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 April 4, 2005 |
Vatican City, Wherever Junior Bacon Pope John Paul II waves to fans twenty minutes after his death on Friday
Thousands of people gathered in St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican Friday night to pray for the pope, though it was unclear whether the assembled were praying for the pope to live forever or praying that the tired old man would finally kick it. Attempts to investigate this question further led to this reporter being rudely hushed several times and hit once with a bagel.
Anxious news organizations from around the world literally hung on the pope’s every breath last ...
ope John Paul II staunchly refused to die this weekend, in spite of numerous reports to the contrary from an impatient media. Despite showing a complete lack of vital signs and near-total rigor mortis, “the tough old bastard is still hanging on for some reason,” according to Vatican doctors.
Thousands of people gathered in St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican Friday night to pray for the pope, though it was unclear whether the assembled were praying for the pope to live forever or praying that the tired old man would finally kick it. Attempts to investigate this question further led to this reporter being rudely hushed several times and hit once with a bagel.
Anxious news organizations from around the world literally hung on the pope’s every breath last week, itching to be the first to report that the revered religious figure and patron saint of child molesters had gone on to meet his employer. Several trigger-happy reporters claimed that the pope had finally died on Saturday, exhaling a visible plume of stale pope smoke before vanishing like a Jedi Knight cut in two by an evil stunt man. The Vatican even went along with the announcement, apparently tired of providing hors d’oeuvres for the thousands of assembled reporters and candle-waving, tie-died burnouts camped out in the Vatican lobby.
But the jig was finally upped when the pope requested that the “loud music be turned down” during his own funeral mass on Sunday, and the international death-watch continued for the very small band of reporters remaining from hardscrabble news outlets such as the commune, Carob Baking Monthly and the Montana Cuntsman who either had nothing better to do or had vowed to see this story through to its true, bitter end, be that now or at some time between now and when our return trip flight vouchers expire.
Some blame the media’s impatience on the unexpectedly long death wait for American hospital patient Terri Schiavo over the previous two weeks, combined with the first signs of nice spring weather, which has reporters itching to get out of the dusty old Vatican and into some loudly-colored shorts. Others point to a growing suspicion among reporters, called paranoid by some, that the pope can’t die.
While scientists not from Italy doubt the feasibility of such claims, Pope John Paul II has already achieved a sort of longevity not seen since the currently late Strom Thurmond (R-South Carolina) refused to stay dead through the second half of the 20th century. This evidence, combined with the pope’s reportedly strong knowledge of hoodoo, has some concerned that this story could drag on for years.
“Mark my words, this is going to go on like those Friday the 13th movies, man,” prophesied pope-watcher Dennis Marbury. “You can’t kill the pope with a knife, gun, or by locking him in a tool shed and dropping it out of an airplane into the Pacific Ocean. That dude’s not going anywhere until he gets his birthday cake.”
Others wonder just why the pope is hanging on so long, considering that he’s supposed to be in so good with God and everything and probably should be happy about kicking off and clicking his heels on up to the big buffet in the sky.
Meanwhile, nervous Catholics the world over await the pope’s final words with constantly renewed baited breath, fingers crossed that the religious leader’s last utterances won’t be anything along the lines of “Psych!” or “Gotcha, suckers!” the commune news respects the pope and everything, but… nevermind, we couldn’t come up with anything plausible there. A thrilled Ivan Nacutchacokov reports from Italy this week, happy to finally be covering a story that doesn’t put him in mortal danger. Fina—Ivan, behind you! The pope’s got a hatchet!
 |  April 4, 2005 |
Kalamazoo, MI Assad the Unseen Pat Buchanan, explaining why he regretted taking a convertible on the ride over
Speaking to a group of conservative college students and future knobs in Kalamazoo, Buchanan’s scheduled appearance had garnered considerable controversy even before it began. Some felt that scheduling Buchanan’s talk on the birthday of the late Mexican-American labor leader Cesar Chavez was in poor taste, given the conservative commentator’s well-known “Get Back, Wetback” stance on immigration.
Buchanan spoke to the fawning crowd about keeping Mexicans away from our low-...
ld-Right conservative and Al Gore vote poacher Pat Buchanan fumbled his way into the national spotlight yet again last week, after being doused with salad dressing by a Western Michigan University student who found the former presidential candidate to be dry and lacking in flavor.
Speaking to a group of conservative college students and future knobs in Kalamazoo, Buchanan’s scheduled appearance had garnered considerable controversy even before it began. Some felt that scheduling Buchanan’s talk on the birthday of the late Mexican-American labor leader Cesar Chavez was in poor taste, given the conservative commentator’s well-known “Get Back, Wetback” stance on immigration.
Buchanan spoke to the fawning crowd about keeping Mexicans away from our low-paying jobs for nearly an hour before closing with one of his trademark bizarre slogans.
“And if I’m wrong, may God strike me down with Ranch dressing!”
Almost as if on cue, a moment later Buchanan was drenched by an unlikely quantity of salad dressing, either thrown by an irony-savvy student in the audience or the producers of You Can’t Do That on Television, hiding amongst the catwalks high above the stage.
After briefly losing his composure and waving his penis around the stage like an enraged jungle beast, Buchanan took a moment to taste some of the dressing he was wearing and smiled broadly.
“Wait a minute, this is Thousand Island. Bet’s off!”
The incident came only days after conservative buttwipe William Kristol was hit in the face by a student-thrown pie during an appearance at Earlham College in Indiana. The Weekly Standard editor continued answering questions for another 30 minutes after the pie incident, apparently unaware that thrown food is a customary sign that it’s time to get off the stage.
When asked later what he thought of the incident and the crowd at Earlham, a college known for peace studies, a besotted Kristol seemed surprised. “Pie?”
Both incidents mark a rising tide of food-based violence in America. Similar well-publicized incidents began occurring last year, beginning with the pop group N’Sync being pelted by powdered donuts in Miami and continuing with the completely shocking sight of Gloria Estefan being broadsided by a live marlin on stage in Nebraska, which are now seen as early signs of an alarming trend.
However, these latest events point to a politicization of the food-throwing movement, which could spell trouble for President Bush when he speaks at the National Egg-Lovers’ Convention next month in Chicago. the commune news supports the right to political protest, but come on guys, we’d been looking forward to eating that pie all night. Ivana Folger-Balzac was briefly held for questioning in both of the food attacks mentioned in this article, but quickly released after it was confirmed that her MO for political protest usually involves hurling less-benign articles such as fire extinguishers and power tools.
| North Korea: Thousands of communist birds laid up in nests with flu T-Rex found with primitive bathroom tissue stuck to foot Kevin Bacon comes to aid of town that banned raves Kyrgyz president found in Gilmore Girls chatroom |
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 April 4, 2005 Match of the CenturyI've had a few money-making harebrained schemes in my day, but you good people know it's not my usual style. I'm not about making a quick buck, I'm about doing irrational things with little or no prep time. Still, if I can make a few dollars with a harebrained scheme I was going to do anyway, that's the gravy on the ice cream.
I initially suggested Lee and Camembert's girlfriend, Girl Elvis, work out their troubles in the boxing ring just because I wanted to see some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Ginger Baker, my beloved and betrothed, once I finalize my divorce to my current harpy of a wife, is the one who thought it would make a terrific spectacle. Apparently there's a huge audience out there for a man fighting a woman, and as soon as she said that I remembered Girl Elvis ...
º Last Column: Pretty Big O' Me
º more columns
I've had a few money-making harebrained schemes in my day, but you good people know it's not my usual style. I'm not about making a quick buck, I'm about doing irrational things with little or no prep time. Still, if I can make a few dollars with a harebrained scheme I was going to do anyway, that's the gravy on the ice cream.
I initially suggested Lee and Camembert's girlfriend, Girl Elvis, work out their troubles in the boxing ring just because I wanted to see some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Ginger Baker, my beloved and betrothed, once I finalize my divorce to my current harpy of a wife, is the one who thought it would make a terrific spectacle. Apparently there's a huge audience out there for a man fighting a woman, and as soon as she said that I remembered Girl Elvis was a woman. You can hardly blame me, her rendition of "Love Me Tender" sounds just like the man himself. It's like you're transported in time back to 1963, sitting on the grassy knoll and listening to the radio right before you shoot JFK.
But enough of my time-traveling fantasies, like the world needs a 36th column of me writing about shooting Kennedy. This is about the long-awaited match between man and she-man. To see the sweet explosions and fury when the sheer muscle of womanhood collides with the elegant musical talent of mandom. Who will win? No one can say, although Vegas odds have Lee going down before the sweat has a chance to accumulate on his forehead.
Camembert, lovable little red pacifist that he is, still hopes for a peaceful resolution to the problems. I say all the names in the barrel have been hurled and they still want blood. The only way to settle this is with a highly-profitable sporting event hosted on Pay-Per-View, with HBO getting first crack at the second airing. And not just for me, who has mortgaged the house three times over to promote this event, and not just Ginger Baker, sinking heavily into debt to rent the arena and hire celebrity judges. No, this has to be settled in a 12-round match, by decision or knockout, so we'll know once and for all who is the king of the sexes. That doesn't just mean for men—there have been women kings, too.
I plan on airing a 45-minute video, professionally made by myself and my old indie film buddy Piglet, explaining to all audiences exactly how this match came to be. Not all the boring financial stuff. But how Lee kept practicing his bass whenever Girl Elvis was trying to watch AMC's Elvis-All-Weekend marathon, which became their first match-up. I had just enough time to film the last part of the argument and the first sucker punch, and that itself is worth the price of admission, good people. Yes, I can charge admission to a video tape. I asked my lawyer, Jerry Nascar.
It had all started before that, of course, with Lee's merciless slaughtering of the entire Elvis catalogue in his Christian band, Up With Prophets. Girl Elvis told him she'd rather be crucified than hear him ruin another classic, and that fretted Lee quite a bit, starting him speaking in tongues and everything, though it might have been the epilepsy. He's had bouts of it ever since the car accident.
Just between you and me, faithful and singular commune reader, Lee is still trying to weasel out of it, and if I saw the Vegas odds, I would, too. He claims Jesus wouldn't want him to fight, and I've been trying to get this Jesus fellow on the line, since he's obviously hoping for a cut of the action to prod Lee forward. But trust me, if I have to toss him into the ring with the help of a few burly boys, I'll do it. Hell, I might even throw Camembert in there, just to remind him who's boss. He's been getting awful cocky lately.
Of course, until the event actually happens, I won't have a wide berth to talk about it, according to my lawyer. But I've still got plenty to offer in future columns. I wouldn't mind sorting out this mess with my ratings once and for all. And I have yet to give a progress report on the X-M radio. Hardly everything I had hoped. º Last Column: Pretty Big O' Meº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Learning without thought is labor lost; except in public schools, where it keeps most teachers employed.”
-Confused-ass CarmenFortune 500 CookieYou'll have a brush with death this week, and that fucker has some of the yellowest teeth you've ever seen, so make sure you go first. This time the lyrics to the song you're pretending to know the words to actually are "Watermelon, Watermelon, Watermelon." You'll make the most expensive movie ever made in your kitchen this week, for ten dollars. Lucky strikes, camels, kools, and bel-airs.
Try again later.Top 5 Other Hasselhof Home Videos| 1. | Whoopsh!: Outtakes From the Drinking Videos | | 2. | 5 hours straight of sucking in gut until a rib pops out | | 3. | All-nude Batwatch starring some girls from the escort service | | 4. | Intense argument with his car over who is the real star of Knight Rider | | 5. | Imaginary non-German music awards show where Hasselhoff sweeps every category | |
|   Idaho Boy Continues to Miss Point of April Fool’s BY roland mcshyster 4/4/2005 El Vita Loca, commune readers! Whatever that means, it's time for some more Entertainment Police fun. And nobody needs a translator to know what that means! Unless they've never heard of Entertainment Police before. But even then a translator wouldn't help, they'd need somebody more along the lines of those guys that do the recap at the beginning of TV shows, like "Last week, on Entertainment Police…" Hmm. I wonder if there's a market for that? I've got a pretty good speaking voice, according to the telemarketers who keep trying to sign me up for some scam broadcasting college. And I think I've got a better-than-average grasp on what happened last week on Entertainment Police. Unless it was one of Welch's columns, I still need to get around to reading those. Right after I finish cleaning...
El Vita Loca, commune readers! Whatever that means, it's time for some more Entertainment Police fun. And nobody needs a translator to know what that means! Unless they've never heard of Entertainment Police before. But even then a translator wouldn't help, they'd need somebody more along the lines of those guys that do the recap at the beginning of TV shows, like "Last week, on Entertainment Police…" Hmm. I wonder if there's a market for that? I've got a pretty good speaking voice, according to the telemarketers who keep trying to sign me up for some scam broadcasting college. And I think I've got a better-than-average grasp on what happened last week on Entertainment Police. Unless it was one of Welch's columns, I still need to get around to reading those. Right after I finish cleaning out my trunk and alphabetizing my frozen burrito collection, I swear.
In Theaters Now:
Beaver Pitch
The Farley Brothers have taken a lack of taste to a new, stratospheric level with their latest addition to their "Honk in Your Popcorn" genre of films, this time starring that charismatic "Gellin' like a Felon" guy from the Dr. Scholl's commercials as a life-long Red Sox fan who blows his brains out a week before they end up winning the World Series. Trust me; it plays funnier on the screen than it does on paper. The Farleys even recover nicely from the structural gaffe of having their main character apply the lead Q-tip within the first ten minutes of the film by making the rest of the movie about funny baseball stuff. The first feature film to drop the bombshell that most baseball players just want to get laid, Beaver Pitch strikes a nice balance between serious social commentary about sports' place in society and jokes about a guy accidentally gargling with a glass of David Ortiz's cum. Speaking of which, all the real-life baseball players are believable as real-life baseball players, the actors are believable as actors, and Drew Barrymore is likable as the beaver.
Booty Shop
Finally, Brit rock legends Queen have been allowed to make the movie that's been festering in their imaginations for years, about a whorehouse in Compton staffed by sassy black chicks with plenty of ass to go around. Ass, and hips, elbows, hamhocks, really all proportions are amply represented in these women. Don't ask me, I guess Queen just like 'em large. The film's story is really just a mosquito-net-thin excuse to string together a series of rousing musical numbers that justify having Queen hang around the whorehouse all the time as the house band, cracking wise in their impenetrable British accents. I don't have any idea what any of them said during any part of the film, but the way they said it was hilarious. Although the film doesn't feature nearly enough sex to please most fans of whorehouse pictures, it more than makes up for this shortcoming by featuring at least seven times more Brian May than the average entry in this genre.
Sim City
I don't know about you, but when I was sitting in front of my Atari 2600 console as a child, gamely destroying my carpel tunnels in the pursuit of a 999 score, never once did my mind stir up thoughts like "Man, I bet Breakout would make a great movie!" or "Gee whiz, wouldn't Tom Selleck be great as the lead in a filmed adaptation of Combat?" Mostly I was just thinking about how cool it would be to be able to shoot giant rubber bullets at other cars on the freeway. But the Hollywood producers of today were apparently dreaming far different dreams during their formative years, scheming to adapt even the most unlikely source material into stiff, unwatchable cinema. Such is the case with the newly released Sim City, a movie adaptation of the popular PC title where you run other people's lives and end up just sitting and staring at your computer, watching your virtual people sit and stare at their computers while they control the lives of a town of virtual electric Smurfs in the game's game-within-a-game, Smurftual Reality. As you can imagine, this all makes for thrilling cinema when you add Bruce Willis, Mauricio Del Toro in Smurface, and $100 million in special effects.
And that's all the movie madness we've got the time or interest for this week, America, but be sure to tune in next time when I'll have the full scoop on the rumor that's been going around about the Supreme Court ordering Pauley Shore's food tube to be removed. Until then!   |
