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 February 27, 2006 |
Torino, Italy Junior Bacon Yet another white athlete is lavishly rewarded for bizarre alpine behavior
The 2006 Whiter Olympics continued as expected all week, par for the course for an event designed expressly to reward behaviors no self- respecting black person would be caught dead engaging in, like running your fool ass around out in the cold as if you haven't got any sense at all.
"The Winter Olympics were invented in 1964 as a way for whites to make up for losing all their medals to black athletes in the summer games," explained Olympic racism expert Tyrone Blackula. "They had to make up a bunch of sport...
ulshitzkizu, the Eastern European principality best known for its unjust laws and shoddy exports, shocked no one this week by taking home a record twelve gold medals, despite never having even been visited by a black person in the nation's entire 314-year history. The 2006 Whiter Olympics continued as expected all week, par for the course for an event designed expressly to reward behaviors no self- respecting black person would be caught dead engaging in, like running your fool ass around out in the cold as if you haven't got any sense at all. "The Winter Olympics were invented in 1964 as a way for whites to make up for losing all their medals to black athletes in the summer games," explained Olympic racism expert Tyrone Blackula. "They had to make up a bunch of sports black people had never heard of, like hockey, and other events where, by the very color of their skin, black athletes would be at a disadvantage, like Naked Snow Hiding." The thinly-disguised ruse came to a head in 1988, when pressure from the 2/3rds of the world that isn't even invited to the Whiter Olympics forced the token inclusion of the Jamaican bobsled team during the Calgary games. Predictably, the Jamaican team was unfairly penalized for attempting to push their bobsled up the run in record time, a perfectly reasonable misunderstanding of the event's rules for anyone not born in Norway. Bulshitzkizu neighbor Upper Scamistan also took gold medals this week in curling and other white man cold-weather hobbies too silly to name. Experts on white people agree that U.S. is likewise heavily favored in the upcoming ice farming competitions and the always popular 400-meter skin bleach. Network executives for NBC have been bitching and moaning all week about the poor ratings for their cherished little white sports love-in, which has rated even lower than reruns of old black-and-white television shows like Leave it to Beaver. Or, as they would be more accurately known, old white-and-white television shows. The Olympic ratings have suffered due in no small part to the network's staunch refusal to dye any of their preciously white Olympic snow brown to make audiences of color more comfortable with the proceedings. Though it hardly qualifies as news, no black athletes have yet been spotted in Torino, the closest being American downhill skier Bode Miller, who once accidentally kissed a black chick in the dark at a party. Though event organizers are said to have been divided over the decision to invite the racially-mixed United States to the Olympic Games, arrangements were made to ensure that the only American entrants would be from the black-free states of Minnesota and Vermont. In a desperate last-ditch effort to boost ratings, NBC has begun to refer to Australians as the "honorary black people" of the 2006 Olympics, due to their poor showing and the arid climate of their home land. But word on the street is that the network originally wanted to save that designation for Chechnya, had the embattled Russian province been able to take a break from getting screwed over long enough to field their own Olympic team. the commune news is going to get around to pretending to watch the Winter Olympics some time this year, we swear. Shabozz Wertham is the commune's resident expert on blackness, which is a huge upgrade from our previous expert, Nordic hip-hop fan Ivan Nauctchacokov.
 |  February 13, 2006 |
Washingon, D.C. Whit Pistol
"We will not stand for this insult to the United States," said White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan on Friday. "This administration has put far too much work into the Middle East to settle for second most-hated country in the western world."
Added McClellan, "I mean… Afghanistan? Iraq? The threats and endless implications of war in Syria and Iran… if anyone is the biggest threat to Islam, it's us."
Protests began following the pu...
midst the controversy of insulting Danish cartoons and rioting Muslims throughout Europe and the Middle East, the U.S. has taken a firm stance against the editorial cartoon in question—not because it offends Islamic culture, but because it steals focus from the ever-popular anti-Americanism felt by Muslims worldwide. "We will not stand for this insult to the United States," said White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan on Friday. "This administration has put far too much work into the Middle East to settle for second most-hated country in the western world." Added McClellan, "I mean… Afghanistan? Iraq? The threats and endless implications of war in Syria and Iran… if anyone is the biggest threat to Islam, it's us." Protests began following the publication of 12 cartoons portraying the prophet Mohammed in Denmark's Jyllands-Posten, an act prohibited in Islamic religion, and the protests have turned into violent rioting in many instances, including setting fire to a Danish embassy. The riots have spread throughout Europe, following the re-publication of the offending cartoons in other countries. As Muslim aggression turns against Denmark and the other European Union countries, the U.S. began to show clear signs of fearing second best. "You think Denmark's offensive?" President Bush said at a press conference on Thursday. "We put a Koran on the toilet, if you remember. Not us specifically, and we don't condone that kind of thing—but that's American handiwork for you. Let's try to remember whose financial and military complexes you've suicide bombed. Ain't we the Great Satan, folks?" Some scholars and media pundits, who make the real money in the field of academia, have suggested the cartoon controversy may be behind the administration's recent attacks on suspected Al-Qaeda targets, as well as the president's verbal gaff on Saturday. "You know what's stupid? Long beards," Bush said to a small group of White House visitors on Saturday. He added, "Oops," in a less-than-convincing way. Psychologists and political scientists both have tried to explain the effects of the Danish cartoon and the Muslim response, but if any academic field has gained the most from this debacle, it's the newly burgeoning area of politopsycho science. Happy to answer questions was the field's premiere and only representative, Professor Norm Chauncey of Newark University. "Clearly the president, and to a certain extent the country and its administration itself, is dealing with a sudden loss of identity as the political landscape begins to change," said Professor Chauncey, who was kind enough to buy the lattes. "As these times become more turbulent, and anti-American sentiment grows all around the world, particularly in the Middle East and Islamic cultures, we in the west have found comfort in the most reliable feature of modern life—anti-Americanism. Can you imagine how disoriented we would all be if the French stopped being pretentious overnight? What a confusing, frightening world that would be. It's the same effect when the United States is no longer the first one to trample all over the nerves of Muslims. The Danes? If they're going to start being insensitive to cultural differences, we might as well go the rest of the full mile and stop interfering in everyone's world affairs. Let's exactly how whacked out we can all be." Chauncey lectured further on the subject, but since he wouldn't throw in a biscotti, the commune doesn't see much reason to print that as well. the commune news was deeply offended by a comic strip as well, when Ziggy burned that car thief's balls on the truck's exhaust pipe to get a confession—though, come to think of it, that could have been an episode of The Shield. commune Douchebag Raoul Dunkin tries to be sensitive to the feelings of everyone, earning him his nickname "commune Douchebag."
|  Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again  Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split  Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans  Stealers Wheel Win Super Bowl, Says Heavily Accented Man |
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 February 27, 2006 Headlice FadingGinger Baker, my long-loving wife, had the brilliant idea of donating our time to charity. I was happy to do it—you know me, anything for a cause of some sort—until I learned donating time was a lot harder than donating money. Then I wanted to give the money. But Ginger promised me it would be worth the time. I'm still waiting for that proof to show up.
We're donating our time to the children, since Ginger believes firmly that the children are our future. I partially agree. I think the adults they grow up into will be our future, but kids will always be leeches taking all our money and time and eating all our food without any compensation. Plus, what about nanotechnology? The nano-things could be our real future, and I bet you dollars to donuts they're not happy about all t...
º Last Column: Riding the Crime Wave
º more columns
Ginger Baker, my long-loving wife, had the brilliant idea of donating our time to charity. I was happy to do it—you know me, anything for a cause of some sort—until I learned donating time was a lot harder than donating money. Then I wanted to give the money. But Ginger promised me it would be worth the time. I'm still waiting for that proof to show up. We're donating our time to the children, since Ginger believes firmly that the children are our future. I partially agree. I think the adults they grow up into will be our future, but kids will always be leeches taking all our money and time and eating all our food without any compensation. Plus, what about nanotechnology? The nano-things could be our real future, and I bet you dollars to donuts they're not happy about all this wasted time messing around with children. That said, I had already agreed to volunteer at the schools and couldn't get out of it by this point. Ginger and I offered our help with Health Awareness Day or some such thing. Ginger, being a real estate broker, gave an inspiring lecture about buying property in economically depressed areas, and then sitting on them until the zoning changed to really clean up. Turns out this has nothing to do with health. I wanted to teach the kids about the value of being under-tall, but was directed instead to assist in checking the kids for health problems. I was assigned to examine the male children for back problems, specifically, a condition called scoliosis. No, I thought it was a new wave British pop band, too, but apparently it's some sort of back condition that comes from forcing kids to sit in cheap rigid chairs for hours at a time. I don't know about you, but looking at boys naked from the waist up too closely all day isn't the kind of charity I had in mind. It's nice to know such jobs exist, though, if you're someone who's been recently turned away from the priesthood. Still, for me, it was dullsville city. And I didn't want to ask to be transferred to the girls' division either. Partly because I'm not a pedophile, but mostly because I would likely strangle the first child I saw with one of those ass crack tattoos that all the young people seem to be ruining their bodies with. When I did request a transfer, those jokers in the Health Awareness Day Assignment Committee really showed their spots. I was assigned to the Headlice Check—me, Rok Finger! I tried to remind them I'm practically a celebrity (college kids know my name, I promise you that), but there's no special treatment for anyone at Martin Van Buren Elementary, I guess. Or so they say in the school song, which I believe is sung to the tune of Chumbawamba's "Tubthumper." But I bet if Ralph Waite showed up and asked for a job, he wouldn't be fingering the scalps of greasy little kids looking for bugs. I tried to speed up the process, streamline it, the same thing I do here at the commune when I hand in somebody else's old columns to run as my own. But the school didn't appreciate my new policy, which was to have the kids who think they have lice to wear red hats, while those who didn't think they had lice wore blue hats. I can tell you this, though, in my short amount of time I learned that kids have no idea whether they have lice or not. Virtually every one of them was wrong. It didn't help that we only had two blue hats and three red hats, and had to pass them around frequently. Still, volunteering wasn't quite as unpleasant as I believed it would be. I did get a free lunch out of the ordeal (pizza square, green beans, tater tots, corn bread, and my choice of milk). And more than that, I got the feeling of being a positive influence in my community. A tax-deductible expenditure of my work hours in my community. º Last Column: Riding the Crime Waveº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Ask not what your country can do for you; cuz trust me, you ain't gonna get shit that way.”
-John Fitzpatrick KentuckyFortune 500 CookieOrganization is the key to surviving life's travails. Try sorting your problems large to small, then run like hell. Nobody can stand your face, voice or odor, but on the upside, everyone likes your car. This week's lucky ways to die: hanging plus drowning, three-year diarrhea, shop 'til you drop, the summertime blues.
Try again later.Top Surprising Oscar Snubs| 1. | Yentle 2: Yentler | | 2. | The Berenstain Bears Don't Care | | 3. | The Diary of Al Franken | | 4. | assBUSHhole: An Empire in Decline | | 5. | Jamie Foxx in Socks | |
|   It's Official: Palestinians Prefer Hummus BY mitch kroeger 2/13/2006 The AristocratsEveryone knows I come from a show business family, and the stories from those days have more than once enthralled huge pockets of the coach section on boring trans-Atlantic flights. The best story of all, however, can’t be told on an airplane due to its tendency toward self-incrimination.
It all starts with my father, a proud and foolish man, who once had a bright idea for how to spruce up the family’s sagging vaudeville act: he had us all drop acid before the show. Everyone: my sister, my brother, our baby brother, our mother, our grandmother, and the family dog, Lucas. And dad was so confident in his newfound scam that he invited a top talent agent to the nightclub where we were performing, in hopes of spinning the new act off into a variety show on ABC.
The...
Everyone knows I come from a show business family, and the stories from those days have more than once enthralled huge pockets of the coach section on boring trans-Atlantic flights. The best story of all, however, can’t be told on an airplane due to its tendency toward self-incrimination.
It all starts with my father, a proud and foolish man, who once had a bright idea for how to spruce up the family’s sagging vaudeville act: he had us all drop acid before the show. Everyone: my sister, my brother, our baby brother, our mother, our grandmother, and the family dog, Lucas. And dad was so confident in his newfound scam that he invited a top talent agent to the nightclub where we were performing, in hopes of spinning the new act off into a variety show on ABC.
The show that night started off pretty normal, with dad playing "Swanee" on his armpit and grandma shooting hard-boilt eggs out of her snatch into the crowd like a Gatling gun. But then out of nowhere, a donkey that may or may not have been an official part of the show jumps on stage and starts sodomizing my older brother, who was already terrified of donkeys from a similar incident in early childhood.
Out of the corner of his eye, my dad catches sight of the donkey, which causes him to immediately and thoroughly upchuck his entire lunch and a martini he had for breakfast. The problem is, he’s French-kissing my mother at the time, and after a half-second delay the vomit gushes out of her nose like the soda fountain at a bulimia theme park. As my mother pulls back in disgust, there’s a wet piece of roast beef hanging out of her nose, and in that instant everyone realizes my dad had Arby’s for lunch. This fact grosses out everybody completely, and they start vomiting back and forth like a giant game of laser tag.
My father, still phased, blindly flails out and whips off my sister’s skirt, revealing a gang of Balinese pygmy midgets gang-fucking the corpse of Jackie Kennedy like a pack of starving rats underneath.
This guy in the back starts laughing so hard he throws up blood, which a pregnant waitress slips in, popping her baby out like a cork and the thing zips across the room straight into the donkey’s mouth. The donkey chokes on it, falls off my brother and dies.
The crowd screams, causing my father to flail again and tear off my grandmother’s skirt, which reveals Tom Cruise sucking Dame Edna’s cock.
Now the crowd’s reacting like it’s the end of the world, and then suddenly it is. Out of nowhere, the fattest man anyone there has ever seen comes out in a latex bikini and eats a mess of dried apricots out of Jimmy Stewart’s diaper, setting off another chain reaction of vomiting that climaxes in a priest somehow barfing up my baby brother’s ass. The worst part of it all is that the baby loves it.
Dad, still blinded by his own vomit and roast beef, falls into the rear curtain, tearing it down and revealing the oldest chorus line in Reno, Nevada, their dentures in a wet pile on the floor, struggling to stretch their gummy maws around Steve Urkel’s disturbingly monstrous dong. Urkel’s playing a Gameboy. Seemingly oblivious to his surroundings and the gang of great-grandmothers slobbering on his Pocahontas, he achieves a personal best at Tetris.
A cadre of underage Vietnamese girls run out and start mopping up the stage with their hair, while we take a short break to watch my drunken uncle Henry trying to piss on the family dog, which has been shaved, coated in butter, and is dog-dancing in a giant scalding frying pan on the side of the stage to the adulation of dozens.
For the climax, the entire state of Oklahoma comes out and shits on my grandmother.
Believe you me, the talent agent is blown away.
"Christ on ice!" he shouts over the din of applause and unconscious people falling into tables. "What do you people call yourselves?"
My dad, proud as an unrepentant felon, honks a horn and spreads his arms, beaming with a smile as wide as Louie Anderson’s ass, and proudly intones:
"The Kroegers!"
And at just that moment, a premature Negro baby flops out of my mother’s cooch and hits the floor with a wet slap, squeaking:
"No, fuck that!
THE ARISTOCRATS!"   |
