he whole world, or at least a very small percentage of us into geeky astronomy stuff, was floored by the discovery recently of an object that may well be a new planet. If anyone's still paying attention, they might be happy to know scientists have at last agreed the object is a planet, and furthermore, the scientific community has agreed on a name: "Tyler."

The discovery was originally made by the Spitzer Science Center, where a kid can be a dork, but was quickly verified by observatories all over the world, which frankly had little else to do. While the debate lingered on as to whether the object was a planet or just some shit stuck on the glass, the majority of the scientific community came together over the weekend to agree on the object's planet status. Attention quickly turned to naming it, with many renowned scientists claiming they had called dibs on the next planet long, long ago.

"Frankly, we haven't had a planet to name in a few centuries," said Astronomer and amateur astrologist Benton Leatherbelt. "That name-hog Galileo took up a lot of them. Mostly all the planet-namers went the Greek god angle, with Mars and Mercury and Neptune and what. But to name a planet something like that nowadays would be a waste, not to mention anachronistic. Plus, we're out of the best Greek god names. Unless they want to go with Hercules. I could see planet Hercules."

Many professional astronomers agreed, except for that "Hercules" bullshit. Super-hot U Ignorant professor of astronomy Bubbles Corkran:

"It's taken years of hard sky-looking, but finally we have a ninth or tenth planet. I can never remember which," said Bubbles, laughing intoxicatingly. "And I, for one, want to see a name that matches that little cutie. It was me who suggested 'Tyler,' because I wanted something that represents our modern age and to show that today's astromonists have their eyes to the future. Plus, I love Aerosmith. Who doesn't love Aerosmith?"

Professor Corkran's choice received much support among horny astronomers, but wasn't without challenges. Other top contenders were "Jacob," "Joshua," "Dylan," or "Abigail" if it turned out to be a rare female planet. Some were notably upset with the choice of name for the new planet, like Arizona State astronomy professor Wilson Bernardi.

"Naming the greatest scientific discovery of this new century 'Tyler' was unbelievably short-sighted and irresponsible. We had a burden upon us to apply a proper label to this new celestial body, and could have taken the proper amount of time to consider all potential choices. 'Isis' would have been a possibility… all I'm saying is, 'Tyler' seems like a very temporary and forgettable name. And I know you're going to hear stories, but this is not just because people didn't choose the name I proposed: Planet Faggot."

The debate continued into the first week after the planet's naming, but others among the world's astronomers called for a healing of the rift.

"We've all spent too much time and effort on the relatively unimportant process of naming this fantastic new discovery," smirked Lawana Kirk, professor of astronomy at the University of Colorado. "It's time to settle down with the name and concentrate on more important aspects: Who will be the first to conquer this new planet? I've already got my things packed, and I've begun construction on the world's fastest rocket to get me there before all you other carpetbaggers. Anyone want to call 'shotgun' on the window seat?"

he world remains shocked and eerily obsessed with the mortal departure of ABC news anchor Peter Jennings after his short but well-publicized battle with cancer. With several primetime memorial specials, newspaper editorials, and lots of merchandise on the way to local stores, people are remembering the legacy of the deceased newsman. But no matter what else people might say about the mark he left, one thing all can agree on: He read the news.

"He not only changed the way we thought about the news, but the way we watched the news," said media kiss-ass Earl Shmonster. "I have no examples to back that up. But you name any news event in the past twenty years, you can bet Peter Jennings covered it. Or introduced us to the guy who was covering it. He was faithfully at his desk whenever something happened that the nation needed to be told about."

Jennings' death, both tragic and timely, has seized the consciousness of a nation that had all but given up on paying attention to the news. His terminal illness has been a dazzling source of conversation and meditation on our own mortality. While some people are already talking about who will be the next ABC news anchor, one thing is patently clear: They will have to die in a really horrific way to steal back the nation's focus from the late Peter Jennings.

"Jennings was a consummate reporter," said a national news editorial copied nearly word for word a thousand times over since the anchor man's death. "He was always in the field, when he wasn't behind the anchor desk. His soothing voice and rugged good looks kept us all calm and placated while he told us about AIDS, rising poverty, election fraud, space shuttles blowing up, and, more recently, terrorism. He was more than the face of ABC network news: He was its voice, too."

The Peter Jennings' death frenzy has carried over beyond a hurricane of media coverage, including a bevy of Jennings-related items for sale on eBay and a series of Jennings news pieces headed for DVD to offer consolation to grief-stricken Jennings fans who possess money. But Jennings' death has affected the world in non-marketable ways, too, convincing several in the population to find out more information about lung cancer. The first thing most of them learn from Jennings' experience: Don't get it.

Spokesperson Nanny Freedmont from the Rubb-Houston Center for Celebrity Deaths: "The death of Peter Jennings was more than the loss of a father, husband, and media professional: It was the loss of someone famous. A person who we saw regularly on the TV every night for years, and whom we've developed a perfectly healthy attachment to. We considered him a friend, and we feel the void he's left behind, and will continue to until at least the next celebrity passes away tragically."

Jennings' departure sparked hundreds of responses from people everywhere, but since we've never heard of most of them, we only selected a few to cover. Like this one from the American Cancer Association:

"Hundreds of thousands of people die from lung cancer every year. But none of them were famous. God bless ye, Peter Jennings, America's nightly news Jesus."

Another fond farewell came from colleague and friendly nightly news rival Dan Rather.

"Jennings was a fine newsman and always read the news without error. He was never stymied by the more challenging words, like 'fiduciary responsibility.' He will be missed. Me, on the other hand, going out in a puff of smoke and a blaze of scandal. I mean, what the fuck, America? What would it take to get a simple friendly good-bye from you people? I'm not on the news anymore either, you know. I guess I'll have to burst into fucking flame or something to get a 'So long and fuck off, Dan!'"

Speaking of bursting into fucking flame, the commune news pays its own final tribute to the world's greatest news reader, Peter Jennings: Out, out, brief candle.

Rest easy, faithful commune reader, and any friends you might have: the commune is once again back in our hands.

If the spate of month-long repeats we've been running haven't clued you in, the commune was in a bit of a sticky situation as of late. And it wasn't, contrary to popular belief, just an attempt for us to catch a few winks while our competition stomped us into the ground. I had planned a little time off for the loyal commune staff, and everybody else we employ, but something more like a week, or even a few hours with me just not poking everyone to keep them working at top speed. But it didn't turn out as expected at all. Not at all.

To sum up, terrorists invaded the commune offices. Nothing less than Al Qaeda terrorists, or at least it appeared to me when the small group of foreign men stormed our offices with machine guns and demanded we all choose who would die first. We all chose my brother Gay Bagel, of course, unanimous vote (can you beat Gay voting for himself? What's up there?) Raoul and Ramrod tied for second, somehow beating out my favorite, Ivana. I placed a distant fifth, and I think it has something to do with putting real caramel in the caramel apples at this year's commune Days fair. But anyway, back to the terrorists.

If you think we're going to sit around and let third-world demagogues gun us down, you're sadly mistaken. To stand there and let terrorists kill you would mean the terrorists have already won. So I "flipped out," in the modern vernacular, and began to toss body after body against the wall. Many were Ivan Nacutchacokov, always in my ever-loving way, but I'm sure I got a few terrorists in there, too. We had just enough time to vacate the offices and taking our most valuable possessions with us. I had just enough time to unleash my deadly security force of weasels for the bastards to choke on, while Gay Bagel had just enough time to change the website programming and select a variety of articles for a few "best of" issues, so we wouldn't lose precious advertising revenue after we fled the terror. You never know when you might be able to use ten bucks, I suppose.

The fact that Omar Bricks did not follow us, and was in fact found at his desk, business-as-usual upon our return, speaks volumes about the perceptive depths of Mr. Bricks. We did find he had strapped one of the terrorists to the back of a grizzly bear, but upon closer inspection it's apparent he had mistaken the infidel for Ramrod Hurley.

I could thrill you endlessly with tales of our life on the run, searching out hiding places from which to build a new commune and the way our reporters cobbled together stories out of dust and scraps so we could continue to get the truth out to you. But thrilling you would be contrary to the usual routine of this column. Let's just say we were stumped for days on end on how to get our offices back and rid ourselves of the invaders. Well, I was stumped. Everyone else told me to call the police, the FBI, or any number of establishment-serving official organizations who hunt terrorists for fun. I was convinced this was not the right path. Until I got sick of living day and nigh with my staff in an abandoned building. So a quick call to the feds and we had our offices back, and a hefty reward as well.

It turned out, by the way, that the "terrorists" were actually nothing more than some Middle Eastern mercenaries hired by Crochet! Magazine to end our longtime dispute once and for all. Needless to say, Crochet! gots to pay for its major league fuck-up. And if you see Omar Bricks on the street, thank him for that insightful 10-part investigative report on ben-wah balls he did, but tell him I can't publish it because he submitted it to the faux Bagel mercenary. Who is planning to publish it in a prison newsletter, I think.

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