Missing Girl Big Fat Hoax

Kansas woman claims she's only badee-badee-ba-big-boned

August 4, 2003

Topeka, KS

Topeka Police Dept.

Donna Walker, described by authorities as an alleged "big fat cunt who should die"

hat police officials are calling a "cruel hoax" perpetuated by a "big fat bitch" from "some Podunk town out in BFE" came to an end last Thursday with the arrest of Donna Lynette Walker, a 35-year-old Kansas woman. Walker had contacted the parents of missing Indiana girl Shannon Sherrill only days before, claiming to be the missing girl and renewing hope for the family after 17 years of grief.

Six-year-old Shannon disappeared in October of 1986 while playing hide-and-seek outside the family home in Indianapolis. Authorities had all but given up hope over the years, as leads failed to materialize and it became less and less likely that Shannon simply took hide-and-seek very seriously. Walker's call last week seemed to the family to be a miracle, but quickly turned out to be the shitty kind of miracle that people usually aren't referring to when they speak of miracles.

With the arrest came disturbing-yet-hilarious details about Walker's past. According to several poor bastards who identified themselves as her friends, Walker has frequently made crank phone calls in disguised cartoon voices ever since childhood, and as an adult her talent for being incredibly and flamboyantly full of shit has led to police records in California, Kansas, Virginia and Nebraska for making bizarre threatening calls, forging checks, reporting false fire alarms, placing bomb threats and using stolen credit cards to pay her telephone bill. Few involved can take even these charges seriously, however, since Walker often disguises her telephone voice in a spot-on stuttering impersonation of Porky Pig.

Friends of Donna Walker are at a loss to explain her motivation in contacting Shannon Sherrill's parents, or how they could possibly be this hard up for friends. All agree, however, that the Sherrills probably should have taken Walker's claims of "What's up Doc? I'm your kidnapped daughter!" with a grain of salt.

"I'm not surprised," said friend Kelli Wauch, who wasn't surprised. "I met Donna through a group where you go for support or if you're happy you go there and Donna is somebody who thrives off of other people's pain so it didn't surprise me that she did these things because she told me about a girl missing in Indiana and it being her parents and saying something along the lines about that and I just kind of blew it off because it didn't make any sense," rambled Wauch, prompting this reporter to slap her across the mouth in hopes of coercing a coherent quote.

That rambling narrative, coupled with the fact that Wauch has had to change her telephone number twice during the month she has known Walker to stop the tirade of threatening phone calls made in cartoon voices, begs the question of why Wauch still identifies herself as Walker's friend. Rather than sift through another verbal train wreck of a response, however, this reporter is satisfied to chalk it up as some kind of weird Kansas thing we're not meant to understand.

In Indiana, Walker faces a felony charge of identity deception and a misdemeanor charge of false reporting, as well as a life-long series of disappointed looks from the entire human race. In addition to contacting the missing girl's parents, she also repeatedly contacted the police regarding this case, posing alternately as two different women, the missing girl's husband, and a diminutive hunter with a speech impediment.

Attorney Billy Rork insisted that Donna Walker did not feel she'd done anything wrong, despite the fact that she is twelve years older than Shannon Sherrill would be today in addition to the minor details that Walker was never kidnapped and is in no way related to the Sherrills. Rork also communicated that Walker didn't feel like going to prison or being held in any way accountable for her actions. Additionally, she didn't feel like Italian or Thai food, though those details seemed less important in the big picture.

the commune news does not condone identity deception in any form, but for the record we did claim to be members of Run-DMC once in a hilarious attempt to get laid. Ivana Folger-Balzac could hardly pass for anyone but her bitchy self, although she was once mistaken for Adolf Hitler in a wig.

Doritos Reveals New Human Tracking Chips

New snack technology could end crime, hunger, privacy

July 21, 2003

Plano, TX

Frito-Lay

The new Trakos chips, shown in Ranch Attack and HellapeÃ±o flavors

orrowing a page from every cautionary future tale ever written and 60% of all science fiction films to date, the Frito-Lay Corporation today unveiled Trakos, a new line of Doritos brand â€œhuman tracking chipsâ€ designed to thwart kidnappings and various other ugly crimes in four delicious varieties.

The new chips, offered in Ranch Attack, HellapeÃ±o, Nacho Bacon, and Four Course Meal flavors, use cutting edge technology to embed edible microchips into the snack food. These microchips can then be tracked by satellite and hand-held scanning devices worldwide, providing a huge aid in missing-persons cases involving recent snack chip consumption. The high-tech snacks are being offered in response to recent public demands for improved homeland security and a snack food that tastes like nacho-flavored bacon.

â€œThe public has been resistant to this tracking technology for years, but now weâ€™ve made it delicious,â€ explained Doritos head Ken Abenly.

â€œPeople may balk at the idea of being implanted with a tracking device, but we think the time has come to put those outmoded fears to rest,â€ said Abenly. â€œThe threat of an embarrassing public death at the hands of some crazed terrorist or your cheating husband is just too great these days. Criminals may still resist the concept of being tracked through microchips floating around in their bile, but weâ€™re confident weâ€™ve made these chips delicious enough to overcome any objections.â€

Chip-hating privacy advocates have protested the trend, citing fears of a Big Brotherly government agency using the American publicâ€™s weakness for tasty snack foods to create a vast surveillance network, leading inevitably to political oppression and embarrassing high-water jumpsuits for all.

â€œThe rest of our chips have been known for years to be major contributors to obesity, heart disease and stroke, yet that hasnâ€™t stopped anyone from pounding the things like they were going out of style,â€ continued Abenly. â€œSo we donâ€™t foresee privacy concerns being a major deterrent. After all, which would you rather have: A tiny, painless microtransmitter in your gullet, or a spaghetti tangle of gross heart tubes coming out of your chest? Yuck. Sounds like a no-brainer to me. Plus we made sure they taste like nacho-flavored bacon, which the people seem to love.â€

Despite protests, the technology appears to be a likely hit. Plans are already in the works for several other tracking foods, including Grandma Come Home pitted prunes from Sunkist and Ralson Purinaâ€™s upcoming Trackinâ€™ Wagon dog food to aid in the search for missing pets.

Sadly, the technology has not yet advanced to the point of aiding in the search for pets or loved ones who are already missing, though unsubstantiated reports have Hershey Foods working on a time-traveling chocolate bar that might allow consumers to go back in time and feed tracking foods to their currently missing pets before they disappear. Dim-witted focus groups have also drawn attention to the need for intelligence regarding what kinds of snack foods car keys might enjoy, so that they can be fed tracking snacks and never be lost again.

the commune news could never approve of such wide-scale governmental tracking technology, but for a ride in a Hummer weâ€™d give up Anne Frank. Ramon Nootles isnâ€™t a big fan of chips, but heâ€™s easy enough to find if you just follow the scent of cheap perfume.

Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home

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

August 4, 2003

You Can't Picnic Your Friends or Your Nose

º Last Column: Saddam Hussein: Dead or Alive 3
º more columns

Everyone here has had a gay old time over the weekend, some an extremely gay old time, but I'm not naming names (Larry and Mitch). For the lateness in the year dictated it was time for the annual commune picnic/field day combination.

Why have you never heard of this before? you ask. To which I counter, What are you implying? If you're insinuating there's a conspiratorial angle to this picnic/field day of ours, I say you're pissing up the wrong rope. Go bother the president or some corporation, Upton Sinclair. I'm merely trying to tell everyone what a good time we had the annual company picnic/field day.

Anyone who's heard numerous compliments to Lil Duncan's sack-racing ability shouldn't be surprised Lil holds her title once again as queen in the sack. Raoul Dunkin came extremely close to winning this year, then suddenly stopped before the finish lineâ€”I would guess the idea of adding "queen in the sack" to his list of ever-growing titles wasn't a happy thought. Lil wouldn't have even been challenged, I expect, if I hadn't been sharing the sack with her. It was quite a confusing registration this year, let's leave it at that.

Bludney Plud came in last place, to no one's surprise. I sometimes think he relishes the attention for always coming in last. He does come in last in everything, including the Typing Contest and the Belle of the Picnic pageant. As usual, Lil felt a little robbed when Stigmata Spent won yet again, but if you have the legs, you just have 'em.

The picnic planners, me and my Sampson L. Hartwig hat, allowed a new event this year: The build-and-race-your-own-go-cart contest, following Omar's suggestion. We decided it was better to just hold the contest and see what happens rather than run the risk of Mr. Bricks crashing the picnic with another highly-flammable go-cart made at home. It was quite a rousing success, though Ivan Nacutchacokov lost two fingers in the process, even not involved in the building or racing. I say anything is a good time now that we have the ability to surgically reattach limbs.

The food was better than ever this year. Clarissa Coleman brought a soup made of things she was about to throw out from her fridge. I didn't actually try it, but Boner Cunningham said it was good shortly before passing outâ€”it sounded like he was going to say good, more of a guttural sound from the back of the throat. Roland McShyster even provided the entertainment for the whole thing, a viewing of the Hulk movie he downloaded illegally from the internet. I'm not much on films, truthfully, but that Bill Bixby is quite the actor, and the Hulk looked quite realistic for computer animatronics. After that, Roland treated us to a surprise "jam" band featuring Omar Bricks, Rok Finger's friend Lee, and Ted Ted on drums. It was more aesthetic music than I'm used to, more appealing to the mind than fun for its musical sounds, such as Omar eating the microphone then regurgitating it, but I say let the kids enjoy their fun and let a stodgy older fellow like me stay out of the way.

If there's one thing I took home from that picnic, besides the peculiar brownies made by Boris Utzov, it was the commune is more like my family than my original family. At least I talk to the commune staff once a year or more. It was a shame to have spent so much time without them on the road, but I swear I'll make it up to them by being the best darned editor forever on out.

Also, if anyone knows the specific whereabouts of Features Editor Mazie the Chicken, please inform us immediately. I'm afraid I tore through the barbecue chicken roast a little too fast, and I'm worried for her safety.

º Last Column: Saddam Hussein: Dead or Alive 3
º more columns

Milestones

1983: Night Ranger releases seminal hit Sister Christian, inspiring the unfortunate tone-deaf singalong by Ivan Nacutchacokov that resulted in his lifetime Greyhound bus ban.

Now Hiring

Cowboy Bebop. Not really sure what this is, to be honest, but Red Bagel telegrammed to demand we hire one. Two if they come in a matched set. So there you go.

Top Iraqi Gratitude Slogans

1.	I love America and dying!
2.	USA! Broil in hell, USA!
3.	All the beautiful shooting!
4.	God Bless This Rubble
5.	Sweet, legless liberation!

Bush Decrees Iraqi Uranium Intelligence Gaffs "Resolved"

BY roland mcshyster

8/4/2003

Well how the hell are ya, America? Excuse my saucy tone, but I'm fuckin' smashed. That's rightâ€¦ wait, what were we talking about? Movies! Blow 'em out your ass, America! I'm fuckin' sick of movies, this week we're going to review vegetables. Cucumbers! Radishes! Enâ€¦ Endives! Yeah!

Alright, smartass, I'm out of vegetables. Here's your goddamn movies:

In Theaters

American Wedding

A formerly hardass franchise has gone all Friends on us, ladies and gentlemen. Hollywood's obese felines are betting you'll slap down your hard-earned pesos to watch these dirtballs get hitched, and I say screw 'em! Screw 'em and their imported water. If I wanted to see somebody stick their dick in a wedding cake I would have gone to my cousin Dave's wedding last month. So let me be the first to add this movie to my list of things we're all boycotting: Pizza Hut, the boyscouts and this movie. Oh, and vegetables. Fuck vegetables. You heard it here first.

Fucking Friday

Jamie Lee Curtis and some anonymous tampon star in this triple-hashed remake of all those "Dad woke up with his teenage son's boner" movies from the 80's. Only now it's a mother and daughter sharing the misery, and it's not a onetime deal, but rather a once-a-week hassle that the family has come to know derisively as Fucking Friday. The expected faux-hilarity ensues, with daughter getting hot flashes and mom getting hot pants, blah blah blah. The bulk of the film consists of queasy sequences featuring mom being pawed by underage slobs with beer on their breath and daughter air-sickness bagging her way through routine, mechanical sex with dad, both of which I sincerely could have done without. Somebody actually found Mark Harmon buried in the wreck of the Lusitania and dug him up to co-star as the hot neighbor who may or may not have mind-switched with a two-year-old Latino boy. They must have figured Harmon had the necessary experience with catastrophes, but at least the first time around he probably got some decent seafood.

Gigli

With his latest picture, Ben Affleck proves he's whiter than any of us could have possibly imagined, despite his current marital status as a lemur clinging tenaciously to Jennifer Lopez's ass. Affleck plays Larry Gigli, a walking punchline whose constant references to "gettin' Gigli wit it" demonstrate that Affleck can't even appropriate faux-black culture from Will Smith, of all people. Thankfully, J-Lo sings a song on the soundtrack, so maximum camp value is achieved, allowing audiences to enjoy the film on an ironic level even if they like acting and music.

The Secret Lives of Dennis

Who out there among you didn't think it was too late for a Head of the Class spin-off movie? Okay, that's not many hands, but I'll assume that's because not many of you foresaw the possibility, or even recall the show from your cocaine-encrusted chest of 80's memories. For those of you that did think a spin-off was a good idea, wouldn't you have spun off a movie around rebel loner Eric or even geek chic Arvid? Okay, you guys with your hands still up are just fucking with me, go on home and quit busting my balls. As for the rest of you, were you really thinking of going to this movie? Good God man, don't you have some chores to do? Stay home and spellcheck your suicide note or something, for the love of all that is holy.

S.W.A.T.

The latest Playstation game to skip the Playstation and come straight to the theater is a loose (and I mean like the cousin that let you feel her up at the family reunion loose) sequel to the 1994 Stephen "Midget Golfer" Dorf flick S.F.W.. This is not to be confused with the Bridget "Anaconda" Fonda handjob S.W.F. (Super White Female) or the Three Stooges flick W.F.S. (Where the Fuck is Shep?). Since the original wasn't actually about anything, the producers had the leeway to build the sequel from the ground up, and to give the franchise a kick in the ass by making it a blaxploitation thrill ride. As with the original, the American public was deemed too square to be exposed to this film's title in its full glory (Some White-Ass Turkeys), but savvy filmgoers should know without being told that Samuel L. Jackson wouldn't get mixed up in another lame movie about the actual S.W.A.T. team, not after The Negotiator. Though he did still manage to walk into a door frame by not demanding that the screenwriter change his character's name from Hohmo, I can't help but think that's going to get more laughs than any of the actual jokes in the picture.

Alright, everybody out unless they want Bacardi on their pants! You got your movies, now leave Uncle Roland to drown his sorrows in a kiddie pool full of inexpensive rum. Check back in another two weeks, but if nobody answers when you knock then just dream up your own pithy comments for once. Lazy bastards.