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Arafat Accepts Blaine ChallengePalestinian to endure survival test, piss-off Israel September 15, 2003 |
London, England Whit Pistol On his way back into crawl space to begin test of will, Arafat leaves supporters with one last taste of his world-famous Nixon impression.
The Blaine taunt is a latest in an underreported rivalry between the Palestinian leader and the American illusionist. After 2001 show of endurance in which Blaine remained encased in a block of ice for days, Arafat reputedly called Blaine a "big fakecicle." Blaine angrily invited Arafat to out-do his endurance test, and the Palestinian leader responded by sealing himself in his compound in the West Bank under Israeli assault and hasn't been outside but briefly since fo...
n Friday afternoon Yassir Arafat promised to go without food for 50 days, and resist ousting by Israeli forces. The pledge follows a statement by Israel that they will remove Arafat, calling him an "impediment to peace," and a challenge by street magician David Blaine who called Arafat, "all dick and no balls."
The Blaine taunt is a latest in an underreported rivalry between the Palestinian leader and the American illusionist. After 2001 show of endurance in which Blaine remained encased in a block of ice for days, Arafat reputedly called Blaine a "big fakecicle." Blaine angrily invited Arafat to out-do his endurance test, and the Palestinian leader responded by sealing himself in his compound in the West Bank under Israeli assault and hasn't been outside but briefly since for almost two years. A courier allegedly carried a hand-scrawled note from Arafat to Blaine, reading, "How you like them apples?"
Them apples Blaine did not like apparently, as he began his most recent stunt Sept. 6, staying in a suspended see-through box hanging over London and going without food for 44 days. When Blaine's safety monitors were asked why 44 days specifically, they told reporters it was the scientifically-calculated limit a man could survive before his last few fans lost complete interest.
Not to be outdone, Arafat again pressed forward with some help for old nemesis Israel, promising to lock himself up in a tiny crawlspace and going without food for a full 50 days. Skeptics and people who don't like him say it is madness to attempt to live without food, surviving only on water and whatever's left in his beard for that long.
Unlike Blaine, Arafat was not a prick about granting interviews to reporters. When questioned about the troubles his organization and himself are facing from Israel, Arafat responded: "It is a very small crawlspace. Very tiny and cramped. I can barely move in there, and only meditation and praying to Allah can take my mind of the severe discomfort. Since I have only started, it is not so bad right now. But within a few days I will be in for a real hurtin', boys."
Arafat invites fans to check in on him at his website www.yassirthatsmybaby.com, while Blaine is invited to sniff his hairy backside. A webcam was installed in the crawlspace so fans can make sure Arafat is not pulling a fast one and sneaking out on the side for a bite of McDonald's.
Professor Ebb Wright, from Oxford's Department of Middle Eastern Politics and Magic, explains the difficulties ahead for the Palestinian.
"It is a quite difficult and politically deft maneuver at the same time," said Wright, digging the lint from his navel and making it into a little man. "On the one hand, it will be quite a feat to survive so long on a minimal of food, to maintain one's mind and body with so little fuel. On the other hand, it's politically brilliant because Arafat can rally the support of the rest of the world and still take calls of support. However, if one is busy building a coalition to prevent military incursion, it distracts from the various Eastern trances Arafat could be using to release his mind from his body."
Intrigued, this reporter accepted an invitation to try repeating Arafat's stunt in a crawlspace in the professor's office. Though he was kind enough to transcribe the preceding article, he was unable to help this reporter free himself again. the commune news has considered locking ourselves in our offices to survive on only what's presently here, but decided we'd save it for the inevitable FBI standoff. Ivan Nacutchacokov is the commune's foreign correspondent and it's a rarity he's able to get two articles turned in without requiring hospitalization.
 | Americans Kind of Disappointed Al-Qaeda Hasn't Struck AgainSeptember 15, 2003 |
Osama bin Laden: One-hit wonder?
“Weren’t we supposed to be writhing in the streets like the imperialist dogs we are by now?” questioned Doug Breiner of Minneapolis. “I thought for sure they would have nuked a bridge or drove an Amtrak train into the Sears Tower or something by now. What gives?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I’m glad nobody’s died or anything,” explained Breiner. “I’m not a sicko. But I’m kinda pissed we’ve been all worried for so long with no kind of payoff. It’s like hiding in...
n the two-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York City, many Americans marvel that in spite of the unanimously dire predictions of future attacks from the nation’s experts, the group thought to be responsible, Al-Qaeda, has been so quiet since. Too quiet. “Weren’t we supposed to be writhing in the streets like the imperialist dogs we are by now?” questioned Doug Breiner of Minneapolis. “I thought for sure they would have nuked a bridge or drove an Amtrak train into the Sears Tower or something by now. What gives?” “Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I’m glad nobody’s died or anything,” explained Breiner. “I’m not a sicko. But I’m kinda pissed we’ve been all worried for so long with no kind of payoff. It’s like hiding in your basement from a tornado all night and then finding out the guy on the news was talking about a Oldsmobile Toronado or something. Just kind of a pisser, sort of.” The same sentiment has been echoed all across the country, as Americans come to grips with their lives not coming to a flaming, catastrophic end at any time during the last two years. “Yeah, what the hell have those guys been up to?” asked an indignant Maury Jackson of Inkster, Michigan. “I guess maybe we overestimated them, I didn’t think they were the kind of terrorist organization that would just rest on their laurels after making a big splash. But I guess fame changes people. You know, that inner fire kinda fades out or whatever. It’s too bad, really. Hey, is it true Quentin Tarantino’s got a new movie coming out?” Countless Americans remember with an air of awed nostalgia the many colorful ways security experts and politicians told them they would die only two short years ago. From jet-fuel infernos to anthrax-laced crop dusters, poisoned water reservoirs, truck bombs at day-care centers, botulism-infected milk hosed on toddlers, kamikaze suicide bombers at the GAP and nuclear power plants infiltrated by really smart Al-Qaeda moles, American security experts took an almost perverse glee in detailing the many varieties of heart-exploding terror that would inevitably follow in the wake of 9/11. “I guess they’re probably pretty distracted now that we blew up their country and stuff,” mused NYU junior Patsy Washington about Al-Qaeda. “Which is good I guess. But it would’ve been kinda cool to see what crazy shit they dreamt up next, you know? Somebody told me they were gonna hide razor blades in all our toilet paper, that would’ve been nuts.” “I guess it was inevitable that after a while all those constant terror alerts that never put out would lose their impact,” said retiree Sharon Henline, stroking her Yorkshire terrier. “Tell you the truth, at this point I’m more worried about that black guy who hangs out by the pay phone down on the corner. He looks kinda shady.” That black guy who hangs out by the pay phone down on the corner, Tyrell Hughes, expressed similar sentiments. “Al-Qaeda? Nah man, fuck Al-Qaeda. How’ve I got time to worry about that when I’ve got some crazy bitch siccing her little dog on me every morning when I’m waiting for my ride to work? Damn.” the commune news is still acutely worried about terrorist attack, but only because we know what goes around comes around, and that means the commune news is screwed. Ramon Nootles was never worried himself, taking comfort in the fact that the U.S. blows up more shit by 6am than most terrorist organizations do all day.
| Everyone kind of a little relieved Bob Hope finally dead Yale bombed, Harvard too drunk to walk home Study finds low I.Q. causes lead paint eating, not other way around |
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 September 15, 2003 Fresh Step"Check out my moves while my lawyer gets a written waiver."
Be careful when you tell people you are the best dancer ever, because some of them will call you on it. They'll be skeptical, they'll call you a liar, they'll ask to see your "moves" and shit. Then you either have to tell them you were lying or dance like the best person in the world.
I always try the second one first, but then I have to tell them the truth, that I don't dance. Unless I'm dancing for people who don't know dancing. Like the Amish or Republicans.
I wish I could dance, but not everybody was meant to dance. John Travolta and that fruity guy with the top hat in old movies. And old dancing was easier to do. It usually meant just finding a room that would turn upside down and...
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"Check out my moves while my lawyer gets a written waiver."
Be careful when you tell people you are the best dancer ever, because some of them will call you on it. They'll be skeptical, they'll call you a liar, they'll ask to see your "moves" and shit. Then you either have to tell them you were lying or dance like the best person in the world.
I always try the second one first, but then I have to tell them the truth, that I don't dance. Unless I'm dancing for people who don't know dancing. Like the Amish or Republicans.
I wish I could dance, but not everybody was meant to dance. John Travolta and that fruity guy with the top hat in old movies. And old dancing was easier to do. It usually meant just finding a room that would turn upside down and then right side up and moving your legs around while holding a cane. New dancing is harder. You take a cane onto the dance floor nowadays and the bouncers thump you.
The hardest thing about new-style dancing is moving your arms and legs. At the same time! Sometimes I get the legs going with a good step-step sort of thing and then I realize my arms aren't moving. So I try moving the arms and then I see I'm just standing in one place. Sometimes I can get one arm and one leg going on the same side, but you do that longer than a couple of minutes and people know it's your only move. I can also get one arm and one leg on opposite sides working. One time I got all four working at once, but it was in my basement and nobody saw, so it doesn't count.
There are people who actually go to school to learn to dance. I call them money wasters. If they can't hear me I call them that. The point I'm making is I don't know why anyone would pay money to go to school when they can move all four limbs in a basement.
Those dances are the kind you use at aristocrat's balls and shit. The bossy nova, the flamingo, the goose step. They teach you how to do those by painting 50 feet on the floor—joke's on you, asshole. You've only got two feet. And by the time you get enough friends, or paid enough hookers, to come over and fill up all the foot slots, it's too crowded to dance. And you probably have to pay the dance teacher for all the hookers you brought into the class. I'm guessing that's how they stay in business.
You can learn to dance from watching TV. But not The Paper Chase. If you watch, like, Fame or something you can see them dancing and just copy the moves. With a little practice you can take it onto the floor and totally rule. I learned to dance from watching Mr. Belvedere but it didn't go as well as I thought. What can I say, I only like funny shows. Next time I'll try copping some classic Cosby steps or something. º Last Column: Target Friendlyº more columns | 
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Milestones1812: Some kind of war of note happened, probably involving some big shot historical guys. People waved their dicks around and shouted, most likely.Now HiringBitchin' Ninja. Ass-kicking ninja needed for sword-swallowing, punching through solid rock, hiding underwater for days at a time, providing tactical superiority over other online news-magazines, cosmetics consultations, brick-laying, snowboarding out of airplanes, cooking delicious soufflés, cowering foes with a steely glare, and taxidermy. Mystical world-view a plus.How Gay is Our Dance Instructor?| 1. | Flaming | | 2. | Scorching | | 3. | Richard Simmons Riding a Pink Giraffe | | 4. | Alphabetizes Trading Spaces Tape Collection | | 5. | Pretty Darn Gay | |
|   Box-Traveling Moron Somehow News  BY shelly strood 9/1/2003 Study Hall Hood: A Hatty Pearst, Teen Detective MysteryThere was the loud sound of footfalls behind her. Could it be—the murderer? Hatty had to think quick, or she would be discovered searching for clues in the locker room. Thinking the obvious, she tried each locker until one near the end was found unlocked, and climbed inside. The door closed with a faint click just as she heard footsteps in the room.
Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching. It sounded like Fred Astaire, judging by the tap of the shoes, but it couldn't be since he had died long ago. It was likely only one other person—the murderer!
She had mixed feelings. If the murderer flung open the locker door, she would be ab...
There was the loud sound of footfalls behind her. Could it be—the murderer? Hatty had to think quick, or she would be discovered searching for clues in the locker room. Thinking the obvious, she tried each locker until one near the end was found unlocked, and climbed inside. The door closed with a faint click just as she heard footsteps in the room.
Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching. It sounded like Fred Astaire, judging by the tap of the shoes, but it couldn't be since he had died long ago. It was likely only one other person—the murderer!
She had mixed feelings. If the murderer flung open the locker door, she would be able to see who he was. But if he flung open the locker door, he would see who she was and probably kill her, if he was the murderer. If he wasn't, that would leave her with doubt. The only way for her to discover if whoever was outside was indeed the murderer of Professor Dimble was to be found in the locker and murdered. That would pretty much put all doubts to rest.
Still, she hoped it wouldn't happen. She would get no credit for capturing the murderer if he killed her. But it seemed it was becoming inevitable. He must have caught a whiff of her perfume, Liz Taylor's White Diamonds, because he began to fling open the lockers starting with the first at the far end. Hatty wished she had some kind of weapon, like a gun or a knife or a sharpened stake, if he were a vampire. She wished she were a cop or a secret agent, or someone who could protect herself, instead of a too-curious high school girl with a keen detective mind. Then, she wished she were a princess, with a huge castle and gigantic knockers. It did no good—the mysterious stranger kept getting closer and closer, opening locker door after locker door, until he was almost up to hers.
"Hello?" she heard a loud, bellowing voice, not belonging to the murderer. But it was enough; he was frightened off, and she heard his stylish-but-loud clacking shoes clomp out of the locker room.
When she stepped out of the locker, relieved and breathing doggedly, she saw her savior standing there: Brando, the janitor.
"Mr. Brando! It was sure a lucky thing you heard that strange man and came to my rescue, here in the girl's locker room!"
"Yeah," said Mr. Brando, appearing slightly confused. "It's a good thing. This place is completely empty after school hours. Some guy could have come in here and masturbated all over you and no one would have ever known!"
"I was more afraid of him killing me!" said Hatty, finally catching her breath.
"Oh, yeah. They'd never find out about that either, I guess."
Hatty looked around the smallish, somewhat sensual locker room. "Jeez-louise, if you didn't see him as he ran out, then where did he go?"
Brando thought for a moment, and it was painful. "I suppose he could have gotten out through the crawlspace." Hatty asked him what crawlspace he was referring to. "I'll tell you. The crawlspace over there, behind the showers. There's a small, janitor-sized cubby hole in the wall where a body could squeeze in, then escape through a hidden passageway to the football field!"
"My goodness! That's where he's gone, I'll bet anything! Come on, we've got to catch him—he's probably the man that murdered Professor Dimble!"
"Yeah!" cried Brando. "And I'll bet he's done other despicable things, like leaving child pornography magazines in that crawlspace. I'll bet you anything!"   |
