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Arafat Voted "Hunkiest Palestinian"Popular boy-band leader wins award for 28th straight year April 15, 2002 |
Ramallah, West Bank Ansel Evans Arafat poses for an Arab Teen photo shoot
In a café here on the West Bank, 16-year-old rock-throwing enthusiast Rajouba Aswan said about Mr. Arafat, "He's the OG, man. He's to die for." Friend Jamil Barghouti, 17, chimed in, while adjusting an explosive-laden vest. "That's right, yo. Yas-Dog – I mean, Mr. Arafat – is da bomb."
Cited by West Bank teenagers as reaso...
or a record 28th year in a row, Yasser Arafat, leader of the mega-popular boy band PLO, has been voted "Hunkiest Palestinian." The award, which often leads to lucrative endorsement deals and speaking engagements, was not unexpected. Mr. Arafat had token opposition from members of PLO-spinoff bands Hamas and Hezbollah, but no one seriously expected any of them to challenge the reigning MC Mullah of the Gaza for the winner's turban this year.
In a café here on the West Bank, 16-year-old rock-throwing enthusiast Rajouba Aswan said about Mr. Arafat, "He's the OG, man. He's to die for." Friend Jamil Barghouti, 17, chimed in, while adjusting an explosive-laden vest. "That's right, yo. Yas-Dog – I mean, Mr. Arafat – is da bomb."
Cited by West Bank teenagers as reasons for voting for Mr. Arafat as the Imam of Palestinian Hunks were, among other reasons, "the way that big bottom lip of his quivers when he talks," and "his rad beard, dude." Also mentioned were his "big, sad puppy dog eyes," and his "cool sense of fashion."
Asked for comment, Mr. Arafat responded, "I am humbled to be once again chosen, praise Allah, and I would like to send my thanks and blessings to all the young G's and martyrs out there, to all my peeps and homies. May Allah smile upon you, and may your quota of 70 virgins in paradise be each one beautiful and have all of their own teeth." Here at the commune, you can rest assured that all of our virgins have their full complement of teeth. Bludney Plud, after a short stint in an unnamed rehab center, is back at his keyboard, and hardly ever thinks about all those self-esteem issues he once had anymore.
 | Church Clarifies "No Sex With Kids" Stance April 15, 2002 |
Archdeacon Mavis Plum is totally shocked. Really.
“I don’t know where people got the idea that the church is all about buggering little kids, maybe we should start covering that a bit more in Sunday school,” said Archdeacon Mavis Plum in a recent interview. “Maybe a new commandment would help, something catchy like ‘Thou shall not pork a preschooler.’ It would certainly help with public relations.”
Other members of th...
n the face of countless allegations of sexual misconduct among its priests, including criminal charges of child molestation and the popularity of the high-profile “Catholic Priests Gone Wild” DVD series, the Roman Catholic Church has issued a new public statement clarifying its position on grown men having sex with little kids. And the answer may surprise you: They’re against it. “I don’t know where people got the idea that the church is all about buggering little kids, maybe we should start covering that a bit more in Sunday school,” said Archdeacon Mavis Plum in a recent interview. “Maybe a new commandment would help, something catchy like ‘Thou shall not pork a preschooler.’ It would certainly help with public relations.” Other members of the church seemed more surprised by the announcement. “What?” questioned Rev. Phil Binder, shuffling an issue of Tiger Beat magazine under some papers on his desk. “Since when? What the hell else would you want to be a priest for, the dental plan? Shit.” Binder cut the interview short as he hurriedly dialed his telephone. “These recent allegations really have shocked the church community,” insisted Mavis. “I mean, who would expect that men, deprived of normal sexual outlets for a lifetime, would eventually turn to the nearest moist orifice for satisfaction? I mean, prisoners, maybe. Guys living in Wyoming, sure. Have you seen the women there? Yikes. But men of God? It’s long been assumed that the power of the holy spirit would give them the strength to overcome the inevitable pull of a young altar boy’s beautiful, untainted anus. But I guess not. The devil must really have gotten into those boys, to seduce priests like that. It’s amazing. It buggers the mind. Boggles.” Concerned parents nationwide were relieved by the announcement. Sandy Maynard of Des Plains, IA summed up the reactions of many. “I just sighed a big, relieved sigh. It’s stressful, trying to balance eternal damnation on one hand and having your kids ass-rammed on the other. Nobody wants to piss off God by not being involved in the church, you know? But to tell you the truth, I always thought those church sleepovers were a little weird. When I was a kid, I’m pretty sure the body of Christ you accepted during communion didn’t involve throbbing man-meat.” The announcement is only the first step in a plan to change the public’s perception of the Catholic Church as a NAMBLA meeting with wine. This week, motivational posters featuring popular cartoon characters and slogans like “Play it straight—don’t penetrate,” “Abstinence now: Miles of underage rectums in heaven” and “When in doubt, don’t whip it out” will be distributed to churches nationwide in an effort to help priests with the transition to a sodomy-free church experience. When asked how the church could have overlooked what must have been obvious signs of altar boy mistreatment over the years, Archdeacon Plum muttered something about not running a daycare center while frowning at the screen of his Game Boy. Bishop Theodore Rexall would not return the commune’s calls regarding the same question, or our questions about if he’s the one who can move diagonally or if that’s a Rook. the commune news hasn’t been to church in years, and have that to thank for our rock-solid sexual identity. Kendra Beuttle was until recently a meter reader for Con Ed, but was hired onto the commune staff in accordance with our new “Dodge the Electric Bill” policy for 2002.
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 April 15, 2002 Slice of Life"Once in a while someone will ask me, 'Samuel L. Hartwig, what's your view of life?' I'll usually say the same thing: I'm paying you for the entire hour, doctor, you should be answering my damn questions.
I do have an answer, though: Life is just like a picnic. Everybody shows up expecting a piece of the pie. Some rush the picnic table, some walk to the picnic table. Some trample and pound on your brother Goose and say it's because they worried there wouldn't be enough pie for everyone, but you suspect it's because Goose likes to flash gang signals. Then you finally get to the picnic table yourself—not the fastest, not the slowest, but you get there just the same.
And the damn pie is all eaten up! What's with that? It's a friggin' picnic, mom, you should have kn...
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"Once in a while someone will ask me, 'Samuel L. Hartwig, what's your view of life?' I'll usually say the same thing: I'm paying you for the entire hour, doctor, you should be answering my damn questions.
I do have an answer, though: Life is just like a picnic. Everybody shows up expecting a piece of the pie. Some rush the picnic table, some walk to the picnic table. Some trample and pound on your brother Goose and say it's because they worried there wouldn't be enough pie for everyone, but you suspect it's because Goose likes to flash gang signals. Then you finally get to the picnic table yourself—not the fastest, not the slowest, but you get there just the same.
And the damn pie is all eaten up! What's with that? It's a friggin' picnic, mom, you should have known everybody was going to want pie. You were making one, was two pies beyond your pie-making capacity? 'Cause that's a pretty shitty pie-making capacity, if you ask me.
Then mom tells you she did make two pies, and you feel a little sheepish and realize it was all a big fuss for nothing. You step right up and cut into your slice of the pie, that was there all along.
'This is coconut, mom!' you scream at her. What's wrong with coconut? Oh, nothing, only it fucking kills me dead. That might be a slight problem. I'm your own son and you don't know I'm allergic to coconut? Nice. Just great. You couldn't save one piece of blueberry pie that would not kill me but there's a whole untouched killer coconut pie waiting just for me. What a fantastic substitute.
No, I don't want a fruitcup. Do you want a fruitcup? I'll tell you where you can shove a fruitcup. Leave me alone, I'm going to play Frisbee with those kids. Maybe you'll get lucky and some coconut will accidentally blow into my mouth from the death pie over here and you'll finally be rid of me.
Yep. That's kind of how I see life." º Last Column: The Roomº more columns | 
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Milestones2002: Office prick and former Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley successfully turns 30, leading us on an endless week-long binge of bitching, moaning, and strange acts of vandalism we hope not to repeat this year.Now HiringBig Fat Patsy. 'Cause we're not taking the rap for this, see. We must look like a real all-day sucker to you, yeah, a sucker, with a big fat wrapper. Boy, should we have seen it coming! Played like a two-bit piano from day one. Backstabbing dames need not apply.Top Oprah Book Club Rejections| 1. | The Venomous Black Bitch by Phil Donahue | | 2. | Fried Pork Cracklin's in Butter by Flanny Fragg | | 3. | The Happy and Compliant Slave by Newt Whiteny | | 4. | How Stella Left Her Groove Under the Seat on the Plane Ride Back by Terry McMillan | | 5. | Fight Club by Jerry Springer | |
|   Falwell in Domain Name-Buying Frenzy BY kelly mckelly 4/15/2002 I'm Telling Everyone Bob Wright's An AssholeIt was about 3 in the morning this night, a Sunday. I had been up for three days straight on heroin and speed, suffering only minor hallucinations. I saw a tiny pixie chewing on a dead crow, which would have been disturbing, but I had started to roll with the visions. It was actually just my diminuitive friend Tim Birdsell eating a box of KFC he was nursing for the same three days.
Bob was a mess. He never dealt well with being extremely wasted, we all knew it and had started to hope the S.O.B. would just overdose and stop bringing us down. Bob climbed up on top of the water tower at one point and demanded from God that he be able to fly. We were afraid he was going to jump, thinking he could fly, but apparently his refusal to do so was simply because in his paranoia he figure...
It was about 3 in the morning this night, a Sunday. I had been up for three days straight on heroin and speed, suffering only minor hallucinations. I saw a tiny pixie chewing on a dead crow, which would have been disturbing, but I had started to roll with the visions. It was actually just my diminuitive friend Tim Birdsell eating a box of KFC he was nursing for the same three days.
Bob was a mess. He never dealt well with being extremely wasted, we all knew it and had started to hope the S.O.B. would just overdose and stop bringing us down. Bob climbed up on top of the water tower at one point and demanded from God that he be able to fly. We were afraid he was going to jump, thinking he could fly, but apparently his refusal to do so was simply because in his paranoia he figured that's what God wanted to just destroy him. Of course, if God had wanted to destroy him, I mean, c'mon, He's God, He can do whatever he wants. He doesn't have to angle his way to your destruction or nothing.
We all did lots of drugs, but Bob was self-destructive about it. Too much was never enough, and never enough was always far from finished, and far from finished was just—it was all a shitload of drugs, that's all I know. He filled a Lincoln town car with cocaine one evening and snorted it all over the course of the weekend. His whole head was as hollow as a chocolate bunny's by Monday morning. One time I saw Bob feed six pounds of hashish to a burro and smoke its ass. He was way over the top, we all knew it. He was going to crash and burn, and it would be at the same time.
Sex with Bob was always terribly embarrassing for him. His penis had shrunk to an inch and a half, fully erect, and often when we were supposed to be having sex he had been fucking the cat for five minutes before I told him his error. And when we did manage to have sex it was over so fast I think we actually went back in time. It was like we stopped ourselves from having sex before we had it he was so quick to ejaculate.
Bob's eyes were bloodshot on this Sunday night, practically bulging out of his head and into my chicken noodle soup. I was trying to sober up quick because Monday morning I needed to be at Cher's by 10 a.m.—I was a close confidential friend of hers for several years as well, which I'll dish out all the dirt on in a future book. I thought if I left Bob might die, but despite my pleas to please not die while I was gone, there was nothing I could do. I wrote a post-it for Bob, asking him to get help while there was still time, but I don't think he ever got it. Or if he did, he didn't take me seriously.
I found Bob in the studio three days later, passed out on the Marshall Tucker Band. At this point his habit was at its worst, he had taken to mainlining John Denver records and I was sure he would be dead by the weekend. But somehow Bob always managed to snap out of it long enough to record another hit album. It was this record-injecting session that turned out "Mixed Fruitcup Blues," one of his most touching ballads ever, and he had actually come up with the lyrics while the microphone was fully inserted up his ass. When they say Bob Wright's a genius, that's what they mean.
Bob and I had about six months left in our relationship, yet as bad as our relationship would get at times, I've never hated him for what he's done to me. He's simply Bob, that's who he is. He is no more responsible for being a drug-addled, childish musical genius than I'm responsible for being a two-faced confidant.   |
