Democrats Celebrate Iraq Funding Bill Reverse-Victory

.C. Democrats wowed the press corps worldwide by celebrating the president's signing of a $100-billion Iraq and Afghanistan war-funding bill without the Democrat-mandated exit timetable, calling the showdown with the president an "astounding reverse-victory" over the war. Speaking with Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, House Speaker regarded the president's signing of the bill he asked for exactly as he asked for it with calm superiority.

"By giving the president the funds he wants for the war without standing by our call for a withdrawal strategy, as the president warned us not to include, we have demonstrated we are flexible, even jelly-like," Pelosi bragged, with a knowing nod to fellow Democrats supporting the unwin. "President Bush will take away an important lesson from this face-off with the elected officials of this nation: We cannot be threatened, even if we can be goaded and intimidated. And believe me, when the war blows up in his face and cripples the Republican war machine for the next several years, we are going to give him such an 'I told you so!'"

President Bush, at a speaking event at Toys 'R' Us in Dayton, Ohio Saturday, did not seem dissuaded by the Democrats' claims of success.

"Stuck it to ya. In your face. Iron Maiden in '08!" the president told reporters, giving the crowd the traditional "rock on" sign with his hand. Presidential handlers described the terse response as a result of a long plane ride and too many cups of Kool-Aid by the sugar-sensitive leader of the free world.

While political leaders on both sides of the fence were chanting hurrahs for their side, nameless critics who frequently only mask the real feelings of unbiased reporters were quick to accuse the Democrats of trying to dress-up a clear loss against a weakened president. For instance, Professor Chad Sham of Counterfeit Studies, of Bogus University in another state.

"Democrats plainly did not want to be faced with brutal accusations of not supporting the troops heading into Memorial Day weekend, as it makes a shitty soundbite. The party is well aware that their current collective charisma couldn't butter a square of toast, so the last thing they want to do is be caught in the spotlights trying to stand firm against ridiculous accusations of a lack of patriotism and hating the troops, since ridiculous accusations of un-American sentiment seem to be exactly what motivates NASCAR dads to vote. NASCAR fumes may be the number-one killer of political intelligence in this nation, and if I were really a college professor, I'd probably start a research team to look into it."

Real political analysts, like Amos Stamp, the guy who fills the commune vending machines every month, had clearer insight into the Democrats' long-term visions for the vote.

"In some ways, they ain't so crazy," said Stamp, snacking on a Mr. Goodbar he clearly didn't pony up the dollar for. "Democrats vote to fund the war right now, and always call it a vote to support the troops later, since the two's synonymous with the uninformed voting population. But come September, this war's going to go clusterfuck-supernova and everybody will remember the Democrats was calling for an exit timetable then. They boost they're popularity and they get their exit bill then, and all it cost anyone was a few hundred more American lives. And in the president, the Democrats have avoided looking like assholes, which is something that's new to them anyway."

Notably absent from the yea votes for the bill were the Democrats running for president in 2008, except Sen. Joe Biden (D., Delaware), who was believed to have copied his vote from Sen. Mitch McConnell (R., Kentucky) anyway. Many were quick to stress that they still support the troops, blah blah blah, but stand by our need to end this war as soon as possible. Only former president and trim-magnet Bill Clinton was more outspoken on his critique of Congress.

"Everyone remembers the gruesome budget showdown between me and Gingrich's Congress, where the entire nation stopped for a few days to see who would win. The Democrats are smart to concede now, and sidestep that huge public flogging I took when I lost. Oh, wait, something doesn't sound right about it—I remember now. I won that one. What the fuck were they thinking?"

eports from the afterlife indicate the Reverend Jerry Falwell, who died last Tuesday after smelling one of his own farts, has indeed gone on to meet his maker, validating his lifetime of religious conviction. The reverend was, however, shocked and dismayed to discover this creator is, in fact, a large, friendly purple creature with a head ornament shaped like an inverted triangle, rather than the cloud-surfing white dude Falwell had been expecting.

Upon spying the return of his beloved son, whom God had not seen in over 73 years, the deity shouted an excited greeting of “Eh-Oh, Falwell!� before attempting to embrace the reverend, who recoiled in horror.

Eyewitness accounts indicate a stunned Falwell then began to shout Bible verse and incoherent, mouth-foaming nonsense. God immediately became frightened and confused, scurrying away while shouting “Run away! Run away!� Only after Falwell left could God be coaxed out for snack time.

Meanwhile on Earth, medical examiners attributed Falwell’s death to the reverend taking the holy vessel God had given him and crapping it all up with fatty foods and prescription medication.

One of America’s best-known religious figures, Falwell was famous for his amazingly untarnished record for being on the historically wrong side of every issue he ever addressed over the course of his long career. From segregation to civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights, and the rights of anyone who wasn’t exactly like Jerry Falwell, the reverend demonstrated an almost eerie ability to choose stances that would make him look ridiculously backward to future generations.

Falwell also set the bar unthinkably high with the sheer number of absurd public statements he made, and then later retracted, during his years as a spokesperson for America’s evangelical Christians. Decrying Archbishop Desmond Tutu as a phony, claiming that 9/11 was caused by feminists and lesbians, stating that AIDS was God’s punishment against homosexuals, questioning the sincerity of Martin Luther King, Jr., and claiming that the Teletubby Tinky Winky was gay because he had an inverted triangle on his head, carried a purse and was purple, all signs of homosexuality in the reverend’s feverish, confused nightmares.

In 1994, Falwell released a videotape called The Clinton Chronicles: An Investigation into the Alleged Criminal Activities of Bill Clinton, which inaugurated the “crockumentary� genre of filmmaking. Among other things, the film accused the president of smuggling cocaine, murdering journalists who got too close to the story, and being the devil. The film was voted 1994’s Worst Episode of Unsolved Mysteries.

Afterlife pundits suggest it may take years for Falwell to accept the truth of his origin, preferring in the meantime to blame his plight on the machinations of liberal angels or a Jewish afterlife conspiracy. Experts stress, however, that God will not hold Falwell’s convictions against him, and when the reverend is ready, he will know where to find God, sitting in the grass, playing and looking at bugs and stuff.

Hello, friends, and welcome to my dream. My name is Emil Zender and it is my mission in life to reunite the commune, to bring back together what fire hath torn asunder. What's the commune, you ask? Is it possible you have not lived before today? If it is, click on Archives up above immediately, read every last word, and then return. We'll be waiting for you.

As the non-clueless among you already know, the world's finest online newsmagazette came to a fiery end but a few short years ago, after their palatial Flatbush, New Jersey office building burnt to the ground mid-way through 2007. Urban legend has it that columnist Omar Bricks burnt the building down by setting potatoes on fire and shooting them indiscriminately off the roof using a propane-fueled potato cannon. That urban legend was likely begun by Bricks' own column stating this fact, and the videos of this event he later posted on YouTube.

Either way, after the building burnt down and the commune folded, its staff scattered to the four winds like dandelion spores farted out of God's mustache. For the first couple of years I figured this was just the way of life, everything must die, for each thing a season, turn turn turn. But recently I've realized that is bullshit, and have decided to take it upon myself to reform the commune or herniate myself trying. I vow to track down every last commune employee, dead or alive, and whine at them until they help me. You heard it here first.

My dream is that the commune will ride once again, if at all possible functioning out of my very home. I've literally had this dream hundreds of times. Now before any naysayers get word of this and try to debunk my bona fides, I will freely admit that it is not my house alone. The deed is indeed in my mother's name. But the entire basement level is my sovereign domain, not to be intruded upon even by my mother or her boyfriends. True, they do sometimes invade regardless, when the satellite goes out and they want to watch my wisely redundant cable TV service, or when my mom's main boyfriend Doug wants to have sex in my bathroom. This is because my fuzzy toilet seat cover is quite a bit nicer than theirs upstairs, mostly because I don't have a lot of sex on it.

Anyhow, as you've probably noticed, the commune's downstairs neighbors at Crochet! Magazine have persevered and thrived, moving to swank new digs in Asslatch, New Jersey, and continuing to publish their fine periodical. I've been a loyal subscriber for years, if only because their magazine smelled kind of like the commune offices due to their close proximity. That unique cocktail of aromas, one part Boris Utzov's Russian bologna, one part the smell of plastic burning, one part Rok Finger, was an intoxicating brew that made up for the fact that I don't know anything about crocheting. True, their current editions smell nothing at all of the commune, and are much the poorer for this. But I keep up my subscription purely for the memories, thrice-removed as they may be.

A special thank you to the folks at Hipsoda.com for providing me with this space to re-launch the site. As you're surely aware, Hipsoda.com was able to archive the contents of the commune in its entirety shortly before the devastating fire, and God bless them for that. I don't know the site's owners well, but I imagine them to be intense commune fans second in their devotion only to yours truly. In the one conversation I've had with these fine gentlemen, they claimed to have archived the site to use as evidence in an upcoming lawsuit. But I'm a commune fan, I know sarcasm when I hear it. The thought has crossed my mind that they may just be allowing me this space in the hopes that I will succeed in tracking down the commune's far-flung prodigal sons and daughters, making the serving of subpoenas all the easier. Actually this thought crossed my mind shortly after one of Hipsoda.com's owners told me this is exactly why they were providing me with this space. But, once again: sarcasm.

Sarcasm, you are a wily bitch.

Stay tuned to this space for much, much more.

Zincerely,

Emil Zender

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