 | 
Scientists Discover Massive Burrito at Center of GalaxyUnexpected entrée sets off grumble in tummy of astronomical community October 28, 2002 |
Marquette, Michigan Imagining Dept. The space burrito, if of the breakfast variety, could decide the "chicken vs. the egg" debate forever. Unless there’s a massive space chicken someplace.
"I was staying late in the lab one night, after everybody else had gone home," stated the lab’s head astronomer, Bruce Coltrane. "And I was getting pretty tired and hungry so I was about to shut off the telescopes and get some late-night BBQ when I caught sight of something on the screen that didn’t seem quite right."
"At first I thought somebody must’ve taped another one of those pictures cut out of a Maxim to the screen, since the guys are pretty funny ...
stronomers at Michigan’s Northern Peninsula Basalt College went public today with observations made near the cloudy heart of the Milky Way Galaxy, which have indicated with near certainty the existence of a massive central space burrito, a theoretical Mexican entrée that had previously eluded detection.
"I was staying late in the lab one night, after everybody else had gone home," stated the lab’s head astronomer, Bruce Coltrane. "And I was getting pretty tired and hungry so I was about to shut off the telescopes and get some late-night BBQ when I caught sight of something on the screen that didn’t seem quite right."
"At first I thought somebody must’ve taped another one of those pictures cut out of a Maxim to the screen, since the guys are pretty funny about that kind of stuff. I could tell you stories about the time we thought we found Carmen Electra orbiting Chiron. What a crazy week! But this time, when I checked closer, it couldn’t be denied. We were dealing with the genuine article here. I caught my breath, looked closer, and fuck a duck, man! That thing’s a giant burrito!"
"And then I laughed, ’cause, man, what a crazy thing to say! Shiiit."
"Bruce is the man. If he said he saw a gigantic burrito 500 times the size of the sun out in the middle of the Milky Way, then that’s good enough for me," said fellow astronomer and goatee advocate Mark Fitch. "Sign me up for the Burrito Cult or whatever the deal’s going to be now. I’ll put on the velcro sneakers and drink the blue Kool-Aid when the burrito swings by the earth to pick up the true believers. Fuck it, man, whatever."
Since having its state funding cut in 1994, Northern Peninsula Basalt College’s astronomy program has led the nation in startling astronomical discoveries. Among those include Animal Planet, Orion’s Tits and the St. Bernard of Delta 7.
When asked what he thinks of the astronomy community’s opinion of the Northern Peninsula Basalt astronomy department, Fitch was philsophical. "Eh, fuck ’em. What do they know, with their giant telescopes and their fancy degrees and all that noise? Without street smarts, all that shit is useless anyway."
"As far as I know, this is the first time someone’s found anything like this," offered Coltrane. "I mean, they’ve probably found Mexican food out in space before, but this big? Tacquitos, maybe. And what if they found one like a million years ago, before anybody knew what a burrito was? What would they call it? A space tube? And back then they didn’t have big-assed telescopes like we’ve got now. They might have mistaken it for a Chimichanga. Maybe? Make that probably."
"It might be difficult for the layman to understand how such a thing could exist. But trust me when I say that the universe is full of all kinds of strange and mysterious shwag," continued Coltrane, backed by a poster of Copernicus smoking the moon in a water bong.
Fitch and Coltrane were wary of careless speculation, but both agreed that a manned mission to explore the burrito was practically inevitable.
"Who knows what mysteries could be wrapped up in that tortilla?" pondered Coltrane. "Like, how many layers has that thing got? And does it have guacamole? I hate guacamole. But who made it, and why haven’t they eaten it yet? That’s one to blow your mind. But even just on the practical level, we’ve got to get some guys up there. We’re talking beans the size of foreign cars. Poor people could live in those things, and then eat their houses."
Fitch agreed, as he licked his lips and distractedly eyed the heavens. the commune news works hard for the money, so we sure hope you don’t consider that a complete blowjob. Ramon Nootles is every mother’s worst nightmare, and one very unlucky girl’s Mystery Date.
 | Sniper Perpetuates Exciting New Muslim StereotypesOld negative typecasting replaced by brand new negative images October 28, 2002 |
Rockville, Maryland Whit Pistol/AP Police search the vehicle belonging to daring new stereotype and alleged sniper John Allen Muhammad. The picture of the gun is for shits and giggles.
The suspects arrested for the crimes, John Allen Muhammad and John Lee Malvo, were like a Sanford & Son for the Guns and Ammo set, spending years of their lives as desperate loners together, acting for reasons not yet known to the public as they killed random victims and threatened the United States, requesting the reasonable extortion fee of $10 million to cease their terror. While little is known about the suspects, it is known that Muhammad, a Muslim, has done a bang-up job in putting a positive fo...
eligious differences again proved insurmountable, this time in the case of the pair of snipers who terrorized the east coast of the United States with a string of fatal attacks that left ten dead and countless others terrified to walk in a straight line to work or school.
The suspects arrested for the crimes, John Allen Muhammad and John Lee Malvo, were like a Sanford & Son for the Guns and Ammo set, spending years of their lives as desperate loners together, acting for reasons not yet known to the public as they killed random victims and threatened the United States, requesting the reasonable extortion fee of $10 million to cease their terror. While little is known about the suspects, it is known that Muhammad, a Muslim, has done a bang-up job in putting a positive foot forward for the Islamic community.
"Oh, goody," said President of the Positive Islam Group (PIG) Al-Abib Farouzi, "at last, a Muslim making the news who is not a foreign terrorist. This is more than we could have hoped for."
According to PIG, Muhammad has managed to break the usual American stereotype of Muslims who live in faraway third-world countries who wish death on America and commit gigantic acts of terrorism.
"Now when people think of Muslims," said Farouzi, "they'll know that in addition to the foreign-born terrorists moving around them, Muslims can also be van-driving serial killers who strike without apparent motivation and prey on anybody who makes an easy shot."
Muhammad, in his two-man tirade of raining bullets, has challenged post-September 11th stereotypes of domestic Muslims being normal Americans with no desire to kill or harm in any way. He has also reminded most Americans, who are quick to assume security in the areas they live, that danger doesn't only lurk in air travel or opening strange envelopes, but can come from anywhere at any time. Death is only a random bullet away.
"Thank you, Mr. Muhammad," said 24-year-old Maryland college student Marjorie Block. "I had previously begun to speculate maybe the anger Muslims feel toward the United States was possibly politically motivated due to unwanted government intervention in countries we had financial stakes in—I now foolishly see that Muslims just want money. Or they hate people walking around without flak jackets and helmets."
The negative Muslim images couldn't have come at a worse time for Islamic Americans, who were beginning to make a dent in negative Muslim images in the wake of the United States' War on Terror and the possibility of war with Iraq. Plans to add an Islamic muppet to Sesame Street have been stalled in the wake of the sniper arrest and ABC has dropped a mid-season pilot for My Six Wives and Kids, a Muslim sitcom.
"We have worked diligently at improving the perception of Muslims in the United States, domestic and abroad," PIG President Farouzi later stated. "And our hard work has been brought down by another brazen asshole. Thanks, dickhead—any other negative racial or religious stereotypes you'd like to perpetuate, as long as you're up?" the commune news is halfway through reading the Koran right now—don't you dare tell us how it ends! Raoul Dunkin is the king of sarcasm around here… at least, we think he is—it's hard to tell if he's being sarcastic or not when he says that.
| Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around |
|
|
| 
 November 11, 2002 I Just Wanted a Card That Said "Sorry For Kicking Your Grandma in the Kidneys"the commune's Mitch Kroeger is lost in the greeting card aisle Hallmark is going down. Ask yourself, where are they when you really need them? All I wanted was a card that said "Sorry for Kicking Your Grandma in the Kidneys," was that too much to ask? Apparently so. Time and time again Hallmark has left me high and dry to draw up my own cards of one stick figure putting the boot-stomp on another, or a cat getting sucked into a lawnmower. God knows I can't draw, and thanks to my inept doodles I think my cards often confuse the situation more than they help it. And I always misspell "convalescence." It's embarrassing.
I guess Hallmark just caters to the goody two-shoes religious minority out there who never need cards that explain honestly confusing a schoolyard with an archery range. That's fine if it makes them feel good about themselves,...
º Last Column:
º more columns
Hallmark is going down. Ask yourself, where are they when you really need them? All I wanted was a card that said "Sorry for Kicking Your Grandma in the Kidneys," was that too much to ask? Apparently so. Time and time again Hallmark has left me high and dry to draw up my own cards of one stick figure putting the boot-stomp on another, or a cat getting sucked into a lawnmower. God knows I can't draw, and thanks to my inept doodles I think my cards often confuse the situation more than they help it. And I always misspell "convalescence." It's embarrassing. I guess Hallmark just caters to the goody two-shoes religious minority out there who never need cards that explain honestly confusing a schoolyard with an archery range. That's fine if it makes them feel good about themselves, but where does it leave me? I'll tell you where: Running down to the drugstore for construction paper and glitter glue every other damned day. And who passed the law saying you can't buy single crayons? I'm tired of having to buy a whole new set every time I wear out the red. It's a scam, and it wouldn't surprise me if Hallmark was behind it all. I hear they bought up all of the crayon and marker companies right before they yanked their excellent all-purpose "Woops! Excuse the Boner!" card off the market back in the early 80's. Now I'm not one to sit idly by while a bunch of card-writing fairies make and asshole out of me and my likeminded friends. I can ro-sham-bo with the best of 'em, and my answer is to give Hallmark a kick right in the nut called competition. That's right, I'm starting my own card company. Hallmark's had it's time to shine, now it's time for that dinosaur to croak and lay down dead for a long time so it can be gas for my SUV. I'm gonna hit those poofs right where they live. Or don't live. Whatever you want to call it. Point is, I'm gonna make the cards that Hallmark won't. Remorseful Rascal Cards, I'll call it. And it'll be huge, like the Goodyear blimp wearing pants. Take my word on that. Those fussy little milquetoasts won't know what hit 'em. The possibilities are endless. Hell, we can do a whole line on the unintended consequences of blindly discharging a shotgun out your bedroom window alone. A big moneymaker there, mark my words. Here's another great one: Let's say you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, riding a forklift over some guy's wife while she's out bicycling or something. No problem. We'll have this card with a guy on the front of it in a giant baby diaper, looking all ashamed, and on the inside it'll say "Sowwy about my widow accident!" You deliver that with some flowers to the funeral and bingo, you're a class act in everybody's eyes. That's the magic of greeting cards. I've already got a million of these things written in my head. Some real zingers, too. "Sorry to hear your dad got the cancer, I guess my setting your lawn on fire doesn't seem like such a big deal now, does it?" I could have used that one last year. "Only one of us thought my D.U.I. was funny… But that's because you couldn't see the look on your face when the Suburban hit your couch!"
Hallmark will probably last just long enough to regret the goldmine they let slip away. And by then it'll be too late, they'll have no choice but to squirm uncomfortably in their patent-leather seats, knowing R.R. Cards just gave them one big ole corporate murph.
That oughta teach 'em.
º Last Column:
º more columns
| 
|
| |
Quote of the Day“We'll meet again. You might say that's impossible, since people can only meet once, but they haven't factored in my patented time machine and early-onset Alzheimer's.”
-Capt. Don Spacegain, Year 3054Fortune 500 CookieNow's the perfect time to launch your alternative news website. Thursday's haul proves your friend's theory that the Halloween is really the only lucrative time for trick-or-treating. For your information, he's going to shoot his old woman down 'cause he caught her messing 'round with some other man; you don't need to know everything. Lucky son of a bitch.
Try again later.Top 5 Reasons You Won't Have to Kick Around the commune For Anymore| 1. | It’s expensive to run state of the art website and Dippin’ Dots franchise at the same time | | 2. | You assholes simply refused to spell our name appropriately in lowercase letters | | 3. | All of this was for date with girl at Blockbuster; she don’t work there no more | | 4. | Less writing and online publishing leaves more time to hang out at coffee shop writing thinly veiled autobiographic novel | | 5. | You never loved us | |
|   Future Bob Fails to Prevent Senator's Death BY roland mcshyster 10/28/2002 Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama ...
Hello hello, America!
Boy have we got some nipples for you this week! I ca- nipples? You know what I mean, America, movies. Weird. Some people think it's significant when you nip out like that, ma- slip up, nip rocks, whatever. It's not like this is a column about taut, hairy man-nipples or anything. Woman! Woman nipples. Hairless and soft. I mean, it's not about that either, but if this column were about nipples, it sure as hell wouldn't be about any tempting, salty, lickable man nipples. Gross.
All right, let's get to the boobies before somebody gets hurt.
In Theaters
Auto Focus
Ford loves to kiss its own ass over the fact that they present the hit drama 24 without commercial interruption, like Robitussin used to do with Twin Peaks. But then they turn around and flush all of that goodwill right down the crapper by putting out a movie that's one thinly-disguised two hour commercial for their miserable mini-car, the Focus. Sure, there's some porn and scandal and whatnot in there to distract you from this fact, but it's still obviously the opening salvo in the upcoming "Battle of the Shitty Midget Cars" with Ford trying to high-step its way out to an early lead over the Toyota Echo and the Chevy Burp. You might think the Honda Cramp should have a place in the fray, but it's technically in a different car class since you can fit a jug of milk in the trunk.
Formula 51
Leave it to Samuel L. Jackson to bring Heinz founder Mortimer P. Heinz to badass life on the big screen. Sure, Heinz wasn't black, but he sure made catsup like he was. And Jackson brings that tomato-squashing verve to this role so convincingly, you'll almost forget how he tricked you into paying to see that shitty genius shark movie a while back.
Ghost Ship
It sure as hell didn't work for Speed, but the makers of the 2001 Nintendo Pictures hit Ghost World apparently thought two times was a charm when they decided to needlessly recycle their hit film by setting the sequel on a big ol' boat. Sure, Patrick Swayzee gets to hop around some more and shoot fireballs out of his nose at skeleton pirates, and you know the kids love that, but not bringing back Whoopi Goldberg for the sequel was a big mistake, and the picture runs out of gas halfway through because of it. The second half of the film is exactly the same as the first, except now the ghosts are orange instead of blue, which I guess is supposed to mean something.
Jackass: The Movie
The elephant fetishists aren't going to like it, but Michael Moore's latest cannonball into the kiddie pool of conservative life is his funniest film yet. Not that it takes someone with an IQ over 15 to make our president look like a yokel, but Moore does it up right with this hilarious space invasion of all things George W. Bush. It's all here, every time he's made up a word to express his complex feelings during an interview, the notorious "Stuck Inside a Port-a-John" episode from the Republican Primaries, and some jaw-dropping super-8 footage of a teenage George W. being outsmarted by a Chinese finger trap (and tape of the classic 911 call that followed). Sometimes Moore can be too far-reaching in his satire, but this time he hit the nail on the nards.
The Truth About Charlie
Red Bagel's third unpublished book about the Vietnam War finally finds its way to the big screen, credited of course to one of Bagel's many pen names. Always one of the most popular of Bagel's photocopied manuscripts around his favorite local haunts (the Laundromat and the Crazy Crotch Tavern), Charlie uncovers the untold story of the Vietnam conflict, beginning with Grover Cleveland's illegal importation of midgets from the Orient in the 60's and continuing through the mock battles staged on a Hollywood set for the benefit of JFK's private investors. The book, if you can call a ragged stack of Xerox paper binder-clipped together a book, ripped the asshole off the entire cover-up, and changed the way about fifteen people thought about Vietnam forever. The movie, of course, is watered down horseshit with some pretty faces plastered on the package, but that's to be expected. The government hasn't let Hollywood come anywhere near the truth since Benji the Hunted in 1987*.
(*Note: Benji Bones a Bitch, the 1992 home-video hit, was filmed entirely in Vancouver, outside of the Hollywood system.)
Waking Up in Reno with Billy Bob Thornton
You know it's got to be Halloween season when they start putting scary junk in all of the upcoming movie trailers, like Jennifer Love Hewitt or shots of Billy Bob in his bikini briefs. This is what they mean when they call something a "Psychological Thriller," unless it's a movie about a killer psychologist, in which case that's what they mean. I probably should have seen it coming, from the title and all, but I have to admit I jumped halfway out of my pants during the scene when Ashley Judd wakes up and rolls over to find Mr. Slingblade between her sheets. Absolutely the scariest waking up scene since the one where that Canadian chick wakes up to find a moose head in her bed in The Godfather.
Well, it looks like that's that, America. Another two weeks down, another several hundred to go before we can lay down and die. That's how the country song goes, anyway. Old-time country, not this new truck commercial country they play nowadays. I'm talking about back when country was about having your balls chewed off by a thresher and how that means you won't be able to have no two-headed children with your cousin Moline, and how that drove you to drinkin'. These days country music is all about how your agent tricked your dumb country ass out of a million dollars and now you've got to do a Dr. Pepper commercial so the bank doesn't repossess your hideously decorated triple-decker yacht. It's crap, but it still sells since there are plenty of small-town minivan moms out there who need to be sheltered from irony. But listen to me here, you'd think I was trying to make up for not running any album reviews since Clinton was in office. Take it easy, America.    |
