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President Bush Accidentally Left Home AloneCountry, president relatively unharmed after 8 unwatched hours June 24, 2002 |
Washington, D.C. Whit Pistol Bush describes harrowing loneliness of 8-hour ordeal
It started as an evacuation of the White House after a lost pilot, flying a private Cessna, flew through White House airspace. Heightened precautions called for the White House staff and administration to leave the building until the potential threat was abated, and somehow in the confusion, the president was left unsupervised.
"I thought [secret service operative] Larry had him, Larry thought I had him," said secret service operative Todd H...
fearful nation was relieved at the end of an 8-hour period in which President George W. Bush was left home alone in the White House. According to White House sources, though the potential for harm to the president, the nation, and the house itself was great, the president's 8-hour unsupervised period ended without incident.
It started as an evacuation of the White House after a lost pilot, flying a private Cessna, flew through White House airspace. Heightened precautions called for the White House staff and administration to leave the building until the potential threat was abated, and somehow in the confusion, the president was left unsupervised.
"I thought [secret service operative] Larry had him, Larry thought I had him," said secret service operative Todd Henry. "I guess the little bugger got away from us. It happens."
When it was discovered everyone had vacated the White House except for the president, secret service commander Dick Gautier immediately ordered agents to return for the president. It was upon their return they found the White House doors locked and the windows sealed shut.
"It's not uncommon for the president to lock us out of rooms inside the White House," admitted Gautier. "Either intentionally or by lack of understanding of the door locking mechanism. But this was the first time the entire secret service, indeed everyone in the White House, had been locked outside with the president inside."
White House officials took quick steps to keep the information silent, but White House press had already noticed the president missing from his outside emergency pen and suspected something was amiss. commune correspondent Lil Duncan broke the story with privileged information obtained from some masculine insider source who allegedly resembles Richard Grieco. With little other recourse, White House spokesperson Ari Fleischer informed the press.
"At this time, the president is believed to be alone in the White House," said Fleischer, refusing to take any questions. "He will not come to the door and does not answer the phone, but it is possible he can't hear us knocking or ringing. Keep in mind, it is a big house. We suspect right now he is watching TV in the presidential den."
Initially the secret service offered no explanation if the president had been left inside by someone locking the door on their way out or if the president had locked the doors and windows himself intentionally. The president could be seen walking briefly past an east side window, pausing, holding a hand up to his ear, and shrugging his shoulders before leaving view, a beer in his hand.
The anxious waiting ended at 7:25 p.m. when a secret service agent returned from home with a wire coathanger. The back door of the White House was then jimmied open and the secret service led the return into the house. The president was found playing Grand Theft Auto 3 in the presidential game room, apparently oblivious to the evacuation.
An angry nation will no doubt demand attention to this situation for weeks to come, as long as the networks are showing repeats. It is expected that secret service and other government agencies will take steps to prevent the president being left unsupervised in the future. There is talk of hiding an extra key to the White House somewhere on the grounds, though for the sake of national security no one is saying where. the commune has it on good information that on top of a high window shudder or taped under the mailbox are leading good secret key spots as of press time. the commune news would never be caught dead in a suit, though we wouldn't be adverse to being found dead nude in a bathtub. Lil Duncan is the commune's Washington correspondent and is on top of the news when it happens. Don't snicker, she'll get pissed at us.
 | Couple Share Love Hot Enough to Destroy Colorado WildernessTrue romance burns out of control through forest June 24, 2002 |
Red-hot smokin' love levels entire forest.
The couple in question is U.S. Forest Service worker Terry Barton and her husband, whose identity has yet to be released by police. Barton and her husband came to the attention of the nation after Barton was recently named the prime suspect who started the fire that currently ravages through Colorado forest land.
Since the fire started June 8, it has destroyed many homes, required the evacuation of nearly 9,000 residents, and spread to 136,000 acres. The extent of the devastation is so vast it is the leading reason to doubt Barton's assertio...
n the lighter side of the news, in dark days where most of the news consists of political scandals and terrorist strikes on the domestic front, a national story about a couple's blazing love has captured America's attention.
The couple in question is U.S. Forest Service worker Terry Barton and her husband, whose identity has yet to be released by police. Barton and her husband came to the attention of the nation after Barton was recently named the prime suspect who started the fire that currently ravages through Colorado forest land.
Since the fire started June 8, it has destroyed many homes, required the evacuation of nearly 9,000 residents, and spread to 136,000 acres. The extent of the devastation is so vast it is the leading reason to doubt Barton's assertion that she started the fire by accident after burning a letter from her estranged husband. It's a new level of destruction caused by a postal delivery, especially for a letter containing no anthrax.
Upon Barton's Thursday indictment, prosecutors in the case would detail no clear motive or Barton's reasoning in setting the fire that has caused so much damage, but they did state Barton's account of the fire accidentally escaping her control did not match forensic facts recovered at the scene.
FBI and other police agencies, however, have stated that they have re-opened previous wildfire files as arson cases. In particular, neighbors and acquaintances of Barton are being interviewed to discover the welfare of her lovelife around 1871, and if she was around Chicago at the time.
Police and media are working to put a negative spin on Barton's actions, focusing on the damage to property and endangerment of innocent lives, but it's hard to deny the romantic side of the story. Already, nationwide, fires are being set in the name of love, following Barton's original response to her break-up.
"It sounds real cool to say, you know," said 20-year-old college student Naomi Blooger. "I burned down half of Colorado because I love you so much. I mean, I key-scratched a guy's car once, but I've never loved anybody enough to kill wildlife and clear major acreage."
Others agreed with Blooger's reaction.
"Who wouldn't be impressed?" said Penelope Fitzsimmons. "I wish I had someone who loved me enough to torch miles and miles of forestry. I've got a new definition of true love."
Despite the charm of the felony, prosecutors fail to see the human side of the crime and are instead focusing on displaced people and animals, as well as the countless numbers of both placed in jeopardy by Barton's actions. Even worse, at the time of press, her actions had failed to woo back her husband. No telling at this time if Barton planned further vandalism or arson. the commune news has always been fond of burnin' love, but not burnin' crotch pain. Kendra Beuttle is a commune correspondent who just wants to crawl into a bubblebath after a long hard day at work, and fortunately, Ramon Nootles has one.
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 June 24, 2002 Cesarean Sections are Overratedthe commune's Omar Bricks goes looking for an Uptown girl Piss on the shitdick who says Omar Bricks doesn't have any culture; I went to the opera last weekend. I picked up a ticket from some guy in a pillow-quilted jacket down by the bus station on the way home on Friday, and Saturday night I was there at the opera house, dressed to the nines in the flashiest translucent shirt any of those crusty old shits had ever seen.
I told whoever's grandpa it was taking the tickets that I wanted to be seated in the Cesarean Section, because I hadn't had time to stop by the sporting goods store to pick up any binoculars on the way over and Omar Bricks doesn't pay good money not to enjoy an opera with all four senses. I'd wanted to swing by Kleggman's to get a pair of those gigantic 'nocs you see the cops use in the movies, the ones that are so ...
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Piss on the shitdick who says Omar Bricks doesn't have any culture; I went to the opera last weekend. I picked up a ticket from some guy in a pillow-quilted jacket down by the bus station on the way home on Friday, and Saturday night I was there at the opera house, dressed to the nines in the flashiest translucent shirt any of those crusty old shits had ever seen.
I told whoever's grandpa it was taking the tickets that I wanted to be seated in the Cesarean Section, because I hadn't had time to stop by the sporting goods store to pick up any binoculars on the way over and Omar Bricks doesn't pay good money not to enjoy an opera with all four senses. I'd wanted to swing by Kleggman's to get a pair of those gigantic 'nocs you see the cops use in the movies, the ones that are so damn big you can see what the dude ate for lunch when he hits those high notes, you know what I'm talking about? Now that's fuckin' opera. But my bus doesn't swing over that way and I'm not about to hoof it ten blocks just so I can count the fat rolls on some chick in a Viking helmet. And there's no point in wasting a night sitting up in the nosebleeds where you'll never see the beer guy again after the first act anyway.
Turns out the crusty old bastard thought I was kidding, as if Omar Bricks looks like he couldn't afford the good seats. Which is totally true, but where the hell does he get off? Lucky for him he reminded me of the dad from Diff'rent Strokes or else I might have had to egg his mansion. We discussed the matter for a while and conferred with some security personnel before we all decided to settle it with a footrace. I got to the good seats first, fair and square, with only a minimum of old-lady-pushing involved, but they turned out to be sore losers and I spent the rest of the night in a bar down the street.
Some guy I was talking to at the bar was telling me that a Cesarean Section is actually an operation where they surgically remove the baby from a pregnant chick's stomach. That was about the nastiest thing I'd ever heard in my life and I was sure the guy was making it up, but turns out he was right. I hope he knew I was kidding about his sister's porn career. But seriously, what in the hell is the world coming to these days? Are people now even too lazy to shit out the baby when it's ripe?
Next thing you know we'll all have colostomy bags so we don't miss any of the funny commercials on TV. Then everybody will be happy as sperm whales until they're in the middle of a Seinfeld when they realize their shit bag's topped off. We'll have to invent some kind of reverse pizza delivery guys to come around and pick up the bags on demand. "We'll be there in 30 minutes or less, or your dialysis is free!" What a life. Sure, it'll make for some funny soccer bloopers, but talk about your messy Armageddon-style bicycle accidents. Or skydiving mishaps, yeeich.
I don't know, it may sound like a utopia to you, but I think it'll end up being more trouble than it's worth. All of a sudden they'll be kicking you out of the opera because your shit bag doesn't match your tux. Sound hard to believe? They're already closer than you think, and I should know. If Prince can show up at the MTV Video Awards with his ass all hanging out, who are these guys to say shower sandals are inappropriate attire for their lousy little opera? It's not like I was performing or anything.
But that's the future for you. A couple of fatasses up on a stage, screaming in Italian while an army of old farts sit in the audience, benignly crapping away in their color-coordinated shit bags. Jesus. I'd move to Canada if it didn't mean going metric.
You can go on ahead and go softly into that goodnight if it suits you, but the bastards can have Omar Bricks' voluntary bowel movements when they pry them from his cold, dead fingers.
Bricks out. º Last Column: Miracle in a Bottleº more columns | 
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Milestones2000: Ramrod Hurley is hired as a commune correspondent after the failure of his startup internet company, www.poopoftheday.com.Now HiringExtras. Positions available for extras in Boogie Nights 2. Minimum wage, lunch provided as well as SAG credit. Full frontal nudity required, well-endowed equipment or prosthetics a plus. Bestselling Books| 1. | The Tired Lawyer Concept
John Grisham | | 2. | Sexual Intercourse For Dummies
Mitch Harvey | | 3. | Networking For Assholes
Kelly Ward | | 4. | Spanish For the Impotent
Dean Harmon | | 5. | The Dysfunctional Family Who Could Not Suppress Their Problems For One Lousy Thanksgiving
Rupert Baird | |
|   Popular '80s Trend of Fearing Nuclear Annihilation Back BY southern elvis brandon 6/10/2002 The Negative Sum of NumbersThere was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at the...
There was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.
Mom and dad couldn't meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn't prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.
Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie "Big Fucking Junkie" Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at the airport, but once again, Eddie had let him down. Smythe was forced to fly back to New York City and drive all the way back in his car. You'd think after all this time he'd be used to Eddie letting him down. It was something he had never gotten used to.
Smythe went to Eddie's parents' house, where there was a huge hub-bub going on. Apparently, there was a party in full gear! Shit. Just like Eddie. Saturday afternoon and the party is still going on.
Parking his car, Smythe walked around back and found the yard full of fat degenerates. Ugly, down-trodden, just aching for a fix or to gamble or have sex with a dead person, no way of telling how far these people had slid from society's ranks.
"Where's Eddie?" demanded Smythe. People were confused and a little frightened, one was pregnant, and a guy eventually pointed toward the house.
Smythe stormed through the house, bumping into freak after weirdo, until he found the upstairs bathroom. Two guys were standing around doing God knew what, holding cocktails and waiting outside the bathroom. Smythe kicked it in, and inside, to his suspicions, he found Eddie sitting on the toilet.
"Jesus!" said Eddie, pulling up his pants. "You scared me, Smythe! I had to pinch one off!"
"Stop the act, Eddie," Smythe commanded, looking in the toilet for drugs. "I know you flushed the drugs down the toilet. And then pooed in there so I wouldn't search too good. Why, Eddie?"
"I—"
"Shut-up! I don't want to hear your lies anymore." And he didn't. Smythe dragged Eddie out by the arm as Eddie continued trying to pull his pants up. Smythe tossed him to the floor, as one of the suited guys entered the bathroom.
"C'mon, man, be cool!" pleaded Eddie.
"Knock off the act, Eddie, you're a junkie!" snapped Smythe. "I know you're jealous of me. I went to Art College, Eddie, it doesn't mean I don't still love you like a brother. If you want to be jealous, that's fine, but don't lose yourself in these ridiculous drugs. You're killing yourself."
"I told you, I don't take drugs!" said Eddie.
"Fuck you, Eddie," said Smythe, in a language that would have disappointed his mother. "You not only take drugs, you make them! Everybody knows it, it's no secret."
"I told you this before, man, I make an acid-reflux inhibitor. And I don't make it myself, I'm just CEO of the company that makes it. It's over-the-counter—"
"Aaaah!" screamed Smythe, grabbing his head like James Dean. "Stop the lies, Eddie!"
"It's the truth, you dick," said Eddie, standing up again and straightening his tie. "And for the last time, I'm not jealous of you going to Art School. I told you, I graduated six years ago with a Masters in Business Management from Princeton. Now if you're done interrupting the company picnic, I've got a three-legged race to win."
It was too much for Smythe. He let Eddie exit in peace, talking to another guy in a suit about fourth quarter earnings and appeasing stockholders. He just wanted to walk away, but Smythe knew if he didn't do something Eddie would be dead before he was 30. Next month.   |
