Raoul Dunkin, Embedded in Paris

commune wastebasket phones it in from the city of surrender

March 31, 2003

Paris, France

Commune Art Dept.

Femme Reporter Raoul Dunkin (lower left corner) reports from the savagely snooty premiere city in France.

aoul Dunkin, insert your own slanderous insult here, reporting for the commune from Paris, France. Somehow my job is to cover a war in the Middle East, though your guess is as good as mine on how to do so from Paris.

The best explanation for how I landed this assignment is that dullest tool in the drawer Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor and possible Bachman-Turner Overdrive member, thought anti-American sentiment runs so high here I'd be ripped apart upon stepping off the plane. Having already sent danger magnet Ivan Nacutcha-whatever to the front lines, this probably seemed like the best option for getting me rubbed out, as I have no doubt the lunatic thinks I'm bucking for his job.

Fortunately for this commune whipping boy, I speak fluent French and my own anti-American sentiment runs so high I fit in pretty well with the locals. I've joined in a few local protests at the local McDonald's, but mostly I've been spending my time drinking the world's best wine, smoking thin cigarettes, and living the high life on Ramrod's expense account. Did you know you can actually buy some of the paintings at the Louvre? Surprised me, too.

Anyway, by the time Bagel gets back and has a look at all the damage Hurley's done I wouldn't be surprised if he finds himself the new public enemy number one. Fine by me. I've had enough shit from those yokels to last Bagel's lifetime. Oh, by the way, if you should ever get to France and they don't ridicule you back to the stone age for being American, you should try some of the cuisine. The women are exceedingly naughty, too. Hot mamas.

I suppose I should report on the war at any rate. Not much to say, to tell the truth. I'm looking out a window facing the western sky right now and I can see no sign of impending missile attacks or bombing raids of any sort. I thought I heard an air raid siren sounding an hour ago but it turned out to be a couple of cats getting familiar with each other. I threw a block of cheese at them (or fromage) and they ran off. No reports of any cat casualties or anything.

I asked the concierge and some other folks about the possibility of chemical weapons, and while there is some notable body funk in the air, I don't think there's too great a risk of attack. I'm still going to go down and buy a canary tomorrow. If there is a chance of a biological weapon attack, it will be an early warning sign, but mostly I just want to some company.

Yesterday I thought I saw a small group of Iraqis surrendering in front of the hotel, but they were actually just selling souvenirs. I bought a T-shirt with the Eiffel tower on it and they retreated into Baghdad. Baghdad CafÃ©, that is, a little coffee place up the street. Nice guys, very fair.

As you can see, it hasn't been extremely eventful in this area. But I promise to stay with this story until news breaks, or until my plane ticket demands I return home. For the commune, this Raoul Dunkin, snickering his ass off.

the commune news is sending its heart out to the troops stationed in the Gulfâ€”they'll have to decide how to divide it up amongst themselves. Raoul Dunkin is possibly the world's worst correspondent, and believe us when we say he's got heavy competition on the staff.

Big Bombs Get Bigger

New U.S. bomb to finally end "life on earth" problem

March 31, 2003

Washington, DC

Bagel Family Photo Album

The new bomb, though highly classified, is thought to look something like these favorite bombs of yesteryear

he Pentagon announced today that, in the wake of the success of the huge 21,000 pound MOAB (Mother Of All Bombs), it was beginning work today on an even bigger model, officially dubbed as the Motherfucking Cocksucking Sonofabitch King Hell Bastard Shit Oh Dear Of All Bombs, Like, Ever, or MCSKHBSODOABLE. The bomb will be approximately the size of one-fifth of the Earth's moon, will have a payload the equivalent of 946 Hiroshimas, and will, in the words of one unnamed Pentagon official, "Blow the fucking shit out of every living creature within about a five thousand mile radius -- even cockroaches. Ha! Even cockroaches! Maybe we should call it the Orkin Exterminator!"

To begin construction of the new super-sized weapon, the United States has annexed the entire nation of Canada and sent eviction notices to every Canadian citizen, asking that they please vacate the premises within one month. Official spokesman Colonel Jack "Rabbit" Tallysmall-Rand commented on that eviction notice, saying "Those Canucks better get going fast, because we need to start building this baby pronto. Any of them back-bacon lovers that's still there in a month's time will find the doors locked and their stuff all piled into a Hefty bag on the sidewalk, toot sweet."

Asked about the bomb itself, Col. Tallysmall-Rand agreed that "Super-sized is about right. We want it our way, get it? The MCSKHBSODOABLE will be the mightiest weapon the world has ever seen, the monster truck of all bombs, and that ought to show all them bastards that don't want to get with the program that we mean business."

The Colonel added that the bomb will be delivered by a pair of space shuttles flying in tandem, with the payload tethered to a huge glider-like platform between them. Once in range, the cables will be released and the bomb will then waft gently to the Earth, where it will unleash seven or eight different kinds of hell once it reaches treetop level.

"This baby gonna make the MOAB seem like a little old ladyfinger when it pops, whee doggies! It could bomb the stink off a shit pile!" Col. Tallysmall-Rand went on to say, while exchanging double high fives, down low, too slow with his aide, one Major Custis Sprinkle.

"He ain't lying!" interjected Major Sprinkle, drawing a grin and an elbow in the ribs from his superior officer.

Asked who came up with the name for the bomb, Col. Tallysmall-Rand just beamed and replied, "Who do you think?" while Major Sprinkle, exaggeratedly winking and nodding his head, gestured with a pointing finger held behind his palm towards the colonel. "Mr. Rumsfeld wanted us to call it the 'Democracy-Maker,' but we thought that was too pussy. We wanted a name that would put the fear of God into our enemies."

Asked by another reporter why they didn't just build a bomb the size of the entire Earth and cut an America-sized hole in it, Col. Tallysmall-Rand's eyes grew wide, and he remained silent for a long moment. He then declared the press conference over, and immediately huddled with Major Sprinkle and a number of other officers near the dais, while Military Police cleared the room by wildly swinging their batons in all directions.

We at the commune would like to go on record as saying that there's nothing wrong with ladyfingers, especially when placed in "certain areas." However, Boner Cunningham is reminded that "certain areas" does not mean the executive washroom.

Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around

March 31, 2003

I Support the War, but Not the Troops

º Last Column: Can't Trust the Russians
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As the old saying goes, war brings out the best in a man. Guts, brains, plenty of blood and various organsâ€”but you already know how landmines work. Likewise, war brings out the best in Rok Finger. Some are made for philosophizing and some are made for artistic and scientific contributions to mankind; I was made for paranoid ranting about national security and rhetoric.

That being said, I do have some protests to utter. I'm not some blind optimist with complete faith in my country. I can understand the need to protest and the need of cops and city officials to squash those protesters like bugs. Why should those in the war zone get all the fun? However, I can't find a good crowd to protest with because of my political stances.

On one side, you have the whining hippies. God, how I hate hippies. If there were heaven and hell in the afterlife and heaven were filled with hippies, hell would look pretty compatible for Rok Finger. Always going on and on about stopping death and war and human tragedyâ€”if hippies had their way we'd all be sitting around a group circle getting high and eating trail mix.

But then on the other side are the people who support the warâ€”but they always have to drag the troops into it. What a hassle. "We support the troops!" Like the troops wanted to go to war and fight over five inches of ground and potentially lose their lives. You ask me, the troops have been dragging their heels on this one. I support the administration, I support the war fiends in the war room, but frankly, I don't think the troops are as up for the fighting as I am. Every time I see one on TV they're all like, "I just want to do my job for my country and get back home to my wife and kids." Blah, blah, blah. You don't have the eye of the tiger, kid.

I didn't expect much, mind you, we haven't had real blood-hungry troops since Korea. Lose a few skirmishes and all of a sudden everybody wants to go home. Now to have an entire army made up of Generation X, Y, and probably some Zs, well, what could you expect but a bunch of button-pushers and tactical strategists. These kids grew up on the Internet and grunge music, they're too busy feeling emotional angst and apathy to throw themselves into machine gun fire with fervor, like the boys used to.

Everybody goes on and on about Vietnam, World War II, but all of us fans of pointless slaughter remember the big one, World War I. Man, there was some mutilation for very little purpose. Those guys had guns you cranked like a music box and they just spit bullets like a cartoon goat who'd eaten a tin can. More French guys were killed in World War I than syphilis could ever aspire for. Why do you think they were so quick to surrender in World War II? They were still picking shrapnel out of their derriers. There was even a country called Rubiskania back then where everybody was killed, so they just annexed it as part of Hungary. Man, that was a war to end all wars. Until the next one.

Nostalgic? Maybe. But I have high hopes for this new big one still. In the end, the troops are just there to be shoved into battle like a puck on the shuffleboard court. And I hear the sloganeering and propaganda from this White House and I know the war is in good hands.

º Last Column: Can't Trust the Russians
º more columns

Quote of the Day

“If you're not a liberal when you're 25, you have no heart. If you're not a conservative by the time you're 35, you have no inheritance. Die already, Uncle Francoâ€¦ justâ€¦ die.”

-Winthrop Shuriken

Fortune 500 Cookie

Who's the man? More specifically, who's the man who shattered your kneecap with a club and took you out of the competition? Now would be a good time to switch to NetFlix from your previous practice of watching the movie on the video store display TVs. Keep your eye on the sparrow. Lucky jeans: Levi, Bugle Boy, Lee, and Auel.

Try again later.

Women Other Than Christina Ricci We Want Chained to Our Radiator

1.	Original Wednesday Addams, Lisa Loring
2.	Landladyâ€”You spend the night there and tell me it's heating just fine
3.	Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (still count as one)
4.	Diana Rigg, circa 1968; or now, what the hell
5.	Anybody but that hippie chick protesting for radiator rights I got now

Ivan Nacutchacokov, Embedded in Baghdad

BY roland mcshyster

3/31/2003

Holy movie overload, America! Like most of us, Hollywood is doing a little spring-cleaning this week, but instead of dragging unused exercise equipment and boxes of used pornography to the curb, they're dragging their excess cinema to the, wellâ€¦ Cinema. That's what they call movie theaters over in Europe, unless they're showing skin flicks. They call those places Fuckhausen, which if you ask me is much better than the obvious alternative of Skinema. Because that just sounds gross. Enough of that though, we have no time to waste on Europe this week. Too many movies!

In Theaters

Ass! Ass! National Tango!

Either a bold career move by star Robert Duvall, or else the product of a Duvallian drunk-fest lost weekend, Ass! Ass! National Tango! is a stupefyingly bizarre new film that establishes writer/director/star Duvall as the Japanese David Lynch. And yeah, I know he's not Japanese, but how else can you explain that title? Or the fact that half of the roles in the film are played by roller-skating apes? Reviewing this film is like trying to review a dream, or a sexual encounter with a great white shark. Good luck there. Over half the film is instruction on what you should bring with you if you want to have a nice picnic. The rest is like a cross between Last Tango in Paris, Tango & Cash and the commercial where that guy wakes up hung-over in bed with the Budweiser Clydesdales. Weird.

Bringing Down the House

Steve Martin's trail of tears continues, as apparently whoever has been picking his scripts for him lately still has Martin's wife and kids in an undisclosed location with guns to their heads. You've got to feel bad for Martin, no doubt, but the real victims in all of this are his fans, since I highly doubt Steve has actually sat through any of the shitty movies he's been in lately. Sure, you wouldn't be crazy to suggest that his kidnapped family are victims too, that's fair enough. But wherever they are, they still probably haven't seen Bringing Down the House, since even kidnappers have a conscience. That, and I imagine it's pretty difficult to bring kidnapping victims to the movies, as people have enough trouble with their own kids and elderly relatives. Having someone hog-tied and with a pillowcase over their head tagging along while you're trying to find a seat in the dark and then they need you to carry them to the bathroom would probably sour you on the whole experience even before the Coke commercials were over.

Dreamcatcher

You know gay cinema has hit a saturation point when they start naming big-budget films after gay slang terms that most breeders would completely miss. The name fits the film however, a bizarre parable about the search for Mr. Right. Only in this case Mr. Right turns out to be some weird alien thing that explodes out of people's asses and makes everyone in a one-mile radius overact. I'm not sure exactly what symbolic significance this has within the gay dating culture, but the alien is pretty badass.

The Hunted

CrÃ¼e drummer Tommy Lee and Benecio Del Toro of riding mower fame star in this remake of the popular "stupid French skunk in love" cartoons from the 1940's. The stunt casting might seem a misfit at first, but Del Toro is perfect as the horn-dogging Pepe and Lee is scarily convincing as the hot chick skunk who always seems to have a headache.

Piglet's Big Movement

Residents of The Hundred Acre Woods are suffering from a serious case of the heebie jeebies after Piglet takes a shit the size of an El Camino. Everybody wants to ask him about it, for the sake of curiosity and the public health; only nobody knows a tactful way to bring it up. A lot of soul-searching ensues before Pooh is finally elected to solve the mystery, since with his name the matter seems to fall under his jurisdiction. After some funny misunderstandings and adventures, Pooh finally discovers that Piglet didn't shit at all; Eeyore just fell asleep in a mud bath. Disney's latest is fun for the whole family, though it make be too graphic for any conservative senators in the family.

Tears of the Sun

Let me be the first, or at least the most recent, to say that this is a really stupid name for a movie. It sounds all poetic at first, and you imagine Bruce Willis saying some shit so beautiful it makes the sun cry, like he does in all his movies. But then when you stop and think about it, it's just insane. Even if the sun really did come to life with a face and start flinging scoops of raisins all over the place, and then Bruce said some sappy high-school graduation speech nonsense that made the sun cry, it wouldn't be some beautiful poignant moment like you'd think. It would be hell on earth! Those would be some molten, flaming tears that would fuck up everything in sight, burning right through houses and orphanages and there'd be car alarms going off all over the place. Thanks a lot, Bruce! Asshole.

Willard

I always knew there was something not quite right with Willard Scott, but I never would have imagined he controlled a huge legion of nasty killer rats. I just thought he probably wore panties or was secretly in the KKK or something. The grisly truth snuck up on me like I was a drunk virgin on prom night. I guess it just goes to show that just because you're optimistic and give people the benefit of the doubt, that doesn't mean they're going to play along just to keep you from looking stupid.

That's the column this week, gents and gentiles. The Oscars are worm-food until next year, but we're still frolicking through the meadow, picking delicious movie melons from the melon tree. Be sure to check back next issue for more of the smoky bacon flavor you've come to crave.