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Iraq Being Rebuilt By Cast of Three’s CompanyCritics blast Bush administration’s lack of post-war planning May 26, 2003 |
Baghdad, Iraq Pentagon Press Kit Come and knock on our door, people of Iraq: DeWitt, Somers and Ritter
“Mr. Ritter, Ms. Some...
n a move that seems designed to stun the administration’s critics into silence, President Bush announced yesterday that in recent weeks the task of rebuilding Iraq has been turned over to the cast of the popular late-70’s ABC sitcom Three’s Company. This unprecedented move drew a total blank from the nation’s political commentators, many of whom were seen checking the calendar to see if it was April 1st. The announcement also served to quell the rising tide of allegations that Bush invaded Iraq without the slightest idea of how to build the country into a democracy or even a legitimate desire to do so, as many of the allegators (Ed. note: a larger cousin of the crocodile) were seen buying tickets for the midnight train to Canada. “Mr. Ritter, Ms. Somers and Ms. DeWitt were carefully hand-picked by the administration for their nation-building skills and their position as some of our country’s most expendable celebrities,” explained outgoing White House press secretary Ari Fleischer. “They have the skills, and more importantly, they had the time. Mr. Knotts was not chosen for this assignment, but hid in a sack of rice on the plane and has thus far refused to be sent back.” “We’re a nation of ass-kickers, not babysitters,” explained the president during yesterday’s press conference. “I have every confidence that Jack and Mr. Furley have this situation well under control, and are delighting the Iraqi people with hilarious sexual double-enchiladas as we speak.” When asked if by “enchiladas,” he meant “entendres,” President Bush explained that thanks, but he wasn’t in the mood for Mexican. “Ms. Somers has already quelled several attempted uprisings by the Shiites and Kurds, and her iron abs and hellcat personality have proved to be a more-than-adequate replacement for Saddam’s iron fist in keeping Iraq under control,” noted Fleischer. “Let’s just say Saddam wasn’t the only one who knew how to bury his problems out in the desert. In addition, thanks to Suzanne’s program of mandatory daily abdominal exercises, the people of Iraq have never looked Tripper. I mean trimmer!” The press secretary’s clever Three’s Company-themed pun elicited guffaws among the press corps and several non-English-speaking Iraqi bystanders who hate to feel left out on a joke. “It’s really too bad Norman Fell died back in 1998, because Mr. Roper really would have been the perfect post-Saddam leader for Iraq. I’m sure even the Iraqis would have loved him. That guy was the cat’s ass,” skylarked diehard Three’s Company fan and collectable tumbler collector Sidney Torres. The interim government was tested last week when a local villager, whose daughter had been shot in the neck with a harpoon gun during the lawlessness that followed the fall of Baghdad, came to Ritter and DeWitt for help. “John, this is just like the episode where you broke your tailbone teaching Chrissy the hula but you couldn’t ask Mr. Furley for a ride to the hospital because he’d think you got hurt being gay!” offered DeWitt with her trademark spunk. “Are you saying we wrap a scarf around the harpoon and tell people it’s a new fashion craze?” questioned Ritter. DeWitt responded with an affirmative wink and gun-cocking gesture that had the audience of Iraqi bystanders rolling with laughter, all except for the farmer and his harpooned daughter. Ms. Somers refused to be interviewed for this story, as she had retired to a secret underground bunker with her inner circle of advisors to discuss the “rebuilding” of neighboring Iran. At the commune news, three’s company but four’s a crowd in the unisex bathroom. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown is the commune’s favorite long-dead reporter and Lifestyle Editor, a title in which he has yet to discover the irony.
 | Americans Boycott France, Coherent Thought May 26, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. SKEETER BARNES Democracy-loving housepets everywhere are glued to French products for comedic effect
“The French? A bunch of gay-asses,” opined truck stop chef Holman Weathers. “This is how they repay us for bailing them out in WWII, by having their own opinion? Maybe we should’ve just let the damned Germans win. See how they like that. No way the fuckin’ Germans would have wi...
triking a blow for bandwagoneers everywhere, Rep. Bob Ney (R-Ohio) recently directed the House of Representatives cafeteria to change the name of “french fries” to “freedom fries” on their menu, teaching the rogue nation of France a powerful lesson once and for all. Restaurants across the country have followed suit, and Americans everywhere are boycotting French and French-sounding products in a bold move that sends a message to the rest of the world: Americans are fucking retarded. “The French? A bunch of gay-asses,” opined truck stop chef Holman Weathers. “This is how they repay us for bailing them out in WWII, by having their own opinion? Maybe we should’ve just let the damned Germans win. See how they like that. No way the fuckin’ Germans would have wimped out on us on the whole Iraq thing.” “Wait. Really? The Germans?” Weathers questioned with a note of disappointment in his voice when this reporter pointed out that even the Germans had gone the gay-assed route on this one. “I’m glad they changed the name of Fren- these things, since I love fries but I always felt a little weird supporting such a bad country by buying food named after them,” confessed housewife Heidi Wartak as she sat munching a fresh batch of freedom fries in her mammoth Ford Excursion SUV, while the vehicle idled and sucked down enough gas to keep the Iraqi Republican Guard in munitions for a month. Asked if she thought supporting Middle East dictatorships through excessive fuel consumption might be a greater evil than uttering the name of a peace-loving ally, Wartak stood her ground. “I don’t buy french bread either. I mean freedom bread.” “All I know is I’ve drank my last bottle of Evian,” boasted NASCAR enthusiast Glen Riddle. “That’s French, right? Somebody told me they actually bottle that stuff out in L.A., but I don’t know if that’s true. Come to think of it, I don’t like L.A. either, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” Riddle later admitted that he’d never actually drank Evian, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. Dissenting opinions are rare, as anyone caught exhibiting coherent thought in the current national climate is in grave danger of being branded unpatriotic and voted off the island, i.e., hit with a brick. “The French provided significant military help to the Americans in their campaign against the British in the Revolutionary War, and supplies of French gunpowder are widely believed to have secured the decisive American victory at Saratoga in 1777,” informed University of Wisconsin history professor and Denny’s patron Judd McClintock as he ducked under a flying brick. “If it weren’t for the French we’d be British right now, and for that even the biggest France-basher owes them continual blowjobs forever.” “If those blue, white and red pinkos want to mess with the U.S., all they need to do is listen to our country music to know we won’t stand for it,” warned part-time window washer Steve Lideen from across the restaurant, in response to a waitress offering French dressing as an option for his salad. Plans remain in the works for a series of public service announcements suggesting teens partake in “face-fucking” rather than French kissing and that anyone who is unable to boycott the upcoming Tour de France should refer to it as “That Big Gay Bicycle Ride” or else face sanctions, including having their Home Depot membership revoked. the commune news is indeed pouring bottles of wine down the drain, but only upon discovering that a 99 cent Merlot is a fool’s bargain. Ivana Folger-Balzac has no quarrel with the people of France, though they do seem to have heard about her.
| Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around |
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 May 26, 2003 Little Deuce Coupby Ramrod Hurley To those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel ...
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To those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.
Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel had stashed away under the suspicion that they contained alien fetuses. Whatever kind of fetuses they have in them, they're delicious.
So don't expect me to crawl out of this office on my hands and knees waving a white flag any time soon, communers. Sure, I could use some medical attention for a gangrenous paper cut on my ankle, and using the windowsill for a toilet got old about 30 hours ago, but they can have this office when they pry my stiff, emaciated corpse out from behind the file cabinet, where I've built a makeshift fort in case the outer wall is breached.
It all started last week, when I found the office staff gathered around a television set playing grainy home-video footage of a mysterious figure striding across a street in some unnamed US city. Nobody wanted to say anything while I was in the room, but it was obvious everyone knew what this was.
Red Bagel. Alive.
It was then that I began to feel my igloo of lies collapsing in around me. Sure, I'll admit it, I'd been telling the staff Bagel died within a month of his disappearance, in a gas station bathroom during a botched abortion attempt. It was the only way I could demand the respect and obedience of the staff, get them to stop calling me "dickface" and end the childish outbursts of "You're not my real editor! I'll stay up as late as I want!" all the time. And now my roosters had come home to roost. Proof of Bagel's survival, writ large on the small screen.
Leave it to the commune staff to get all up in my head with mind games, like pretending there hasn't been a coup at all. That the coffee has always been this bad and that the staff was just watching Signs last week, the creature seen waltzing across the street on TV just some bugged-out space alien from the film. Nice try, commune staff. But anyone who's sat a mile in Red Bagel's office chair knows that he would never risk techno-viral infection by setting foot on a Hollywood movie set. Hurley: 1, Coupers: 0.
Besides, I've seen the effigy of my likeness they had strung up in the office last week, and I don't buy the claims that it was just a piñata. I know a piñata when I see one, and that thing was clearly a jackass, an obvious reference to the staff's term of endearment for me, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley.
So let's drop the charade and bring the noise, commune staff. I'm stocked to weather this storm. And I'll be here waiting to accept your unconditional surrender once you realize the hopelessness of your situation, on one condition: That you bring pizza, beer and toilet paper with you. And don't forget the TP. º Last Column: The President Needs a Wingmanº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Even the smallest man among us can accomplish truly great things. And when it's over, it takes less beer for him to get drunk. That is truly great.”
-Leonard Rutland, Professional Drinking FishermanFortune 500 CookieWhat are you keeping that scab for? Throw that thing away already, for Christ's sake. Too many cooks spoil the broth, and so does putting sun-dried mayonnaise in it. Remember when dad told you you'd one day do something great? You will this week—remember he said that, that is.
Try again later.Top Things Overheard at Your High School Reunion| 1. | "Oh My God—you haven't changed your clothes a bit!" | | 2. | "I haven't seen you since the date rape." | | 3. | "Man, were you right about Dishwalla. One-hit wonders." | | 4. | "Best friends 4-ever, my ass! Where were you at the trial, motherfucker?!?" | | 5. | "That guy used to be a real dick. Don't let that priest outfit fool you." | | 6. | "You still owe me four push-ups, wiseguy—don't think I've forgotten." | | 7. | "Want to dance with me, Charlie? Or is it Charlene now?" | | 8. | "The old gymnasium still smells like burned flesh—what memories!" | | 9. | "So tell me why we needed to learn proofs again?" | | 10. | "Mr. 'Most Likely to Succeed' came into Denny's last night for an application. Revenge, like our soup, is best served cold." | |
|   Bush, Blair Punk'd in Nobel Peace Prize Sham BY pete durmondo 5/12/2003 My Life: A Pete Durmondo MemoirBefore. There's always a before. Before the breakthrough role in Crush of the Wheel. Before the 1976 Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination for Daddy's Favorite. Before the attempted murder charge and consequent complete acquittal on the charges. There's always a before. Here's my before.
It may not be common knowledge, but it's not a secret either: I wasn't always Pete Durmondo. I was born Jimmy Durmondo, on the lower east side of New York City, and changed my name to Pete Durmondo on the advice of an agent because it "had more snap." That agent wasn't my agent, he was about to become my agent when he committed suicide, but he did help shape my career. He told me I had more talent in one finger than most people have in their whole bodies, and that if I could get that same lev...
Before. There's always a before. Before the breakthrough role in Crush of the Wheel. Before the 1976 Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination for Daddy's Favorite. Before the attempted murder charge and consequent complete acquittal on the charges. There's always a before. Here's my before.
It may not be common knowledge, but it's not a secret either: I wasn't always Pete Durmondo. I was born Jimmy Durmondo, on the lower east side of New York City, and changed my name to Pete Durmondo on the advice of an agent because it "had more snap." That agent wasn't my agent, he was about to become my agent when he committed suicide, but he did help shape my career. He told me I had more talent in one finger than most people have in their whole bodies, and that if I could get that same level of talent through the rest of my body I'd be the most famous actor Hollywood had ever seen.
Before that, I was content to be an off-off-Broadway actor. My first play was a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream where we all wore giant prophylactics onstage, part of the director's vision of saying how the audience is separated from the actor by the distance, and in this case giant rubbers. I played Oberon.
Before that, there was acting class. I was the premiere student of Jovan Braile, the lower east side's renowned acting coach who later left "the biz" to pursue a successful career in butchering. Braile, of course, became disillusioned with the business like so many untalented teachers inevitably do; but when I knew him he was vibrant and full of life, and if I can say so modestly it probably was all my doing. Braile said he had never known an actor who could capture a moment so well. He was talking at the time of my ability to take pictures at the acting workshop's picnic lunch, but I'm sure much of that was his insight into my—whatever you might call it. Spirit. Aura. Innergy.
Before that, my mother was the first to recognize that same quality. My mother was the son of British immigrants, and had only a vague understanding of the language, but I remember specifically her sitting in her tree house one day when she refused to come down. She looked out the window, bright-eyed and bushy-haired, and pointed to me and said, "Kid… you have something." The psychiatrists took the statements out of context, believing my mother was saying she had given me a strain of CIA superflu she had been secretly infected with through public drinking water. I like to think it was mom spotting in me what so many later identified, and the Oscar voters were completely oblivious to.
Before that, my mother had to conceive me. It was a starry night, and the air was full of promise, and my parents full of Thunderbird. It was hard times in those days, my mother poor and constantly in need of attention and affection, my father always in need of inexpensive wine to get women to sleep with him. He was a charming man, very funny, very handsome, and I'm sure I would like him if I got the chance to meet him. Mom says she was completely swept off her feet by his smile and crane-style kung fu.
Before that… well, there had to be a God or something. If you believe things happen for a reason, then it was probably Him, that classy deity, that set the wheels all in motion so that some day he could drop so much talent in one human vessel. So you see, I have no hang-ups about celebrating my talent, proclaiming with pride everything I've accomplished, because I owe it all to one omnipotent, all-powerful being who created me to bask in his brilliance. And he did an incredible job of it all.   |
