 | 
 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 |
|
|
| 
 May 2, 2005 The Seven Month ItchHello and welcome to day four of Operation Jerkhunt, the pet project of a neighborhood group I recently organized to hunt down the freakish scum who stole my neighbor Hamms' Winnebago and, once they'd had their vile fun, dumped it in the Potomac River to conceal the evidence of their truly heinous crimes against the retired. That's the story the vigilante group is working from anyway, I personally know better but am in the unique position of being unable to correct their misconceptions without revealing the fact that Omar Bricks was the one who borrowed the Winni and, through no fault of my own, drove it into the Potomac with a half-naked record store clerk in the shower. "Drove" is actually entirely too strong a word, since in truth there was a giant stuffed carnival bear behind the wheel...
º Last Column: Check Your Breasts
º more columns
Hello and welcome to day four of Operation Jerkhunt, the pet project of a neighborhood group I recently organized to hunt down the freakish scum who stole my neighbor Hamms' Winnebago and, once they'd had their vile fun, dumped it in the Potomac River to conceal the evidence of their truly heinous crimes against the retired. That's the story the vigilante group is working from anyway, I personally know better but am in the unique position of being unable to correct their misconceptions without revealing the fact that Omar Bricks was the one who borrowed the Winni and, through no fault of my own, drove it into the Potomac with a half-naked record store clerk in the shower. "Drove" is actually entirely too strong a word, since in truth there was a giant stuffed carnival bear behind the wheel at the time, and the Winnebago actually rolled downhill backwards into the river thanks to the stuffed bear's poor understanding of parking brake procedures.
I have a rock-solid alibi since I was in the Winnebago's shower at the time, as can be backed up by a half-naked record store clerk named either Darlene or Danielle. That was a large part of the problem, actually, since when you're already wet and in the shower, it's not as obvious as it would otherwise be that your mobile home is steadily sinking into one of America's greatest rivers. So by the time you put two and two together, it's way too late to organize a team of pack mules to pull the Winnebago out of the river before someone's collection of rare "road music" LPs is damaged by the river water, silt, and various beaver activities therein.
So far we've had little luck tracking down the vermin, though we have concluded conclusively that there's no way in hell he could live in our neighborhood. In fact, it was likely a woman, possibly crippled, from remote Eastern Europe, making retaliation all but impractical. There is a moral victory, however, in knowing the truth, and I know that Hamms has appreciated my help and the fact that he can sleep well at night now, knowing that Omar Bricks is keeping an eye on his house and assorted goodies.
Our previous misunderstandings about my frequent trespassing in his bathroom, burning down his house while it was being built, having him arrested twice on charges of necrophilia, and taking a shit in his garden and blaming it on my dog now well behind us, Hamms and I have moved on to a beautiful new phase of our friendship. Namely the first phase after someone's been your enemy before and now you think they're okay on a provisional basis. Like I said, truly a beautiful thing.
He's had me over to his house for beers twice now, once that he knew about, and I can clearly see the roots of a lifelong friendship taking hold. Or at least as long as he's going to live, which from the looks of things should only be another seven months at best since Hamms is older than Bob Hope. But Omar Bricks is pretty good at seven month friendships. Any longer than that and you hit the dreaded "Seven Month Itch," when your friend inevitably finds out that you used their precious Hummel figurine collection for a pyrotechnic-heavy one-sixteenth scale recreation of the Spanish Civil War or that you're the one who's been painting all those crude sexual figures on their bathroom walls at night.
But those first seven months, or five, man. That's the beautiful part. Bricks out. º Last Column: Check Your Breastsº more columns | 
|
| |
Quote of the Day“History is written by Jonathan Winters.”
-Germaine "Double Dip" ProverbFortune 500 CookieFor God's sake, don't climb up in that porcupine tree. Sorry, being optimistic still won't get you a discount on eyeglasses. Remember, "lambast" is neither a compliment nor a veterinary term. This week, you will find love where you least expected it: up the ass. Your lucky disguise: a giant plastic toucan.
Try again later.Top KFC Image-Makeover Slogans| 1. | Kids, Fun, and Cholesterol | | 2. | Karmic Food Co-op | | 3. | Killin' Fuckin' Chickens | | 4. | Koreans for Christ | | 5. | Kome Feed da Chiknz | |
|   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.   |
