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 May 2, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Ansel Evans the commune apologizes on behalf of Ansel Evans for this extremely bizarre photo, which the photographer claims captures the “essence” of the story in a way we could never understand
“Gotcha, stoners!” celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.
“This is a great day for Tootie,” slurred c...
aw enforcement officials are bursting with pride this week over the results of the first annual Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, an unqualified success that nabbed over 3 million drug users at their places of employment nationwide. The controversial sting operation, brainchild of DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed, snared millions of Americans who thought the “holiday” was a long-overdue relaxing of uptight social mores and restrictions about showing up to work as high as a beautiful kite.
“Gotcha, stoners!” celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.
“This is a great day for Tootie,” slurred commune editor Red Bagel in agreement, drunk as an ox, upon hearing the news.
Wishing to capitalize on the success of this week’s traditional Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, federal officials granted the DEA’s wish by quietly passing the new holiday into law, clamped onto the ass of the innocuous “Puppies are Beautiful” bill passed by congress in February.
However, several women’s groups have already protested BYDWD, concerned that the bummer drug-bust holiday will taint the public’s associations with Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, most notable among them the feminist groups NORML Chicks and Women for Reggae. The original, non-Fugazi holiday was instituted in 1993 as a way for parents to expose their daughters to the dangers of the workplace and to drain office productivity for the month of April.
Since then, several painfully politically-correct groups have lobbied to change the name of Bring Your Daughter to Work Day to the less-offensive Bring Your Daughter or Son or Whatever You’ve Got to Work or Some Place Else if You’re Unemployed Day, with little success due to counter-lobbying efforts from calendar manufacturers, who claim that printing a holiday name that long would force them to retool their entire operations at incredible expense.
Others have argued the highly controversial point that there’s nothing wrong with drug use in the workplace, unless it adversely affects job-related performance.
“Man, this is total bullshit waaaaaaaaaa…” trailed off temp worker Justin Penrose from a holding cell outside Chicago.
Still others, however, have pointed out that anyone who was dumb enough to fall for Bring Your Drugs to Work Day has obviously had their mental faculties dimmed heavily by drug residue of some sort, and is likely costing their employer billions in lost productivity and time spent having to explain things six or seven times.
“God I feel stupid,” lamented 79-year old Eloise Hartford, who misunderstood the nature of the holiday and brought her extensive collection of prescription medications to work on Monday instead. Most of Eloise’s co-workers were arrested for marijuana possession, leaving the lion’s share of the 14-person office’s tasks on the frail shoulders of Hartford, who tires easily.
“I should have claimed some of that reefer was mine,” complained Hartford. “I hear they have some pretty soft cots in prison these days. No beds of nails or anything anymore.”
In related news, commune editor’s-brother Gay Bagel has recently spearheaded an aggressive initiative to increase Internet access to inmates in America’s prisons, a move some have called a ratings ploy since a large proportion of the commune readership is now behind bars. the commune news is proud to announce that we for one(s) did not fall for the Bring Your Drugs to Work Day ploy, though that point was largely moot since commune columnist Omar Bricks misunderstood the nature of the holiday and took it as an opportunity to spike the building water supply with LSD, leading to a unicorn-chasing incident the commune news would rather not recount in detail. Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown was the only commune staffer not affected by the dosing, and not coincidentally the only reporter who could be trusted to deliver this story without mention of faeries, moon cats or psychedelic caterpillars.
 |  April 25, 2005 |
Alexandria, Virginia Rusty Klein Resident commune artist prodigy Rusty Klein, age 9, renders the courtroom scene for us in largely accurate detail, except the suspect in custody, of course, didn't have a machine. We're not sure who the kid with the "butthole" T-shirt is, probably a friend of Rusty's who may or may not have been present at the hearing.  
Moussaoui's al Qaeda comrades were responsible for the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the attempted attack on the White House. The attacks resulted in the deaths of more than 3,000 people and spurred the War on Terror, as well as fueled the War in Iraq. In Friday's preliminary hearing, however, Moussaoui tried to distance himself from the national tragedies, and claimed he was part of another attempt to fly a plane into the White House that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.
"I came to America to be part ...
ovable loser and one-time fanatical terrorist hopeful Zacarias Moussaoui vowed to fight the death penalty and instant martyrdom for Islam in a Virginia courtroom Friday, as he entered a guilty plea on multiple terror charges.
Moussaoui's al Qaeda comrades were responsible for the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the attempted attack on the White House. The attacks resulted in the deaths of more than 3,000 people and spurred the War on Terror, as well as fueled the War in Iraq. In Friday's preliminary hearing, however, Moussaoui tried to distance himself from the national tragedies, and claimed he was part of another attempt to fly a plane into the White House that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.
"I came to America to be part of attack on White House and use plane as weapon of mass destruction," said Moussaoui in funny broken English. "As you can tell, attack not go so well for me. Moussaoui get picked up at Minnesota flight school paying cash for lessons. Stupid Moussaoui!"
People in attendance laughed themselves silly, with comparisons to Tarzan and the Incredible Hulk going around the room. The terror suspect burst into rage, shaking his hands violently and yelling, "Quit it! Quit laughing at Moussaoui!" until he was tasered by bailiffs.
While medics attempted to revive the suspect, Moussaoui's defense team spoke to the press. They vowed, despite having pledged his life to al Qaeda's plan to martyr themselves destroying America, Moussaoui would fight the death penalty in the case after the prosecution announced they would seek capital punishment.
Moussaoui, a French fanatical Arab, was the first suspect arrested in the probe investigating the 9/11 attacks, arrested in 2001 a month before the attacks when he raised suspicion by paying $7,000 in cash for flight simulator training in Minnesota. Those who knew him in his private life described Moussaoui as a generally nice fellow, but said he did stand out from the other foreign visitors they knew.
"Well, I remember he referred to himself in the third person a lot," said neighbor Rachel Wincett. "He talked a lot about wanting to blow up George W. Bush. But it's Minnesota, you know, you can't swing a dead cat without finding someone who wants to kill the president."
Flight instructor Harold Farmer noticed peculiarities with Moussaoui as well.
"Mostly he asked a lot about parachutes," said Farmer. "He'd ask how the auto-pilot worked… if you could steer the plane for something like, say, the White House, put it on auto-pilot, and then parachute out to safety before the massive explosions ensued. I told him sure, we all dream about it, but auto-pilot technology hasn't come far enough to turn planes into self-guided missiles yet. Maybe one day."
Nathan Ledbetter, a sometime-friend of Moussaoui, recalled: "He did carry a boxcutter with him everywhere we went, and when people stepped too close to him he would whip it out in a pinch, jab it out at everyone, threaten to fly the whole plane into a government building. I'd tell him, 'Yo, Zack, we're not in a plane, man, we're at Brewski's, and it's dollar beer night.' Come to think of it, I guess you can call that 'odd' behavior. Not the oddest with my friends, but odd enough."
In a statement pledging to fight the death penalty, Moussaoui reminded the judge that technically, since he's still alive, it's proof he wasn't involved in the suicide attacks during 9/11. Moussaoui also said that thought he hopes to embrace eternal martyrdom and be blessed in the afterlife with a planeful of virgins and the kindness of Allah, he will be happy to wait a long time, like until he is 97 years old, before he martyrs himself. the commune says keep all the virgins for yourself in heaven if you want, and fork over the same number of loose women—what are you going to do with 117 virgins, play a long-ass game of Charades? Bludney Pludd would also like his name to live on for all eternity, but would be even happier if we remembered it just one day of his life here in the present.
| Vietnam marks fall of Saigon with Sly Stallone film festival Canadian "Cannabis spray" may be gateway drug to pepper spray AOL next-generation Instant Messenger will deliver high-speed girl-on-girl action Police seeking "anti-American Arabic radical" in Iraqi copter bombing |
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 April 25, 2005 A Series of Unfortunate EvansDon't ask me why or how, but I keep dating guys named Evan. Without exception. It's actually kind of eerie and disconcerting the more I think about it, which is probably a good sign to quit. Thinking about it, that is. I'm not sure I can quit dating Evans, since I never actually set out to date guys named Evan in the first place.
I thought I had broken my streak once, back in 1997, when I started to date a guy named Charles. Then two months into the relationship I met his parents and discovered that his real name was Evan. His friends just called him Charles. For short? For long? I don't have any frickin' idea. His middle name wasn't even Charles, it was T-Fal. Don't get me started on that one.
Things went predictably downhill from there.
Things went ...
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Don't ask me why or how, but I keep dating guys named Evan. Without exception. It's actually kind of eerie and disconcerting the more I think about it, which is probably a good sign to quit. Thinking about it, that is. I'm not sure I can quit dating Evans, since I never actually set out to date guys named Evan in the first place.
I thought I had broken my streak once, back in 1997, when I started to date a guy named Charles. Then two months into the relationship I met his parents and discovered that his real name was Evan. His friends just called him Charles. For short? For long? I don't have any frickin' idea. His middle name wasn't even Charles, it was T-Fal. Don't get me started on that one.
Things went predictably downhill from there.
Things went sour between the previous Evan (Evan 7) and I after he wrote a column about Columbine called "Revenge of the Nerds," which I thought was unforgivably tacky. And he wasn't even writing for the commune! I'd thought that dating a fellow columnist would solve a lot of those normal career-relationship problems, like living with someone who doesn't understand your need to move in with a tribe of Kalahari Bushmen for a month to research a piece you're writing on teen pregnancy.
Turns out I was as wrong on that as I had been about my hot stock pick for that year: "Fat Camps" for bulking up underweight kids. Turns out you can't legally force-feed a child peanut butter through a tube, plus the chunks tend to clog up the tube. But that didn't much matter in the end, since my second-choice stock had been for a company developing man-sized Furby dolls as companions for the elderly, and that whole enterprise went south like a snowbird after some old bag in Kansas tried to feed hers soup and it blew the power grid for half of North America.
The first Evan I dated was probably the best, and in retrospect I should have quit while I was ahead. Sure, it was high school, but if I had known what was to come I would have gladly called it a romantic career at 16. Truthfully, I don't remember that much about Evan 1, but he smelled nice and that went a long way in high school. I think he was on the soccer team; either that or he just took shin safety very seriously.
It was a quick luge-run downhill from there, since Evan 2 pretty much spent all his time drinking Zima and crushing the empty Zima boxes against his forehead as a joke, which meshed surprisingly well with his job as an toll booth operator. People love a little levity when they're fishing through their seat cracks and underwear for 35 cents. And he did pull down a decent wage, mostly through selling Zimas to thirsty motorists. That eventually led to his downfall, of course, since one day he ran out of Zimas and had to leave his post to run to the Liquor Barn, which resulted in that story you heard on the news about those 200 people who got into the state of Illinois for free. Evan's boss was pretty pissed and wanted him to pay those lost tolls out of his own pocket, but never the math scholar, Evan jumped out the window instead and never looked back, not realizing he'd just left a lucrative Zima-distribution job over $70.
Evans 3 through 6 weren't worth remembering, or at least I don't remember them anyway, and numbers 9 and 10 left me for each other, so I won't be glorifying them with a more detailed mention. But on the bright side, I just started dating a new guy named Elvin, which I consider to at least be a step in the right direction. Unless he's really just another Evan with really sloppy handwriting, in which case I'm doubly screwed since I'm not sure if I'm supposed to meet him tonight at the boathouse or a bathhouse. I'm hoping it's the boathouse, since I'm tired of gay boyfriends always using up all my expensive makeup. Wish me luck. º Last Column: Effin' Crackersº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Don't stop eating out tomorrow. Don't stop, the fries will soon be here. The food'll be better than before. Breakfast is gone, breakfast is gone.”
-Fleetwood MacDonaldsFortune 500 CookieDon't give up on your search for unconditional love this week: it's keeping the rest of us amused. Try finding a breakfast cereal that doesn't contain quite so much garlic. You will be arrested for taking off your pants this week, and assaulted by the stranger you take them off of. This week's lucky way- underground dance moves: The Drunken Swordfish, The Statue, Degenerative Disc Failure, The Herpe, Clap Your Thighs Say Ouch, The Go Home Alone, The I'm Getting My Ass Kicked This Ain't a Dance Move Please For the Love of God Help Me.
Try again later.Least-Watched Holiday Specials| 1. | A Bush Family Christmas | | 2. | I'm Dreaming of a White Krishna | | 3. | VH1 Behind the Music: That Guy Who Sang Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer | | 4. | Christopher Walken in a Winter Wonderland | | 5. | Gerald Ford Reads "Twas the Night Before…" Oh Shit | |
|   Dyslexic Man Talks to God BY roland mcshyster 5/2/2005 Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, America. What? I don't know, I assumed you had some kind of tobacco handy. Way to let us all down. I thought you might at least have some of that green plastic Easter-basket grass. Cancer? Yeah, that would probably give you cancer. Probably best to use a filter in than instance, or just don't inhale for too long. That's my position. Yeah, I know that's not how they smoke it in Chernobyl, but if I were you I wouldn't be taking any health-based advice from people who just don't give a shit any more. Now that we've got Roland McShyster's Pipe-Smoking Corner out of the way for this edition, let's take a swipe at this week's new releases, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
The most...
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, America. What? I don't know, I assumed you had some kind of tobacco handy. Way to let us all down. I thought you might at least have some of that green plastic Easter-basket grass. Cancer? Yeah, that would probably give you cancer. Probably best to use a filter in than instance, or just don't inhale for too long. That's my position. Yeah, I know that's not how they smoke it in Chernobyl, but if I were you I wouldn't be taking any health-based advice from people who just don't give a shit any more. Now that we've got Roland McShyster's Pipe-Smoking Corner out of the way for this edition, let's take a swipe at this week's new releases, shall we?
In Theaters Now:
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
The most recent product of Sony's boutique Misguided Films division, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a strangely detailed look at what prospective hitchhikers should know about the Ford Galaxy, an extremely ugly "classic" car that hasn't been in production since 1969. Some have wondered at the usefulness of such a film, given that any given hitchhiker is extremely unlikely to ever even ride in a Galaxy, but these are the critics that don't understand art. Art doesn't always have to have a "useful" purpose, guys, as long as it tells us something about ourselves. And this film most certainly does. With its painfully detailed accounting of every last detail about this mid-60's shitbox, including handy tips on how to bail out of a Galaxy at high speeds and where the door lock override is, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy stands in as a metaphor for life itself. Now I can only hope it does well enough to inspire the production of a sequel like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Chevy Malibu, since that's what I drive and as a matter of principle I always like to keep one step ahead of hitchhikers.
Kingdom of Heathens
Boy oh boy am I tired of Muslim filmmakers producing these giant Hollywood blockbusters that perpetuate the stereotype of America as the white devil trying to enslave the entire world and yadda yadda yadda. Sure, the message seems convincing when the bullets and karate kicks are flying all around and some evil white motherfucker is dealing out the oppression like a croupier on amphetamines, and he'd totally crush the spines of righteous if it weren't for Orlando Bloom in tanface (why is it always Orlando Bloom?) stepping in and representing for Allah. Yawn. I've never been one for political correctness, or correctness of any persuasion, but this crap is boring and old, and it hurts. It's because of movies like this that the youth of the world is corrupted into thinking that all white people want to steal their resources and piss in their water, when in actuality it's only a very small percentage of the wealthiest Americans who even have the means to pull off those kinds of antics.
xXx: State of the Union
Ice Cube farts up the screen as an unlikely Civil War general dead set on defeating the South through the use of show-stopping, big budget stunts and explosions in this latest hunk of Hubba Bubba to flop out of Hollywood's chaw box. There are high points, sure, like the scene where Cube jumps his horse over a barbed-wire fence and the horse does an entire back flip in mid-air, or the one where he has to lay the horse down at a high rate of speed and ride it like a surf board, all the while firing and reloading two powder muskets at once, so I'm not saying there's no reason to see this movie. There's just no reason to pay to see this movie, when you can just download the trailer for those two scenes or hang out in Best Buy until it comes on one of their giant hydrogen-gas big screen TVs.
Whew, that was a workout. Not the column, I just ran downstairs to get some pickles out of the refrigerator. Nobody ever stocks the commune refrigerator with decent pickles, but those Crochet! guys, man. They know their dill from a hole in the ground. Of course, getting down there and back is a little like a mini version of the Crusades, but we're talking quality pickles here. Until next time.   |
