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Rover Finds Ted Kennedy’s Face on Martian SurfaceMarch 15, 2004 |
Los Angeles, CA Courtesy NASA A craggy outcropping in the Bonneville Crater has NASA longing for the DTs
“This is huge,” explained mission commander Emeril Welch. “Bigger than Ted Kennedy even, if you can imagine that. This is incontrovertible evidence of life on Mars, and booze.”
Once only a controversial theory, this latest evidence all but proves that Mars once...
ASA scientists were stunned and slightly nauseous this week to find the face of US Senator Ted Kennedy unexpectedly present in the most recent feeds from their Spirit rover, one of NASA’s two remote-controlled toys currently canvassing the Martian surface. Once they’d recovered from the pain and confusion of seeing the senator’s visage cruelly larger-than-life on the big screen, however, speculation erupted among engineers as to what this means about the red planet’s mysterious history.
“This is huge,” explained mission commander Emeril Welch. “Bigger than Ted Kennedy even, if you can imagine that. This is incontrovertible evidence of life on Mars, and booze.”
Once only a controversial theory, this latest evidence all but proves that Mars once contained enough booze and loose women to support the Massachusetts senator. The news is sweet vindication for the few fringe scientists who have argued for years that the red planet once played host to representative democracy, and floozies.
“Ted Kennedy might have been able to get by on Mars without water, but no way is this a dry planet in the alcohol sense,” stated Welch. “We think it’s only a matter of time before one of the rovers uncovers evidence of shot glasses and used condoms.”
The discovery is a boon for scientists of all stripes, who had previously been embarrassingly excited about finding trace evidence of long-gone water inside rocks on the Martian surface. This latest finding confirms that Mars once contained not only various forms of water and club soda, but also a virtual minibar of alcoholic concoctions.
Preliminary drilling in Kennedy’s face has uncovered evidence of whiskey, vodka and scotch, with various crags in the face showing evidence of large quantities of rum once existing on the Martian surface. Such discoveries represent a quantum leap for NASA scientists, who have gone from scouring the Martian surface for faint evidence of microbes to speculating about the Martian bar scene in mere days.
How Kennedy got to Mars, or perhaps came to Earth from Mars, is another question entirely, and one scientists will explore after they’ve answered the burning question of whether or not a Martian could get drunk off the dust from Kennedy’s face. Conspiracy theories have already surfaced suggesting some kind of drunken shuttle mishap, covered up jointly by NASA and the Massachusetts senator. These theories have put a new spin on the original controversial “face” on Mars, first spotted by the Viking Orbiter 1 in 1976 and now thought to possibly be the visage of Kennedy’s female shuttle companion, presumably killed in the crash and later denied by the Kennedy family and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.
These latest discoveries have put on hold cash-strapped NASA’s plans to charge $5 a minute for web surfers to drive the Mars rover from their home computers, using keyboard commands or supported peripheral joysticks. This would seemingly put an end to heated online debate over whether the rover would accept quarters or would require special tokens. Early indications are that the online community is “pretty bummed” at the prospect of missing out on killer games of “Tank Battle” between the rovers Spirit and Opportunity. the commune news swears we would have told about the girl in the passenger seat, if we hadn’t been convinced she’d turn into a mermaid and swim to safety as soon as the car hit the river. What can we say, the bitch lied to us. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown is not responsible for either of the faces on Mars, but does claim responsibility for “the face” on the wall of the Flatbush Arby’s, a chilling portrait in grease and horsey sauce.
 | TV Bitch Likely to Become Prison BitchMarch 8, 2004 |
Stewart leaves the court after conviction, attempting to hide her bitchy response, or possibly cigarettes, under the watchful eyes of a federal guard, or "bull."
With no television cameras in the courtroom, the prosecution spent less time on their hair and suits and focused on building a concrete case against Stewart, who was found guilty for trading her shares of ImClone based on an improper stock tip and attempting to cover up evidence of the illegal action. Stewart's defense claimed the ImClone stock was sold because Stewart had meant to buy stock in the Raelian company that made the clone baby, but got ...
n a setback for complete bitches everywhere, Martha Stewart was convicted of four criminal charges by a jury of twelve of her peers, only much poorer. A deleted phone message and testimony from a "friend" of Stewart put the nails in her defense's coffin and doomed the austere homemaker and queen bitch to almost certain prison time.
With no television cameras in the courtroom, the prosecution spent less time on their hair and suits and focused on building a concrete case against Stewart, who was found guilty for trading her shares of ImClone based on an improper stock tip and attempting to cover up evidence of the illegal action. Stewart's defense claimed the ImClone stock was sold because Stewart had meant to buy stock in the Raelian company that made the clone baby, but got the name wrong. The defense claimed Stewart believed ImClone, a pharmaceutical company working on a cure for cancer, was "sure as shit not going to show profit."
Though Stewart has yet to be sentenced, with the severity of the crime, a term in a minimum-security prison is most likely. Stock in her own company, Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia, dropped 25% in value when her conviction was made public. Stewart didn't do anything to help her sentencing hearing when she dumped all shares shortly before the announcement.
Stewart met the court proceedings with confidence, even showing up the first day of the trial with a $12,000 handbag in tow, prompting members of the jury to murmur, "Jesus, you believe this bitch?" As she was found guilty on all counts, courtroom witnesses described Stewart as "surprised, with an underlying current of bitchy just below the surface."
Since the end of the trial Stewart has professed her innocence and vowed to appeal the case until she is exonerated. She didn't stand on the steps of the courthouse frantically smacking her lawyers about the face and pushing them down the steps, hair frazzled and face manic like a comic Cruella DeVille, but wouldn't it have been great if she had?
Judge Miriam Cederbaum instructed the jury Stewart was subject to guilty or not guilty findings based only on the evidence, and not on the obscure "what a bitch" clause the prosecution proposed, which was originally founded to justify temporary insanity in spousal murder cases. The jury deliberated seven hours before returning, and according to juror Shelby Thucker, they were very conscious of the media attention their verdict would be given.
"We were all extra careful to argue both sides of the case, to make sure our decision wasn't based on anything but evidence," said Thucker, via phone interview. "The men in the jury were quick to call her a bitch, while most of the women found her to be a very successful self-made woman. Finally, we came to the conclusion we were both right. I know lots of people consider powerful women to be bitches, and that's not fair. But Martha Stewart… don't you get the feeling she could be penniless and still be the world's biggest, poorest bitch?"
Clearly, Stewart could be idolized by young upwardly-mobile women everywhere for her shrew business sense and formidable demeanor. For those who find bitchiness a virtue, she was a true beacon in the business world. Even her ethical behavior in making more money and protecting her interests can be respected by aspiring self-made women. However, she got caught, which should be enough to lose all of our respect.
Stewart would not return calls placed to her attorneys by the commune—the bitch. the commune news dumped all our stocks in Microsoft right before the introduction of Windows 95—if anything we're guilty of too-outsider trading. Ivana Folger-Balzac is a bitch for the ages, but not a bitch for all ages, as children under 17 can't be subjected to such language and adult situations.
| Bin Laden hunt nicknamed "Operation Republican Hard-On" Hotmail down for hours; vital dick-growing pills experience sales drop eBay halts sale of three Vietnamese sex slaves over postage dispute Bailey Savings & Loan loses $8,000 |
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 March 15, 2004 Volume 60Dear commune:
Why won’t the commune publish my columns? Sure, I may not be popular like Emil Zender, or possess the mouth-wateringly luscious honeydews of an Ella Dipthong, but I’m okay in the sack. At least I imagine, I’ve never done it with myself. Not for lack of trying. But anyway, what about the columns? You guys got the picture I sent, right? It’s not me, but she’s pretty goodlooking, no? I’d look at that picture while pretending to read a column, for sure. I don’t know what the problem is; I’m beginning to think the commune is a prejudiced organization. Prejudiced against the Calvin Hotbarns of the world, that is. You guys probably could have got away with it if you’d been careful enough to run the occasional column by one of the other Calvin Hotbarns ou...
º Last Column: Volume 59
º more columns
Dear commune: Why won’t the commune publish my columns? Sure, I may not be popular like Emil Zender, or possess the mouth-wateringly luscious honeydews of an Ella Dipthong, but I’m okay in the sack. At least I imagine, I’ve never done it with myself. Not for lack of trying. But anyway, what about the columns? You guys got the picture I sent, right? It’s not me, but she’s pretty goodlooking, no? I’d look at that picture while pretending to read a column, for sure. I don’t know what the problem is; I’m beginning to think the commune is a prejudiced organization. Prejudiced against the Calvin Hotbarns of the world, that is. You guys probably could have got away with it if you’d been careful enough to run the occasional column by one of the other Calvin Hotbarns out there, just for appearances, but you cocky fucks had to go and rub our faces in it by publishing your all-Calvin-Hotbarn-free content all the time. You guys suck. I wouldn’t read your site even if it was publishing my columns. But I bet a lot of people would. So you should probably still run them some time. Love, Calvin Hotbarn
Roadthroat, VTDear Calvin:
In order for the commune to run a column, it needs to be a bit more fleshed out than a sheet of carbon paper scribbled with "Big opening" "Witty anecdote" and "Some shit about the trade deficit." We here at the commune have enough on our hands without having to do your goddamned job for you, dickweave.
the commune
Dear commune: Hey, you commune guys got any ideas what I can do with my Rob? By that you know I mean the R.O.B. (Robotic Operating Buddy) from my old Nintendo Entertainment System. I got one of the first ones to come out, when I was a kid, and back then instead of a light gun and Duck Hunt or whatever they gave you this little robot that helped you play the games. Maybe they hadn’t invented the light gun yet and were worried about complaints if kids were shooting TVs with real guns or something, or maybe they had to straighten out some kind of ducks’ rights lawsuit or something first. But whatever the reason, mine came with this robot thing that moves a gyroscope from one place to one other place. It’s pretty sweet for playing Gyromite or Stack-Up, but I don’t think those Nintendo guys were looking too far into the future when they planned like zero additional functionality for this thing. It’s not really any good for any other games or anything. I thought it might be able to help me with my taxes, because I’m shit at that stuff and robots are hella smart. But not this joker, he just plays with that goddamned gyroscope all day. Then I thought maybe he could answer yes/no questions like a Ouija board using the gyroscope, but he’s shit at that too and I think now I’ve pissed off the undead. I’m about out of ideas, what do you guys think? Todd A. Preston
Whiteman, GADear Todd:
It seems you’ve clearly failed to learn the lesson of the 80’s, Todd. Undocumented migrant workers will always be cheaper than robots, and they even continue to work after cataclysmic final battles with Voltron or the neighbor’s lahsa apso. Even if they’re no good at Nintendo, you can make up your own games like backyard wrestling, pitting one worker against another. And unlike your Robotic Operating Buddy, migrant workers often come with their own gun. Happy gaming!
the commune
Dear the commune: What’s the deal with Three Dog Night? Scratch that, what the hell IS a Three Dog Night? Or is this just one of them "chicken and the egg" pair-a-cocks that just fucks up your brain to think about it? Peace out. Stuart Harbury
Whittle, TXDear Stuart:
Beats the shit out of us. But we did find out from a used car dealer that the expression "cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey" comes from the Civil War. Weird, huh? Who knew they were drinking that shit back then?
the commune
Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for leaving you at the altar like that. If you couldn’t read the obvious hints that we didn’t really want to get married, written in lemon juice on our personal stationary and hidden around the house, then you’re in for a lifetime of disappointment and hurt feelings. Buy yourself a clue, and a toaster, girl.º Last Column: Volume 59º more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“the commune is back? All right! Wait, what the fuck is the commune? What? Now I’m going to kick your ass for getting me excited for nothing.”
-Ron TangleyFortune 500 CookieThis is the week everything changes for you. Yep, even those underwear. Go get a spatula. We all agree that your breasts are attractive, but usually a guy needs a follow-up act to really reel in the ladies. Try learning to play the lute this week, just carrying it around isn’t impressing anyone. This week’s lucky fuckers: Fucker G. Robinson (the world’s second-richest and seventh-most-unfortunately-named man), mother, Megan Fox’s boyfriend, and whoever’s sleeping with that hot girl on the Morton’s Salt container (oh get over it, she’s totally grown up by now).
Try again later.Top 5 Pre-Rapture Activities| 1. | Making fun of people who believe in the rapture | | 2. | Borrowing money from people who believe in the rapture | | 3. | Ironic Masturbation | | 4. | Angry Birds | | 5. | Monopoly: Rapture Edition, or prayer, whatever everybody’s up for | |
|   Clear Channel to Replace Stern with Pro-Bush Shock Jock BY dick charleston 3/15/2004 Alistair SchitIn a decidedly real part of the city of London were the common site of workhouses. While I shall not assign a definitive background to our title character, it is possible his mother was in the employ of one of these places. His father might have been a traveling circus clown, which would account for the boy's large and cumbersome feet, but again, I make not up shit when I need not. For whatever account he came to be, Alistair Schit was a street urchin, born free in the manner that sucks.
The first years of his life were spent in an orphanage, all residents marching in single-file lines as if from a Pink Floyd video, piling under-nourishing gruel into their bowls, and tater tots on Fridays. None of the boys was successfully fed in this fashion, always going to bed hungry to fa...
In a decidedly real part of the city of London were the common site of workhouses. While I shall not assign a definitive background to our title character, it is possible his mother was in the employ of one of these places. His father might have been a traveling circus clown, which would account for the boy's large and cumbersome feet, but again, I make not up shit when I need not. For whatever account he came to be, Alistair Schit was a street urchin, born free in the manner that sucks.
The first years of his life were spent in an orphanage, all residents marching in single-file lines as if from a Pink Floyd video, piling under-nourishing gruel into their bowls, and tater tots on Fridays. None of the boys was successfully fed in this fashion, always going to bed hungry to face the next day in the style of slow dying. It was Alistair who, encouraged by the other boys, brought the attention to the orphanage director, Mr. Hannigan.
"Hey, jackass," inquired Alistair, "what's up with this gruel? You pocketing the money you're supposed to be using to feed us?"
"Why, you scamp!" rattled Mr. Hannigan. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"I ain't saying nothing," professed Alistair. "Just give me more—more, bitch! Hustle that fat ass. I'm hungry. We're all hungry, eatin' this K-Mart gruel shit."
Hannigan was outraged, mostly by the K-Mart insult, and Alistair was thrown into a dank and small room not entirely unlike debtors' prison, which I've really been to. Have you ever been to debtors' prison, dear reader? Oh, lord, it is merciless! At night time your fellow cell boarder will try to have sex with your backside, regardless of whether or not you enjoy homosexual intercourse. The guards will walk right past your cell and pretend not to see anything, no matter how you attempt to again the attention with shouting or tearful crying.
None of these things, however, happened to Alistair in his small room, all alone. He might have sang a song, if that's your pleasure, but probably mostly he touched himself in an illicit fashion I will not detail. But at some point, he ungirded the protective casing on a window. Did I mention there was a window? Indeed there was, even if I didn't. For that's how Alistair escaped from the orphanage and took to the streets. And if you think the orphanage personnel went about trying to find Alistair and bring him back, oh, are you wrong, brother. They gave not a shit.
The next few days past in a condensed narrative manner for Alistair. He was cold, tired, hungry, and spent most of them crying. A lot like his days spent at the orphanage, but lacking the savage beatings that at least allowed you to set your watch to correct time. In the days he gathered food from the refuse bin behind the local sperm bank; at night times he slept in a horse pen, where he also snacked. Truly life looked very dim for Alistair, so morbid and downcast many readers might have slashed their own wrists by this time for merciful release.
All those terrible times passed until the day Alistair met Art Danger, a fellow runaway orphan who earned a healthy living picking the pockets of passing strangers and well-to-do men. In truth, Art Danger picked the very pocket of your author, and my main interest in telling this entire story is to find the scamp and get my earnings back. He was 4'6", black hair, unkempt face and clothing, a ridiculous stove-pipe hat, and gold bling-bling around his neck. Any information leading to his arrest and conviction, and the return of my wallet, is subject to a small reward.
For more of this great story, buy Dick Charleston's
Alistair Schit   |
