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Tom Cruise's Shit Don't StinkAmerican actor must be some kind of heavenly gift to earth November 24, 2003 |
Winnipeg, Canada Sloe Lorenzo Pleasant-smelling possible gift to humanity Tom Cruise, seen here being admired from afar ccording to a troubling new study published today, Canadian scientists have found the shit of American actor Tom Cruise to be totally lacking in the offensive odor usually associated with common man-scat. The discovery raises a host of disturbing questions, not the least of which is what Canadian scientists were doing smelling Cruise's shit in the first place.
"We've long suspected Mr. Cruise might have descended from a higher odor of stenchless man, and these findings have merely confirmed the innate superiority we've long gathered from Tom's demeanor and public statements," explained Dr. Remus Rooney of the Manitoba Center for Deep Thinking. The center, housed in a building once famously occupied by vice pioneer Brooks McNally's "assembly-line" brothel during WWII, is known ...
ccording to a troubling new study published today, Canadian scientists have found the shit of American actor Tom Cruise to be totally lacking in the offensive odor usually associated with common man-scat. The discovery raises a host of disturbing questions, not the least of which is what Canadian scientists were doing smelling Cruise's shit in the first place.
"We've long suspected Mr. Cruise might have descended from a higher odor of stenchless man, and these findings have merely confirmed the innate superiority we've long gathered from Tom's demeanor and public statements," explained Dr. Remus Rooney of the Manitoba Center for Deep Thinking. The center, housed in a building once famously occupied by vice pioneer Brooks McNally's "assembly-line" brothel during WWII, is known around the world for investigating questions of general scientific interest such as what those letters on zipper tabs mean and why some people insist on calling it "double-yew double-yew eye eye."
"When Tom looks at you, you can just tell his shit doesn't stink," added Rooney. "And now we have the research to back it up."
But how did this unusual study come about?
"Tom contacted us, actually," elaborated Dr. Rooney. "He was concerned that the cigar boxes of shit he was mailing to a local rival might not be having the intended effect, and sure enough it turns out the guy was using the stuff to insulate his house."
Rooney is careful to point out that Cruise's fecal matter is not odorless, which would just be creepy, but rather carries the robust odor of roasted almonds, a scent most who come in contact with the shit find pleasing. Through a series of tests at the Manitoba Center, Cruise's diet, lifestyle and religious practices are being examined as scientists attempt to probe the inner workings of the sweet-smelling actor.
"I hear he eats nothing but honeydew melons and bee larvae," insisted local roughneck Denny Lopez. "No shit. Or whatever they make that bee jelly out of. That shit's expensive. Damn but I'd like to get me some. My shit stink like death, yo."
"The defining characteristic of shit is that it stinks," explained leading fecalogist Roger Burns. "Which is what makes this case so unusual. If it doesn't stink, is it still shit? Or is Mr. Cruise instead shitting out something else? And if this is the case, is he still shitting it out, or do we need to come up with another verb for defecating a substance through one's anus? This is truly a heady day for science."
"Just a sec, I gotta take a shit," added Burns, excusing himself.
"Why don't you leave one instead?" countered Dr. Rooney, in jest. Both doctors chuckled heartily.
"That one never gets old," admitted Burns. the commune news' shit doth indeed stink, so much so in fact to warrant a recent local news report. Ramon Nootles is rarely singled out as the culprit in this matter, but only because of the overwhelming in-office opinion that commune columnist and resident alien Boris Utzov and his bizarre Eastern-European diet are to blame.
| Bush to Britain: "Speak English, Motherfuckers"November 24, 2003 |
London, England Whit Pistol Befuddled President Bush wonders why that goofy-ass queen makes all the royal guards get the same odd haircut. nother embarrassing gaff from the president occurred Tuesday when President Bush, briefly addressing protestors as he was escorted to a meeting with Prime Minister Tony Blair, angrily demanded the crowd, “Speak English, motherfuckers!”
“Y’all talk like fruits over here,” concluded the president, as handlers corralled the president to the prime minister’s residence.
It was a bad start to a rough visit to London for the president, on a goodwill trip to improve his image across the Atlantic. Inside sources describe Bush as beleaguered and exasperated with constant negative coverage of his visit to the country, as well as an extreme difficulty in crossing the accent gap. Bush had reportedly cupped his hand to his ear minutes earlier and mouthed, “I donâ...
nother embarrassing gaff from the president occurred Tuesday when President Bush, briefly addressing protestors as he was escorted to a meeting with Prime Minister Tony Blair, angrily demanded the crowd, “Speak English, motherfuckers!” “Y’all talk like fruits over here,” concluded the president, as handlers corralled the president to the prime minister’s residence. It was a bad start to a rough visit to London for the president, on a goodwill trip to improve his image across the Atlantic. Inside sources describe Bush as beleaguered and exasperated with constant negative coverage of his visit to the country, as well as an extreme difficulty in crossing the accent gap. Bush had reportedly cupped his hand to his ear minutes earlier and mouthed, “I don’t unnerstan ya,” before blurting out his loud insult to the surprised crowd. Though Bush’s meeting with the prime minister was insightful, according to better educated White House spokespeople, reporters from both countries were anxious to hear Bush’s excuse for the comment. “The president was tired and cranky, suffering from jet lag,” said overworked White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan, “he responded aggressively to what he perceived as an aggressive accusation in a language he couldn’t understand. He regrets saying things he should have only thought, but does not apologize. Wrap your head around that one.” Other difficulties presented themselves, the White House stated in an accompanying memo, all adding to Bush’s confusion with the language. He was disturbed when the prime minister asked for Bush to “knock him up” as soon as he arrived; also bothering him were a minor traffic accident involving a pair of “lorries” and the ride on the “lift” during his first stop. “We are talking about a president who hasn’t mastered this country’s cultural language quirks,” said an unidentified White House source this reporter nicknamed Big Johnson. “Put the pressure of selling the Iraq war and post-war reconstruction together with a culture he’s only familiar with through Benny Hill re-runs and we’re talking about one pissed-off president.” The visit was declared successful by the White House, claiming disagreements about the Iraq war and the country’s future were discussed and overcome, though gaffs continued to follow the president like a pack of redneck-sniffing hounds. When introduced to the Queen, the president shared how much he loved “We Will Rock You”; addressing a gathering British diplomats, Bush said how deeply he regretted bombing their country in World War II and he would make sure to see the big clock before he left. Thursday marked the biggest turnout of protestors as an estimated 100,000 tongue-clucking Britons gathered in Trafalgar Square to burn effigies of Bush, carry sort-of clever disparaging signs addressed to him, and generally dis the visiting president. Bush himself, in a better mood Thursday, took a Zen approach to the protests. “Everyone has the right to speak their own mind,” said the president. “We fought for their independence so they could say what they want.” the commune news has never been to England, but we’ve been to New England, and if all they got across the pond is clam chowder and the Celtics, we’ll just as well stay here. Truman Prudy is our UK correspondent, and a bit of an English muffin, if you get what we mean. And if you do, please explain it to him.
| Mark Buckles Some Sort of Cockwad 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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November 24, 2003 Don't Believe the Hypeby Omar Bricks: the commune’s alternate-dimension Ralph Nader Don't soil your couch or anything, but I've officially been banned from the Saturn dealership. Actually, technically I think I'm banned from all Saturn dealerships worldwide, but I don't believe for a second they're so organized I couldn't walk into a showroom in Iraq someplace with a fake beard and test out a car or make off with an armload of donuts if I wanted. At best I think the overseas dealerships have a vague description of me and some trademark sayings, but that shit's easy enough to fake. I've already got some hilarious platform shoes saved up and I've been itching to use that accent from Scarface for something for a while anyway, so I'd like to see those Iraqi bastards try to keep me out of one of their gay little toy cars. Not that I was really sold on the i...
º Last Column: They Don't Call it a Blood Drive for Nothing º more columns
Don't soil your couch or anything, but I've officially been banned from the Saturn dealership. Actually, technically I think I'm banned from all Saturn dealerships worldwide, but I don't believe for a second they're so organized I couldn't walk into a showroom in Iraq someplace with a fake beard and test out a car or make off with an armload of donuts if I wanted. At best I think the overseas dealerships have a vague description of me and some trademark sayings, but that shit's easy enough to fake. I've already got some hilarious platform shoes saved up and I've been itching to use that accent from Scarface for something for a while anyway, so I'd like to see those Iraqi bastards try to keep me out of one of their gay little toy cars. Not that I was really sold on the idea of buying a Saturn, mind you. Where I'm from, that shit'll get you bitchslapped like you were carrying around a book. "Nice car, Oppenheimer." Right, like I need that noise. But the thing is, I was watching TV the other day, trying to find that channel with the temperature on it to see if it was cold outside, when I spied that ad about how Saturns are made out of some insane Klingon plastic where you can hit that shit with a golf club and the dent pops right out like superman's balls. So right away the gears start turning and I'm thinking about the advantages to having a car made out of that stuff, gay little shitbox or not. Like what if that shit is bulletproof? Holy God would that be sweet. Then I could finally go to that Taco Bell on the bad side of town that has the bitchin' nachos without worrying about getting a Gunshot Bell Grande. Sure, I might catch some flak over the squaremobile every once in a while, but kiss my ass man, have you tried these nachos? So I head on down to the Saturn dealership, and I'm not there for five minutes before the guy is getting all in my business about how you've got to be wearing shoes to test drive a car, like he was listening when I said "test" and then just tuned out and assumed that I added the "drive" part. As if I was going to waste my time driving the piece of shit, I already know it's a Saturn. Maybe he figured I was some hillrod who thought they had a bunch of Ferraris in the back or something, I don't know what his problem was. But the guy's trouble from the start, and two minutes later he goes all psycho and starts yelling about how he's gonna call the cops, even though I kept explaining that they were going to tell him the same thing, that there's only one way to test if a car is bulletproof. Cops know about that kind of shit, that's why they're cops and not working at a Saturn dealership someplace. But he didn't want to hear about it; he was all hung up on "You shot my car! You shot my car!" so finally I had to agree to disagree with the dude and just slip out the back while he was looking up the number for 911. Needless to say, the damn thing wasn't even bulletproof. And that was the last straw, really, because I can't think of any other reason people would even buy one of those things. Maybe they just assume from the commercial and can't borrow a gun to test it out. Or maybe Saturns work underwater or something crazy like that, maybe that's the angle and I just haven't seen that commercial yet. If that turns out to be the case, I may have to brush up on my Tony Montana accent. Bricks out. º Last Column: They Don't Call it a Blood Drive for Nothingº more columns |
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Milestones1931: Former commune columnist Sampson L. Hartwig forfeits another "Race Around the World" when it is discovered that he merely hid in a barn for three days, then took a taxi in from the opposite side of town, claiming victory.Now HiringCompulsive Ass-Kisser. Shameless suck-up needed to boost general staff morale and cut down on work days lost to crippling depression. Total lack of discernment required. Insane "Never met a man I didn't like" attitude a plus.Top Pants-Missing Explanations1. | Busted out Hulk-style | 2. | Told one lie too many | 3. | Busted out Louie Anderson-style | 4. | What, aren't you hot? | 5. | Talked out of them by gay Casanova | 6. | Made ass look big | 7. | Donated to killer mandroid from future | 8. | Realized parachute pants went out of style in 1986 | 9. | Sat in ham | 10. | You kidding? Pants are so 2002 | |
| Newest Governors Already RecalledBY french hammond blister 11/24/2003 How to Write a Contrived NovelVerbs. Nouns. Direct objects. Pro-Nouns. Indirect objects. These are friend to the aspiring contrived novelist.
But writing is more than a mish-mash of words formed into sentences, then into paragraphs, then back into sentences for dialogue. All culminating in "The End." It is more than an exploration of language, of culture, of self, a fascinating journey through your own self-conscience meant to make you a better person. More than all this, even more than an intriguing story and fresh characters. Writing is a short ride to a big fat check.
For centuries authors existed entirely by the good graces of the wealthy—patrons of the rich, writing exactly what they wanted for one particular audience. Writing was an act of compromise to satisfy the whim of a deman...
Verbs. Nouns. Direct objects. Pro-Nouns. Indirect objects. These are friend to the aspiring contrived novelist. But writing is more than a mish-mash of words formed into sentences, then into paragraphs, then back into sentences for dialogue. All culminating in "The End." It is more than an exploration of language, of culture, of self, a fascinating journey through your own self-conscience meant to make you a better person. More than all this, even more than an intriguing story and fresh characters. Writing is a short ride to a big fat check. For centuries authors existed entirely by the good graces of the wealthy—patrons of the rich, writing exactly what they wanted for one particular audience. Writing was an act of compromise to satisfy the whim of a demanding and imbecilic blueblood. That was a sweet deal. But that time has gone by, and to make a fortune in the modern age the modern novelist mustn't compromise himself for any single individual, but bunches of them. The book-buying public. The beginning to every good book is a winning idea. An idea someone thinks is worth publishing. People ask us all the time, "Where do you get ideas?" Screw you, hobo, we're not telling you the source of our goldmine. Get a job already. But if you have a place to get ideas from, especially ideas you could turn into a book, even better a bestselling book idea, jump on it! It's not as hard as you might think. You see authors all the time who are struck by the muse, punched in the balls and thrown by the stairs by inspiration, and they come up with a brilliant can't-miss idea people find genuinely interesting. We hate these people. Luckily, people also by books with lame, repetitive stories and paper-thin characters you can toss out in ten seconds. In fact, most of the publishing world exists entirely on these books. And you can easily be one of their authors. One good way of finding the perfect idea for your trite novel is to take your favorite book and re-write it with your own disappointing characters. Love Jane Eyre? Write your own historical romance and diatribe on the role of women in Victorian England! Make her an exciting well-read debutante instead of a frumpy governess, and turn that subtle discourse on feminism into modern catchphrases and moralizing. People will eat it up. Or maybe you're a fan of 1984, but you find it horribly depressing. What would happen if Winston Smith got tired of taking orders from Big Brother and started kicking some major butt? Hmm? Now you've got a bestseller! It doesn't have to be stealing someone else's creative idea, if that's not your style. It doesn't have to be creative at all. Take a familiar literary situation, like a neurotic thinly-disguised version of yourself returning home to your dysfunctional family. Not only is it a critical favorite, but you can delude yourself into thinking it's therapeutic. Save on shrink bills and throw in some psycho-babble you found on the web and you've written one smart—if trite—book! Don't think it's easy to write a novel just because it's crap, though. It's still hard work. You have to write hundreds of sentences, one after the other, and when you think you've written enough you still have to write the easiest ending you can think of, or borrow it from someone else. Then we get into the next part of it all—publishing! That'll take up the remaining 287 pages of this book. For more of this great non-fiction, buy French Hammond and Teddy Eddie Blister's How to Write a Contrived Novel |