 | 
 June 13, 2005 |
New York City Junior Bacon Sperm bank donors and customers pass like shadows in the night, careful not to make eye contact
Authorities believe they are dealing with extremely low-grade, and possibly mentally deficient, criminals, all likely the results of McCullough sperm in the first place. Common sense and eyewitness accounts point to the robbers mistaking the sperm bank for the usual money-filled kind, lured by the facility’s lax security and complete lack of the imposing 87-year-old security guards usually employed by banks in the movies. Even worse, the apparently dipshitted bandits also robbed the least desirable sperm bank in to...
hree masked bandits made off with the largest-ever collection of stolen sperm samples in a daring daylight heist of the McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm in New York this week, amusing authorities and frightening one McCullough patron into premature donation.
Authorities believe they are dealing with extremely low-grade, and possibly mentally deficient, criminals, all likely the results of McCullough sperm in the first place. Common sense and eyewitness accounts point to the robbers mistaking the sperm bank for the usual money-filled kind, lured by the facility’s lax security and complete lack of the imposing 87-year-old security guards usually employed by banks in the movies. Even worse, the apparently dipshitted bandits also robbed the least desirable sperm bank in town, as McCullough has traditionally been a discount repository for the genetic material of over 5,000 winos, junkies, teenage heart-attack victims, the criminally obese and conservatives for the last 20 years.
“Yeah, this looks to be the work of some real gonads,” evaluated police captain Walter Diggs. “One of them even dropped his wallet at the scene, but since it was just full of coupons and a novelty driver’s license made out to Jesus H. Christ, this has been of little assistance in our investigation.”
The McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm, known in the reproductive-assistance community as “The Island of Misfit Spank,” was created by wealthy thinker Nelson McCulloch in 1982 to counterbalance to the offensively Nazistic eugenics movement. McCullough hoped to counter the societal effects of eugenic tycoon Robert Graham’s Repository for Germinal Choice, also known as the Nobel Prize Sperm Bank, which aimed at improving society by giving more women access to high-grade spunk. The McCullough Bank went in the other direction, extending the reproductive power and reach of the very individuals who natural selection, and surely at least the Nazis, would likely have wiped out.
Authorities speculate that after McCullough’s long and proud history of creating the ugly, the short, the slothful and disinterested, the weak, the gene-poor, the flat-chested and the unlovable, the bank’s chickens may have come home to roost in the form of deficient McCullough alumni making off with millions of their potential siblings in a beige 1987 Chevy Nova with a “Big Johnson” bumper sticker.
Reproductive-assistance experts remain terrified at the thought of how the sperm samples might be used in the wrong hands, possibly as sandwich spread.
“I just wouldn’t want to be in that car when the skeet packet goes off,” chucked McCullough head Nigel Barmes, referring to the explosive packet of hot-pink dyed sperm that tellers mix in with stolen samples to foil robbers.
The McCullough incident marks the first occurrence of sperm bank violence in this country since 1991, when militant pro-choice activists blew up the Washington, D.C. Gentleben Sperm Repository in retaliation for several abortion clinic bombings nationwide. the commune news hasn’t contributed to a sperm bank in years, but only because they stopped accepting those handy mail-in envelopes. We here at the commune are all for reporters expressing their personal voices, but the subject matter of this piece and last week’s Deep Throat article have all but convinced management to stop letting commune reporter Ramon Nootles pick his own stories. Bad news, musk-monkey.
 |  June 13, 2005 |
Washington, D.C. Alton Onus Scofflaw Marnie Douglas, a habitual cold sufferer, coughs in protest of the president's plan
"It's time to stamp out this national cancer," announced President Bush to a menagerie of stuffed animals standing in for reporters who thought the subject of the press conference tipped off an obvious gag invite. "And that's a convenient metaphor, or Similac, because I'm actually talking about cancer. And diabetes. Uh, heart disease… what are som...
he White House announced a daring new plan this week to address the nation's ballooning health care costs, which are crippling employers and causing otherwise sensible Americans to talk about national health care like dirty fucking socialists. By making poor health a law-enforcement issue, Washington hopes to get tough on the sick with bold mandatory sentencing for citizens convicted of harboring cancer, diabetes and heart disease.
"It's time to stamp out this national cancer," announced President Bush to a menagerie of stuffed animals standing in for reporters who thought the subject of the press conference tipped off an obvious gag invite. "And that's a convenient metaphor, or Similac, because I'm actually talking about cancer. And diabetes. Uh, heart disease… what are some of the other ones? The shits. Definitely got to stamp out the shits."
The new "War on Illness" will integrate aspects of several national programs aimed at ending GDP-draining sickness, including "Get Tough on Cancer," "Zero Tolerance for Juvenile Diabetes" and "Not in My Neighborhood: StrokeBusters." Supporters hope the new initiatives will sweep America's streets clean of the sickly and infirm, and keep future generations safe from the social decay caused by sick people.
"If you choose to get terminally ill, well, that's a mistake you're going to regret," crowed Judge Thomas Redbone in support of the plan, posing with an impressively oversized gavel. "No longer can we tolerate this blight on our neighborhoods or the threat it poses to our children."
Under the guidelines of the new plan, a first offense for harboring cancer, diabetes, pneumonia or other Class 5 controlled illnesses will trigger a mandatory five-year sentence, with repeat offenders coming out of cancer remission to receive life without the possibility of parole. The death penalty remains a possibility should the disease be diagnosed as fatal. Even more controversial is the plan's call for strict "Three Strikes and You're Out" sentencing for perpetrators of mental illness, to deal with wayward individuals lacking the willpower or strength of character to stay sane.
While predictably receiving criticism from the sick and terminally liberal, Bush's plan is already garnering widespread support from Americans tired of worrying about their kids falling victim to this societal scourge, and those who worry they themselves could one day be robbed by a sick person desperate for health care.
"It's a tough law, but fair," conceded June Striber, a former cancer sufferer now in remission. June hopes that with God's help, she'll remain on the right side of the law.
Critics question how Bush intends to implement the plan without addressing the problem of our nation's already overcrowded prisons. The president quelled these concerns with news that the incarceration overflow will be handled by converting schools closed due to recent education cutbacks into prisons, as well as GM factories shuttered due to overseas outsourcing and museums no one was visiting anyway. According to the president, even further room for sickly inmates can easily be found in abandoned K-Marts and in failed dot-com office space nationwide. the commune news has always been in support of euthanizing the ill, especially people who cough through the whole goddamned movie. Ted Ted is the commune's resident conservative and a big fan of Wheat Thins. That and other fascinating education information can be found on the zoo-like signage and placards posted around his desk habitat.
| Discriminating junkies buy cheaper heroin, crack-cocaine in Canada Global warming ruse official resigns; tired of "how's the weather" jokes Pink Floyd reunite for One Last Fucking Dime tour World's best airline: Cathay Pacific; world's worst: Hindenberg Airways |
|
|
| 
 June 13, 2005 Top 29As if I needed another kick in the teeth right now… VH-1 does their top whatever list of all the child stars and I don't even make the top 10.
I was as excited as a dude getting a birthday hummer when I saw the news headlines, "VH-1 Names Coleman No. 1 Child Star." I thought, damn right! It's about time I got the recognition. But it turns out they were talking about that OTHER Coleman, Gary Coleman. And I got no beef with him—he's the Nike of child stars, I'll agree.
If we're just talking about show popularity, Q-rating, that sort of thing, yeah, he's the number one. It's not my fault if my show never reached that kind of popularity—we had lousy writers. Diff'rent Strokes was Shakespeare compared to Who's Your Daddy? Not for any lack o...
º Last Column: Be a Child Star This Summer
º more columns
As if I needed another kick in the teeth right now… VH-1 does their top whatever list of all the child stars and I don't even make the top 10.
I was as excited as a dude getting a birthday hummer when I saw the news headlines, "VH-1 Names Coleman No. 1 Child Star." I thought, damn right! It's about time I got the recognition. But it turns out they were talking about that OTHER Coleman, Gary Coleman. And I got no beef with him—he's the Nike of child stars, I'll agree.
If we're just talking about show popularity, Q-rating, that sort of thing, yeah, he's the number one. It's not my fault if my show never reached that kind of popularity—we had lousy writers. Diff'rent Strokes was Shakespeare compared to Who's Your Daddy? Not for any lack of trying on my part. So, what the hell, I'll give it to him.
But not putting me in the top 10 was just plain insulting. It proves once again I've pissed off all the entertainment high order, like the number-picking people at VH-1. How can you keep Clarissa Coleman out of the top 10? Not number 2, they couldn't give me that. Macaulay Culkin… he hasn't even done any big work in years. Neither have I, maybe, but I'm still out there trying. And the Olsen twins… multi-million dollar little harpies. Screw 'em. I'm the real child star. Just because they saved their money they were able to parlay that fortune into video tapes. Yeah, if I were financing my own video tapes and shit I'd be able to stay on top all those years, too. Just because I blew mine on drugs and toys I get the shaft.
We all know what the real reason is. It's for that interview I did in that German magazine last year, Der Fucht, where I compared VH-1 to M-TV's castrated brother. You have to understand the situation: I was told that article would never appear in English. That's the only reason I did it. Who knew VH-1 read German?
Number 29 they give me. That's just an insult. Why even put me in there at all?
My sister Cassandra suggested maybe they thought the top 10 was Coleman-heavy already, what with Arnold taking the top spot. I suppose that's a reasonable suggestion… but to mess around with the hard truth about child stars just to make it look like there's no Coleman bias… that's as wrong as purposely screwing me out of it because I said VH-1 had no nuts. Nice job, VH-1. I thought you were supposed to be the mature music-lovers' network? Real mature.
They're just mad at me because they know I'm cooking up the biggest comeback plans yet, between my screenplay that's in the works and that new comic book deal I'm working out. I'm not supposed to say anything about it, but I figure there's no harm in telling my legion of fans who keep up through the commune. You're not going to sabotage the deal, right? Plus, I've still got Ho's!, even if they're wanting to cut back my part a little. We shoot a few more episodes in August, and I think we've got a real good chance at coming in to replace whatever crap the WB is playing now. Plus, I'm working on an ultra-secret new show on the WB, which can come in and replace Ho's! when they cancel it once and for all.
So take that, VH-1. Clarissa Coleman isn't so insecure she needs a nutless network like yours to tell me I'm big. And I'm going to be bigger than anyone in that long list, once my comeback is complete. There are many roads to the top of Everest, and I'm taking them all. º Last Column: Be a Child Star This Summerº more columns | 
|
| |
Quote of the Day“Give a man a fish, he eats today. Hide a fish in his jacket pocket and watch him go batshit trying to find where the smell's coming from.”
-John J. Jesusheimer SchmidtFortune 500 CookieTurns out your suspicions are correct and that Maurice Sendak book has been about you all this time. Peer-to-peer file-sharing claims its first victim when Metallica shows up at your house to beat the shit out of you. Remember to practice what you preach, because your preaching has been really amateur lately. Lucky numbers are all in Spanish this week.
Try again later.5 Ways to Spend Your $208 Million Lottery Jackpot| 1. | Finance own album of you singing Broadway standards; pay people to buy it | | 2. | Invest heavily in million-dollar ducks | | 3. | Buy a car for everyone you know, something they could all fit in at once | | 4. | Spend 208 nights with Demi Moore | | 5. | Fund grassroots pro-President Bush campaigns | |
|   13-Year-Old Goes First in National Spelling Draft BY red bagel 6/13/2005 A Fistful of Tannenbaum, Chapter 14: Foster in Time
Editor's Note: Last time, Jed was blown the fuck up.
After the third biggest explosion he had ever been in the middle of, Jed Foster awoke in the middle of a grassy field. At first he thought it was central park, but there were no dogs shitting on the grass, and no yuppies jogging through effeminately, listening to their MP3 players. He rose to a sitting position, legs crossed Native American style, and held onto his aching head.
"My head!" said Jed.
Looking around, Jed could see the ever-spreading green of grassland, which spread ever outwards until it reached the forests and then abruptly turned into woody trees. It looked like a land untouched by any kind of industry, but you don't know it isn't yet. Jed stood up and ch...
Editor's Note: Last time, Jed was blown the fuck up.
After the third biggest explosion he had ever been in the middle of, Jed Foster awoke in the middle of a grassy field. At first he thought it was central park, but there were no dogs shitting on the grass, and no yuppies jogging through effeminately, listening to their MP3 players. He rose to a sitting position, legs crossed Native American style, and held onto his aching head.
"My head!" said Jed.
Looking around, Jed could see the ever-spreading green of grassland, which spread ever outwards until it reached the forests and then abruptly turned into woody trees. It looked like a land untouched by any kind of industry, but you don't know it isn't yet. Jed stood up and checked his pocket watch, which had been blown off during the explosion, which made it difficult.
"My head," said Jed, and then worried he had fallen into a time loop, but it was actually just that his head really, really hurt.
Then, out of nowhere, and totally unexpected to the readers, a knight in glistening armor road into the field. He rode on a large roan horse, or possibly the other way around, but he looked very much like a knight from King Arthur's table.
"My word," started the knight, who spoke perfect English, since they invented it, "how did you get here?"
"That depends on where here is," said Foster cleverly. "Where have I landed, good sir knight?"
"You have landed in the year of our lord 20 After Jesus Died," said the knight. "In Yorkshirefilth, England."
"20 A.J.D.!" exclaimed Jed. "I'm shocked! That blast… the one from when I blew up the Bomb of Ages! It must have sent me back in time."
"That seems like pseudoscience," said the knight. "Fortunately, we still believe in pseudoscience here. Since you're a new visitor, I'll be happy to invite you to join the Round Table of the King of England, King Arthur."
"Thank you, sir…?"
"Sir Punkrock," said the knight.
So that must be where the term comes from, said Jed, already learning something new about history. Jed told the knight his name was Sir Gen-General, because he thought it was funny. And the knight told him he was glad to meet him, and would take him to meet the king, and the author saved a few expensive column inches in dialogue.
As they were going into town, they passed a large crowd of rabble—peasants, the filthiest kind of poor people they had in England at the time, and Jed showered pity on them. Not one by one, nobody has that kind of time, but he gave a general feeling of pity in every direction they lay, usually in the form of a pitiful look. Hopefully they understood. The knight pointed to a castle in the distance and said they would soon be at the home of King Arthur.
Before they left town, they came to a small public court where a witch trial was happening. They had already tried the witch and she, with a lousy public defender, had been found guilty. Jed listened for a few minutes as he and the knight continued to pass, then interceded.
"Allow me to offer a fair test for this alleged witch," said Jed. "We all know witches, like firewood, burn. So let me light her on fire, and if she burns, she's obviously a witch."
They agreed, but when Jed took out his pocket lighter and made fire, all eyes, even the pitiful dirty eyes of the rabble, widened in terror.
"He's some sort of bizarre male witch!" said some asshole. "Burn him, too!"
Next Chapter: Knight on Fire   |
