arents' groups across the country are up in arms this week following the publication of "Hitler: Flower of Hate," Maxwell Haus' stunning new biography of the late Nazi leader, which according to the dust jacket exposes the former fuehrer's deep fondness for waltz music. Citing evidence in personal diaries and correspondence between the two historical madmen, Haus' book suggests that waltz music may also have been a personal inspiration for Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, also mad.

This shockingly belated news has caused a rethinking of national attitudes toward the mostly-forgotten musical form of waltz and the senior citizens who claim to enjoy it. First developed in the Austrian alps in the 17th century as a form of social protest against the stuffy polonaises of the day, waltz was considered an exciting and dangerous music for almost four years until the Polka rocked Europe in 1834.

Concerned mobs throughout America have responded to the latest news with waltz record burnings all week long, in many cases raiding the record cabinets of their elderly and infirm parents to unearth the darkly influential albums before they can do further damage. Asked if her hysterical mob might be going too far, mob spokesperson and daughter of two Andrea Collins disagreed.

"Are you even listening, people?" gushed an exasperated Collins. "This is HITLER music! We've got to do this for the chil- the old! Do it for the olderly!"

Though evidence remains sketchy, sensationalistic media outlets have tied waltz music to the rash of shootings at seniors' dances which may have occurred across the country in recent months.

According to those same disreputable media outlets, a new strain of "hard core" waltz has been gaining in popularity among the nation's seniors in recent years, a trend that their grown children find troubling.

"This isn't your parents' waltz music," explained University of Pussy Lake musicologist Stans Frenton. "Or actually it is. I'm sorry, it's just a figure of speech that isn't terribly useful in this situation. Waltz music hasn't changed in 400 years; it's pretty much always been as offensive as it is right now."

Though the chances of waltz music spreading to our nation's youth have been estimated by experts to be "fuckin' remote, like Alaskan outback underground deaf hermit remote," concerned parents remain concerned about the effect this sedate, docile music may be having on their own elderly parents.

"First they start listening to waltz music," blathering idiot Josephine Matthews explained to the commune. "Then they don't want to take their pills any more, and they want to stay out all evening, slow dancing and sitting quietly in chairs."
Matthews shuddered at the thought, or possibly because it was cold.

"Well, at least our kids aren't listening to this waltz shit," sighed resigned parent Philip Dillinger of Oak Caverns, IL, poking around for something else to get upset about. "They don't look up to their grandparents at all, not much danger of there being a bad influence there. As a matter of fact, if I could convince my parents to start taking drugs and freak dancing, I'm pretty sure my kids would stop doing those things too. Hold on, I've got to make a call."

ome groups (Christians and liberals) have called foul when the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences announced their nominations for the 2005 Oscars earlier this week, and their favorite agenda films The Passion of the Christ and Fahrenheit 9/11 were nowhere to be found. The greater mystery, if you ask any film fan in the know, is how the Academy could criminally overlook the short film masterpiece "Unmapped Island," released in 2004 just in time for the Oscars by film auteur and commune employee Ted Ted.

"Unmapped Island," released to poisonous reviews in early December 2004 by the independent film company Ted Ted Pictures, has been targeted for non-targeting by Hollywood elite, despite being completely original and elevating the film forum beyond the usual candy-ass picture Tinsel Town has been churning out for years. Meanwhile, tired biopics like The Aviator and Ray, and foxy boxing pictures like Million Dollar Baby steal the thunder from original films about one man pitted against nature and Nazis after surviving a shipwrecking.

Many were curious and highly pissed-off as to why a formidable new talent, perhaps even a genius(?), was completely passed over for the more traditional kind of slick-produced crap and prettyboy film star nonsense. Most notably, the director and writer himself, Ted Ted, called the move, "The same old Hollywood horseshit."

Though troubled by bad reviews from critics who either simply didn't get it or were too high-faluting to enjoy a movie that was great fun, "Unmapped Island," starring non-Oscar-nominee for Best Actor Ted Ted and also non-Oscar-nominee for Best Supporting Actor Ramrod Hurley, sold out both of its showings in Flatbush, New Jersey, and looked "quite professional," according to the theater owner and projectionist Randall Howard. The praise and audience approval falls on deaf ears in Hollywood, though, as letters go unanswered and phone calls unreturned by simple reporters trying to find out the facts for a story. Still, one has to wonder: Is Hollywood completely oblivious to identifying new talent these days, or do they hold some deep-seated perverse prejudice against filmmaker Ted Ted?

It's not the first time Hollywood has faced the Ted Ted controversy, and refused to answer perfectly reasonable questions about it. In 1999, Ted Ted's first short film Monolog was roundly ignored by critics, on the preposterous grounds that no one in the academy had seen it and it broke minor technical regulations by not being quite finished, though director Ted Ted promised the money for being nominated for an Oscar would be enough to get it finished in time.

Most disappointing, according to director Ted Ted, since he can't win an Oscar now by these ever-tightening Academy standards, he will never have the chance to respond to allegations by movie reviewer for the commune Orson Welch, who attacked the film as, "The most obvious attempt to rip-off both the television series 'Lost' and the movie The Great Escape ever to make it to any screen, even a local theater."

"It's a shame," said Ted Ted, in a carefully-prepared press conference attended by this commune reporter. "If I had the opportunity, I would have liked to reply to Welch, and other critics, by telling them: 'If you're so goddamned brilliant, why don't you go write your own movie and cast it and make it yourself with your hard-earned money? Oh, that's right, I remember now why—you can't. You're all hacks and all your stuff comes out looking retarded. Retards.'"

No one in Hollywood returned any of this reporter's calls, except for one press secretary representing Clint Eastwood, who asked us to please stop wasting her time.

I swear to God you break one little hip, slip into a light four-month coma, and the entire world passes you by. It's like you died, nobody bothers to bring you up to date on the lotto numbers or the once-in-a-lifetime cataclysmic events you missed while you had a feeding tube sticking out of your ass like a goddamned ringtail lemur. The Red Sox? The World Series? For that very reason I'm still unconvinced that I didn't die that day, living ever since in some kind of strange Jacob's Ladder hinterworld. The motherloving Red Sox? That gimpy bunch of fruits? I spend the autumn on the rack at Jiffy Lube and the whole world passes me by like I was driving a Prius in the Indy 500.

While I was in my coma, dreaming about soft foods and My Little Pony, I had some vague awareness that I was probably missing some big events out in the so-called "real" world. I knew if I stayed in there long enough, the usual grab bag of celebrities would probably kick off, and I might just miss the Al-Qaeda razing the city of Chicago like it was the Crusades 2. And I was fine with all that. But I'm still pissed off that nobody though to bust out the electroshock paddles when the Sox came back from 3-0 against the Yankees back in October. Trust me, I would have climbed down off my pretty-hair pony and rejoined the waking world to see that, they wouldn't have had to shock-paddle me more than three or four times. No acrid stink of fried chest hair for this guy. We're talking playoff action here.

Back in my day, doctors could recognize a coma for what it was: a hard-earned vacation for people who hate to travel. They didn't mess around with all these expensive EKGs and CAT-scans. They just tossed a spare blanket on you and left a glass of water on the nightstand for when you eventually woke your ass up. And if there wasn't room at the hospital, thanks to a fireworks fight at the coal mine or war breaking out in the Balkans, there was always some nice family out there proud to host a comatose American. Hell, I had a guy comatose on my couch for three months back in '57. I didn't mind it one bit, he kept the nachos warm while I was in the bathroom.

But that world's as far gone as an underground bunker full of Scientologists, readers. Nowadays, it's screw you and your 86-year World Series curse, old man. As long as your family keeps sending the hard sucking candies, we're keeping you in that coma.

My God, the Red Sox. How did this self described bunch of "fucking morons" defeat the mighty-footed Yankee juggernaut? I've seen the footage on Betamax, and I'm still not sure how it happened. The only sane conclusion is that the 2004 Yankees were, to a man, a bunch of pussies. If I were Steinbrenner, I'd be pissed nobody pointed this out to me earlier. I bet next season the Yankees have some kind of public disclosure rule where that kind of stuff gets exposed, possibly over the public address system. "Now batting, Alex Rodriguez: Pussy. Also plays some third base."

Did anybody else see Rodriguez karate-chop that ball like he thought he was Jackie Baseball Chan or something? What a pussy. If I saw that in a little league game, I'd be down on the field, bitch-slapping some little kids. The ghost of Babe Ruth needed to pry his fat ass out of the grave for about ten minutes and give that Rodriguez guy a serious murph, and pronto.

Kevin Brown? Another big pussy. Only the Yankees could find a way to spend so much money on a guy whose spine is held together with Polydent. This guy gives the elderly a bad name.

Jeter? He's always been a pussy. You can pull all the carnival bullshit you want, throwing some steroid freak out at the plate with a backward pass like you think you're Magic Johnson, but… actually, there's no "but" involved, that alone makes you a pretty big pussy. I've slapped little leaguers for more manly pranks than that.

Mussina? Pussina. That guy belongs in an elementary school library, checking book margins for nude doodles of Minnie Mouse. Matsui? Japanese Baseball Robot. Not a pussy, but not very convincing either. They might have pulled that one over on us if it weren't for all the sponsorship logos printed on his teeth. Bernie Williams? You ever see that cartoon aardvark Arthur? Same guy. Both pussies. And a name like Georgie Posada speaks for itself.

Few would call Gary Sheffield a pussy, but you've got to look at the company a man keeps. Something's not right with this guy. Plus Sheffield swings harder on a bunt than Jack Nicholson saying hello to Scatman Crothers. And they want to know how he ended up with rancid hamburger for a shoulder by the end of the season? After the Twins game when he tried to catch that fly ball in his mouth, it dawned on me that the guy's arms are tied on with twine, like a scarecrow. They're just for looks kids.

And don't get me started on the "Cardinals." Anyone with half a memory knows those guys were the "other" team from the Bad News Bears movies, all growed up. I don't know what they did with the real Cardinals to make sure the Red Sox Cinderella story came true, but Guantanamo Bay is the first place I'd look.

Anyway, bitter rant aside, it's good to be back among the conscious. Thanks for calling, if any of you called. Sorry I wasn't able to answer the phone: coma and everything. But I'm sure subconsciously it meant something to me, on some kind of psychic Caller-ID level. But the next time I get jumped for slapping little-leaguers, I expect a marked improvement in coma management, people. Good day.

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