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Americans Copying Shitty Music They Refuse to BuyMarch 4, 2002 |
Los Angeles, CA Ansel Evans One guy buys CD while hundreds of friends line up to make copy.
“It used to be someone would have to buy an album just to find out it was crap,” said recording industry lawyer Snig Partridge. “Now they spend hours downloading it, take one listen, and mutter they’re glad they didn’t buy it.
“That’s our money!” yelled Patridge, leaping across the desk and savagely attacking this commune reporter.
There is some validity to the maniacal lawyer’s complaints. A recent survey conducted found nearly 25% of respondents were downloading or ma...
ecord companies were faced with a 10% drop in CD sales from 2000 to 2001, and are quick to point the finger squarely at internet music piracy and illegal CD copying. Now the awful songs and albums consumers refuse to buy are available to them for free elsewhere. “It used to be someone would have to buy an album just to find out it was crap,” said recording industry lawyer Snig Partridge. “Now they spend hours downloading it, take one listen, and mutter they’re glad they didn’t buy it. “That’s our money!” yelled Patridge, leaping across the desk and savagely attacking this commune reporter. There is some validity to the maniacal lawyer’s complaints. A recent survey conducted found nearly 25% of respondents were downloading or making hardcopies of CDs they didn’t want to buy. Numerous reasons were cited, such as the expense of purchasing CDs, the ease and availability of pirating materials, the chic of bragging about burning or downloading something, the lack of new Beatles material, but most popular among the answers was “just don’wanna.” Many record industry analysts are puzzled by the slow down in CD sales, given the height of artistry of popular music with acts such as Britney Spears, Nelly Furtado, Creed, Pink, Uncle Kracker, and No Doubt topping the charts. “It’s obvious music is experiencing a renaissance,” remarked some dreadlocked teen at a music store, in a voice that didn’t sound at all sarcastic. “I don’t get it,” said Marx Kapital Records CEO Fred Ingells. “People hear the single. They like the single. They hum the single. They don’t buy the album. Something’s not right here.” In 2000, music product sales totaled $14.3 billion. A year later that amount had dropped catastrophically to $13.7 billion. “$13.7 billion! How are we supposed to live on $13.7 billion?” shouted Snig Partridge, this time leaping out from behind a Volkswagen on the street and attacking this commune reporter long after our interview had finished. Across the music industry, response from record company representatives has ranged from perturbed to dismayed. “Y’all fuckin’ my money now, biatch,” growled A’ight Records President Tru Dat Williams, cocking a Glock and firing blindly out the window in a confessed effort to hit potential music pirates. “What makes me sad is the poor artist,” said Ingells. “When you steal a CD by bootlegging it from a friend or downloading it from the internet, you’re stealing a dollar out of their pocket. A whole dollar, or considerably less if we’re talking just singles and EPs here.” Several artists were contacted to hear their reaction to this matter, but instead of listening to the interview tapes we burned copies of them and sold them on eBay as bootleg interviews. Snig Partridge then leaped out of our filing cabinet, knocked this commune reporter unconscious and made off with all our unsold copies. the commune news would be more into music piracy if they allowed you to wear parrots on your shoulder and velvet coats. Ramon Nootles stands as a shining example to men everywhere, especially for how not to handle a paternity suit.
 | Texas Scientist Regrets Cloning CatMarch 4, 2002 |
College Station, Texas Ansel Evans Mr Fluffers: Back and sassy as ever
The research program, known as CopyCat, is rumored to be centered on the possible replication of household pets and the lucrative market this breakthrough could create. However, head researcher Mark Fuerbarker insisted that this first cloning was purely personal.
“Sure, it’s truly a great day for science and for Texas A&M. But personally, I think we’re all just glad to have Mr. Fluffers back,” stated Fuerbarker.
Well, mayb...
cientists at Texas A&M University received international attention last month when it was announced that they had successfully cloned a domestic cat, the first successful cloning of its kind. The cloned animal was a beloved lab cat named “Mr. Fluffers,” who had met an untimely end in an acid-bath accident weeks earlier. The research program, known as CopyCat, is rumored to be centered on the possible replication of household pets and the lucrative market this breakthrough could create. However, head researcher Mark Fuerbarker insisted that this first cloning was purely personal. “Sure, it’s truly a great day for science and for Texas A&M. But personally, I think we’re all just glad to have Mr. Fluffers back,” stated Fuerbarker. Well, maybe not all of them. One scientist in the lab has gone on record stating that he thinks that they may have made a mistake, and perhaps not for the expected ethical reasons. According to Marty Lomas, who refers to the original cat as “Mr. Fucker,” the cat “was an obnoxious kitty primadonna who they never should have strained out of the acid bath for purposes of DNA collection. That cat was an asshole.” Lomas admits that his viewpoint is a controversial one in the Texas A&M labs, but scientists from around the world share his concerns. “I’ve seen pictures of that cat they cloned,” confided Norwegian geneticist Olaf Sproutzel. “And it looks an awful lot like this hellspawn lab cat I had once, Blitzen. I swear, that thing could crap its body weight in a day and it always got into my lunch. I hated that cat.” Lomas expressed equal sorrow at the cloning that didn’t happen. “They had a $20 million dollar grant to spend on cloning research. They could have tried to bring back any kind of amazing asset to humanity, like Lincoln or MLK, or even Marilyn Monroe, so what do they do? They clone this douchebag cat that likes to leave hairs all over my keyboard and thinks it has the run of the research lab, getting all pissy when we invade its ‘territory’. Fuckin’ knobs. Alright Mr. Fluffers, if you want to talk about territory, we’ll settle this nature’s way with a little ‘survival of the fittest.’ I’ll be right back, I’ve got a claw hammer in my car.” Lomas chuckled bitterly at the irony of the situation, his grief-stricken coworkers breaking new ground in cloning research in an effort to bring the cat back. He hints that the original cat “didn’t exactly meet a natural end, if you know what I mean. Where were these guys when Gandhi was shot? That might have been worth artificially inseminating some eggs over. But this vain, worthless puffball of a cat? Give me a break. How many times am I going to have to kill this damn cat, anyway? Maybe if I force-feed it enough asbestos these guys will cure cancer.” the commune news, looking out for number two since 1997. Especially when we're jogging. Ivana Folger-Balzac wants the world to know that it takes more than an acid bath to get rid of her, and that Ramrod Hurley can dig his anvil out of the sidewalk in front of the building any time now.
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 March 4, 2002 Way to Cock Up My Birthday Party, Grandpathe commune's Billy Sheets is trying to be big about this. Hi Grandpa. Mom wanted me to write to tell you that I'm not mad at you anymore for what happened at my birthday party. She says that you probably didn't mean to have a giant heart attack right when everybody was just starting to have fun. She says that I should learn to not be so selfish and learn to consider other people. But I don't know. It's not like it was anybody else's birthday.
Mom says I should forgive you even though my birthday party was a total bomb after the whole heart attack thing. She says I'll have another birthday next year, but I only have one Grandpa. But I bet none of those kids that were there this year will come back next year. Not after they got dicked out of a pony ride and ice cream cake and everything when you collapsed into the cake table. I don't ...
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Hi Grandpa. Mom wanted me to write to tell you that I'm not mad at you anymore for what happened at my birthday party. She says that you probably didn't mean to have a giant heart attack right when everybody was just starting to have fun. She says that I should learn to not be so selfish and learn to consider other people. But I don't know. It's not like it was anybody else's birthday.
Mom says I should forgive you even though my birthday party was a total bomb after the whole heart attack thing. She says I'll have another birthday next year, but I only have one Grandpa. But I bet none of those kids that were there this year will come back next year. Not after they got dicked out of a pony ride and ice cream cake and everything when you collapsed into the cake table. I don't think anyone was having much fun while we were standing around waiting for the ambulance to come, and I think it scared some of the kids when your eyes bugged out like that and you turned kind of blue. I definitely didn't think it was very cool.
But I guess I'm supposed to forgive you, even though I'm going to be a total outcast at school now. All of those other kids with their normal Grandpas who don't hog all the attention, or else are dead and stay out of the way like that, they're going to hang out together now, I can tell. That's the way it always works. I remember the one time Freddy Schneuder's grandma picked him up from school and she called him "Sweet Noodle" in a loud voice that everyone could hear. He still doesn't have any friends, and that was last year. And it's not like she destroyed a major social event, she was just being lame. I'm probably going to have to switch to a private school.
Mom says that if you'd had your choice, she thinks you would have waited until after the gift opening and the cake to have your heart attack. I think she's just trying to make me feel better. If you were that worried about it, why didn't you just stay home that day, or maybe hang out in the lobby of the hospital or something? You probably would have been safe, unless there was a little sick kid or somebody having a birthday party there. But I guess you didn't think of that. Thanks a lot, Grandpa.
Mom tells me that she bets you're really sorry that things couldn't have worked out better and that my birthday party was ruined. And I guess that's a pretty good way to look at it. But to be honest, all I can think is that unless there aren't any kids up there in heaven, you're probably up there pissing all over somebody's birthday party as we speak. Sorry Mom. º Last Column: My Reality Shows Rock Hardº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“My love is like a red, red wiiiine… go to my heaaaad… make me forgeeet… Wait. Sorry. My love is like a red, red rose… just like eeeeevery night has its daaaaaw- awawaaaan… Just like eeeevery cooowboy… Fuck.”
-A.D.DobbsFortune 500 CookieClowns don't hate you, they just feel sorry for you. Your "Don't Worry, Be Slappy" series of self-help books finally broke the five-copy sales barrier this week, and just got you sued by the estate of Slappy White. This week's lucky strikes: Clover-Workers' Union, ump didn't see ball careen off batter's jock and through strike zone, killed them all while they were dreaming about killing you, threw your ex-wife's severed head down lane on accident.
Try again later.Top Fake Names Used for Fraudulent Repeat Voting| 1. | Reginald Bushsucks | | 2. | Jon Bon Jovi | | 3. | Sir Votesalot | | 4. | John Jacob Jesushammersshit | | 5. | Barack Obama | |
|   McCartney, Bradshaw to Tour BY dan d. nancy 3/4/2002 The Rheumatic Sleeping Doomsday MachineJohn Patriot was cornered. His back was to the wall, literally, and his feet were on the ground and he was reaching for the stars, literally. The stars in question were world- famous action movie heroes Bruno Wills and Armin Schwarzengroove. They were pinned down on the second floor and Patriot, the C.I.A.'s premiere agent, was trying to save them, but had himself been pinned down by a sharpshooter in a tree across the street, who had in turned been pinned down by a large rottweiler just beneath the tree. It wasn't pretty, nor was the situation.
"Please save us!" moaned the cowardly box office star Wills. "I think I speak for both of us!"
"Definitely," said Schwarzengroove, through a barely-discernible accent. "Help to save us, please, Mr. C.I.A. man."
John Patriot was cornered. His back was to the wall, literally, and his feet were on the ground and he was reaching for the stars, literally. The stars in question were world- famous action movie heroes Bruno Wills and Armin Schwarzengroove. They were pinned down on the second floor and Patriot, the C.I.A.'s premiere agent, was trying to save them, but had himself been pinned down by a sharpshooter in a tree across the street, who had in turned been pinned down by a large rottweiler just beneath the tree. It wasn't pretty, nor was the situation.
"Please save us!" moaned the cowardly box office star Wills. "I think I speak for both of us!"
"Definitely," said Schwarzengroove, through a barely-discernible accent. "Help to save us, please, Mr. C.I.A. man."
Patriot hadn't told them his name.
"I'm John Patriot! Stay calm. I've saved the president six times so I think I can handle this situation." Joking helped alleviate the situation for Patriot.
"I'm scared," cried Wills, soiling himself.
"Just take it easy!" shouted Patriot again, growing sick of the two little toads as a bullet whizzed past his head, and Wills' whiz also whizzed past his head down the wall. "Two fat gay rabbis walk into a bar—"
"Patriot!" a familiar voice screamed from across the street. It was Ed McMahon, inexplicably standing in the middle of the firefight, and he was gesturing to Patriot's partner Decent Smith. Smith was standing over the tree sharpshooter, who was now dead on the ground and being gnawed at by the rottweiler.
"Smith, you old son of a bitch!" shouted Patriot. Smith winced, knowing too well it was true. "I thought for sure my bacon was cooked! I'm glad you got here in time!"
"Save the cordialities," Smith rudely said. "You've still got to rescue those rich Hollywood prettyboys!"
"Right!" said Smith, throwing his empty gun aside and pulling a pump shotgun from his back waistband. "We'll continue the cordialities later, at a time when there's no one shooting at us!"
Patriot kicked open the door to the building, knocking a nun standing behind the door unconscious, and speeding down the hall as fast as the C.I.A. 9-time Employee-of-the-Month's legs would carry him.
"I'm coming, prettyboys!" shouted Patriot.
He quickly climbed the stairs and kicked open the door, sending a troop of Boy Scouts careening across the room. At the end of the hall, standing over the two prettyboys, who were cowering in puddles of themselves and begging for their lives, was the wealthy communist drug-dealing terrorist Macarbo Gabizi. Macarbo was from the Middle East and heavily involved in terrorist groups, whom he financed with drug money sold from his Colombian estate, drugs he helped smuggle into the United States through his connections in communist Cuba. Castro, if you must know.
"Macarbo!" exclaimed Patriot, aiming his pump-action shotgun at the hideous villain's face. They had known each other for years, since the beginning of this novel, and as many times as they had nearly killed each other, they felt comfortable on a first-name basis.
"Back off, capitalist western drug-free swine!" muttered Gabizi in his ethnic accent. "These Hollywood scum will be the first to die! How will your America feel when I destroy its two greatest heroes!"
"Its greatest movie heroes," reminded Patriot. "You've still got the real thing to deal with. That's right, Macarbo, these two may be more used to trailers and Hollywood Boulevard she-males than real bullets and blood and bloodshed from bullets. But I'm the one you really want. Let them go. And I'll exchange myself for them."
Though it made no sense, Macarbo agreed, shoving them forcefully from the second-floor window, causing both to sprain their uvulas. As promised, even though it was a promise to a good-for-nothing godless communist smackhead pusher-man insane terrorist… Patriot lowered his gun.   |
