but I will not be stopped before each and everyone of them knows the true salvation of God. Or death. Either one works for me.”
Much excitement surrounded the event, the first church-sanctioned Christian crusade in almost a thousand years—noting that the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan are not officially church-sanctioned. Graham announced his plans for a Final Crusade months ago, and leaders of the Protestant church gave their approval as Graham built an army of supporters numbering in the low hundreds of thousands. Some in the know suggest the sanction for the Crusade is more of a tribute to Graham’s long service than any conviction he might be successful.
“The man is not even able to walk in his armor anymore, let alone smite the enemies of the Lord,” said an inside source we love to call “Reverend Blue Jeans.” “Add to that Graham hasn’t built a sufficient army for an attack of this scale, and the fact that they’re intent on utilizing medieval weaponry when even Middle Eastern radicals have access to missiles and firearms… you’re looking at a bloodbath. But Graham is convinced the Lord will give him strength for a final victory. You got to give it to the man, he knows how to go out in a blaze of glory.”
The ailing Christian soldier marched onward, if you count marching as being hoisted by a dozen men, and proceeded to board the large command ship bought by his ministry for the expedition, one of sixty paid for by the Graham Ministries and representing the first wave of the onslaught of the true faith.
“Victory!” screamed Graham in a raspy, failing voice from the bow of the ship, named “The Savior.”
The fragile Protestant then fell overboard, sinking instantly to the bottom of the bay, but was rescued by his followers before any more serious damaged was inflicted. the commune news always thought the last crusade involved Indiana Jones finding a cup, and River Phoenix was somehow part of it… but our memory might be bad. Mordecai “Three-Finger” Brown might consider changing his name to the more appropriate Mordecai “No-Body” Brown, now that the late ballplayer has no corporeal form.
| God joins War on Terror in Pakistan Robot car falls significantly short of standards set by Knight Rider Fox already canceling next year's new shows D.C. baby panda promoted as beltway outsider |
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 October 10, 2005 Volume 64Hello commune:
Do I know you from somewhere? I could swear that I do. You seem so familiar. Are you the website where I got all that barnyard porn last year? Thanks a lot, if that's the case. I had to enroll in veterinary school to justify that one to my wife. But no, the more I think about it, that site had more horse cocks than yours. Where do I know you from? Were you the website that told me to buy all that stock in that edible dildo company? Again, thanks a lot. But I seem to remember they had all their fonts in pink. Hmm. Who are you guys? You must have been on the computer during my brother's wedding. Something like that. Weird.
Rick Splitz
Old Phone, Vermont
Dear Rick:
According to our exhaustive research and forensic compu...
º Last Column: Volume 63
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Hello commune: Do I know you from somewhere? I could swear that I do. You seem so familiar. Are you the website where I got all that barnyard porn last year? Thanks a lot, if that's the case. I had to enroll in veterinary school to justify that one to my wife. But no, the more I think about it, that site had more horse cocks than yours. Where do I know you from? Were you the website that told me to buy all that stock in that edible dildo company? Again, thanks a lot. But I seem to remember they had all their fonts in pink. Hmm. Who are you guys? You must have been on the computer during my brother's wedding. Something like that. Weird. Rick Splitz
Old Phone, VermontDear Rick:
According to our exhaustive research and forensic computer analysis, we believe the sites in question to have been BustyBarnyardBitches.com, EatADick.com and DrunkBridesmaidBang.com. As for the commune, we don't believe you've ever visited our site, since we know all of our eleven visitors by IP address and think of them lovingly as family. Which may make it seem strange that we've even bothered to answer your letter, but we're confident that word of its publication will eventually reach you through the grapevine of pedophiles, speed freaks, Oakies, defamed Catholic priests, jigsaw puzzle enthusiasts and sub-Star Trek geeks who read the commune. Take care.
the commune
Dear commune: Please die. Stacey Altamont
Redburn, GeorgiaDear Stacey:
Finally, a civil letter we can respond to. Good to hear from you again Stacey. Though we like to honor reader requests when possible (see "commune please cure my cancer," issue 37), we've run into a small problem with yours. Apparently there remain a few antiquated state laws on the books about mass murder within office buildings, even when sanctioned by a total stranger via US Mail. What will they think of next? Making it illegal to keep small children locked in your basement for the purpose of pay-per-view pitbull wrestling? Sorry Stacey, try writing your congressman a letter.
the commune
Dear commune: the commune's retrospective article on baseball pioneer Hank Greenberg ( Big League Jew, July 14th) was both racist and derogatory. No it wasn't. Yes it was. The fact of the matter is that I don't know how I feel about the commune's Greenberg article. And this is a problem. Please make it a point to run articles in the future that I understand my feelings about more clearly. Thank you. Dickie Waters
Bleaching, New MexicoDear Dickie:
Always happy to hear from a fan. Actually, we're not. Okay, we are. Hold on. We'll get back to you.
the commune
Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for anyone's actions after reading the commune's first Book of the Month selection, "Why Do the Arabs Hate Us, and How Can We Kill Them?" We just liked the cool drawing on the cover.º Last Column: Volume 63º more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“A little bad taste is like a dash of paprika. A lot of bad taste, like a grinder full of cayenne pepper. And doing that annoying Cajun guy impression while doing anything—well, that's just beyond bad taste.”
-Dirty ParkbenchFortune 500 CookieIn the annals of history, there has always been one man who laughs uncontrollably whenever someone says "annals"—that's your legacy. Turn up the heat this week, 'cause that fucking turkey has been in the oven since Saturday. If you can't beat them, join them, and show them what real losers they are for accepting you into the group. Lucky bastards this week are Tom Monroe, Pete Gelbart, Judy Simon, and that son you're pretty sure is living in Winnipeg now.
Try again later.John McCain's Most Ill-Conceived Jokes| 1. | Trick "Good for One Free House-Cleaning" coupon he gives to homeless that looks like $100 bill | | 2. | Open letter to Crocodile Hunter widow Terri Irwin inviting her to spend the night with a "real man" | | 3. | "I fully and unequivocably support the rights of homosexuals. Nah, just kidding. That shit makes me throw up." | | 4. | Wearing hole-filled NASA sweatshirt to press conference Saturday | | 5. | Big "I have cancer" gag in 2000 election | |
|   Killer Killen Tried for Killings BY ferdinand gaybeard 9/19/2005 Ferdinand Gaybeard Rides AgainThe Polynesian nightskunk is not a toy, gentle reader. The Polynesian nightskunk is known as the black jester of the night for good reason, and is to be taken seriously, times two. Do not attempt to dance and frolic with the Polynesian nightskunk, for it is a jape you will soon regret, should you live long enough to even do so.
It will not fetch, it will not beg or roll over, and it most certainly will not snatch kibbles from betwixt your pursed lips, mid-leap, like some kind of trick pony. It will not walk on hind legs for a reward, nor will it growl "I rove rou!" in an adorable skunk voice when tempted with treats. These are mere fantasies, fanciful reader, hatched from Hollywood dreams and children's storybooks, while the grim reality of the Polynesian nightskunk is far darke...
The Polynesian nightskunk is not a toy, gentle reader. The Polynesian nightskunk is known as the black jester of the night for good reason, and is to be taken seriously, times two. Do not attempt to dance and frolic with the Polynesian nightskunk, for it is a jape you will soon regret, should you live long enough to even do so. It will not fetch, it will not beg or roll over, and it most certainly will not snatch kibbles from betwixt your pursed lips, mid-leap, like some kind of trick pony. It will not walk on hind legs for a reward, nor will it growl "I rove rou!" in an adorable skunk voice when tempted with treats. These are mere fantasies, fanciful reader, hatched from Hollywood dreams and children's storybooks, while the grim reality of the Polynesian nightskunk is far darker indeed. The Polynesian nightskunk will, in actuality, bite off your toes like it were eating peppermint, but this is only where its cruel efficiency of death begins. Toes snapped off like ticket stubs, you will stand in shock as the nightskunk squeezes into your foot hole and shimmies up your leg, inside the skin, devouring at its leisure your most delectable internal morsels and sweetmeats. Gobbling and snarfing, nibbling and slurping, the Polynesian nightskunk will make its way up past your knee, through the thigh, and pause only slightly to enjoy your spicy genitalia before embarking on the grand feast that is your most inner innards. Except for the spleen. For some reason, nightskunks hate the spleen. Weird. How do I know all this? Oh, simple, naïve reader. How joyus it must be to carry such innocence wrapped in muslin within your lovely cranium. Imagine the terror with which you would greet each day knowing that you, yes YOU! had once danced with the nightskunk in the pale moon light, living not only to tell the tale, but to recall it in fevered dreams nightly! It's true! I was but a young man then, fresh out of a tiger cage in Laos and making my way across the sunken, mysterious expanse of Polynesia, which back then was known only as the Land of the Dark Corners. It was there, anxious readers, there that I crossed paths with this atheist-maker, this furry black Satan known to the locals only as "Gnup!" ("Shiii-skunk!"). Yes, the nightskunk ambushed me as I was sitting on a tree stump, enjoying a tin of sardines. I froze, mid-fish, as the darkness before me congealed into the form of nature's most dastardly malfeasance. It was then that my bladder sprang immediately into action, unleashing a wet torrent of plentiful panic piss as the nightskunk reared back on two legs. Waiting patiently for my gushing display to cease, the nightskunk rocked back and forth, flaring its deadly nostrils. After a time, the nightskunk settled back down onto four legs for a moment to rest, then reared back up as my ceaseless bladder continued to evacuate. Eventually the nightskunk had to move to slightly higher ground to avoid being wetted by my growing empoolment, but this suited him finely, providing an even more impressive perch from which to display his menacing qualities in statuesque fashion. Eventually I was done pissing myself, and the skunk took this opportunity to strike. Thankfully for me and my continuing adventures, the skunk slipped in piss and broke its neck, letting out a frustrated little squeak at the moment of impact that caused my overstressed bowels to disengorge a week's worth of feces in less than one half of a second. It reminded me vividly of the time, years ago, when I stumbled across a den of vicious ducklings and I shit my pants so hard my shoes came untied.   |
