 | 
 November 18, 2011 |
Shanesly, VT Courtesy App-Lesauce.com A bunch of apps and shit 
Apps," or software programs designed for handheld devices, are all the rage these days, as more and more internet-capable phones and state-of-the-art tablet computers utilize them to make apps one of the more enjoyable aspects of mobile technology. There are current apps out there for reading books and documents, doing your taxes, watching movies and television while on the go, and getting directions as you drive. But apps don't stop there, as independent designers and big-name companies work to bring new abilities to your tablet computer like the iPad, the Galaxy Tab, and Motorola's incorrectly spelled Xoom device. In the wake of the recent removal from the Apple Store in France of an app called "Jew or Not Jew?," designed to give insight into the background of entertainers and icons of Jewish descent, the commune, mostly me, Raoul Dunkin, decided to investigate some of the surprising apps out there for various devices. But yeah, all of these are Apple, because nobody left an HP TouchPad discarded at the bus stop last week. Although they probably should have.
Encore! For iPhone (Guncho Ltd.): This fresh app saves the user breath and energy by automatically shouting for "one more" from your favorite band who has left the stage. An update reportedly automatically requests "Free Bird" if it has not already been played, and mimics your drunken slur. Encore! costs $4.99 on iTunes and is also available for the same price for iPad. For $8.99 an Apple customer can buy Encore! Pro, which boos the opening act during the first ballad.
U.R. Gay For iPad (OutThere Apps): Ever wanted to know what your best friends or romantic partners would look like if they chose the homosexual lifestyle? U.R. Gay can take any picture of the manliest dudes or girliest girlfriends and gay them up big time. Adjust the gayness to your liking with a touch-friendly slider. Deck out that obnoxious brah in your office in a tight-fitting long-sleeve shirt and pencil-thin mustache, or a loud Hawaiian shirt and biker shorts, or go full gay with a bushy 'stache, leather vest, blue jean cut-offs and—is that eyeliner? Advisory: Can only go gay, will not work on already-gay pictures, and they highly recommend you don't try it.
iBlack (Cheap Bastards): If you're thinking this app traces the purity of your blood back several generations, you're wrong (that app's called Kiss My Black(?) Ass for iPhone). iBlack can, at the press of a button, turn your iPad, iPhone, or iPod Touch to a completely black screen so you can see your reflection, see what it looks like if your device was turned off, or simply give people the impression that your handheld computer is not being used. It functions much like if you held the button down and turned off the device, except it costs $12.99.
OverLaid For iPad (Knocks Industries): You won't find a better app than this one for your fantasy lotharios. If you've ever told your buddies about sexual liaisons that never happened, so many and so frequently that it's hard to keep track of, you need OverLaid. A spreadsheet in this app counts of all the women you've slept with, honestly, while another spreadsheet keeps track of all the women you claim you've slept with. Personalized data entry fields allow you to keep names, locations, and hotness levels (on a 1-10 scale) of all your imaginary affairs, so that you never give erroneous or contradictory information regarding all your fictional erotic encounters. For the $5.99 full version, you can also compare your actual sexual conquests, their attractiveness and numbers, with all those you've bragged about to friends, either to set goals for your bedroom romps or just feel bad about yourself. For you high schoolers, the app also includes a helpful "girlfriends in other states" section.
No Rape! (Danger Dude Enterprises): For iPad and iPhone, this clever app claims that the mere push of a button will send rapists and molesters running the other way. Works on all ages, genders, and sexual orientations, although it never details how it does this and explicitly states it offers no refunds. It's the exclamation point that sells it.
Punch Your Balls (Danger Dude Enterprises): From the people who brought you No Rape! For the iPad and iPhone, at the mere push of a button, a representative of Danger Dude Enterprises (perhaps Danger Dude himself) will come to your house when called and punch you squarely in your testicular area. This app comes with a guarantee, void outside the continental U.S. It seems like Danger Dude Enterprises are the app developers to beat.
Awkward Silence For iPhone (Krustinators, Ltd.): Have you ever told a joke and felt the burn of absolutely no one laughing, not even laughing at the fact they didn't laugh? Now you can enjoy that painful humiliation even without anyone else around. Awkward Silence bathes users in the gut-wrenching shame of stark quiet after every bombed joke or embarrassing admission. Or, if you prefer, you can come by Emil's house and just record it with your iPhone recording app. We're overflowing with riches here. the commune news is appy and we know it, so we'll clap our hands. Get it? It's like the… song with the… aw, fuck you. Raoul Dunkin is nappy, and he knows it, we snatched his comb. *clap clap*
 |  October 24, 2011 |
Sirte, Libya Courtesy FeelDoll A less road-worn copy of the Gaddafi doll made famous in last week’s videos, this one featuring the "Urban Chic" outfit and this model’s trademark "sensuous blowjob lips"
"We resent being called a knock-off. If anything, our models are superior to RealDolls, with suppler orifices, stretchier lips, and more voluminous skeet reservoirs," explained an incensed Roman Starsky, head doll fucker for FeelDoll.
"If anything, we’re a knock-up," Starksy added. "If you’re going to jizz into a big polyurethane corpse, we hope it’s ours."
The sex doll in question, an expensive high-end model a far cry from the inflatable emergency dates most commune readers would b...
n autopsy of the internet-famous body of former Libyan dictator Muammar Gadhafi early Monday uncovered one shocking detail: the so-called corpse is in fact a sex doll likeness of Gaddafi, manufactured by the Middle Eastern RealDoll knock-off company, FeelDoll.
"We resent being called a knock-off. If anything, our models are superior to RealDolls, with suppler orifices, stretchier lips, and more voluminous skeet reservoirs," explained an incensed Roman Starsky, head doll fucker for FeelDoll.
"If anything, we’re a knock-up," Starksy added. "If you’re going to jizz into a big polyurethane corpse, we hope it’s ours."
The sex doll in question, an expensive high-end model a far cry from the inflatable emergency dates most commune readers would be familiar with, features a posable internal skeleton, lifelike silicone skin, interchangeable hairpieces for alternating between "stern sexy dictator Kadafi" and "fun on the beach Qaddafi," and numerous cute outfits in all the latest styles. There has been no word as to who ditched this particular love doll in the drainage ditch where it was found by revolutionaries on Friday, but judging from its condition, they were apparently finished with it.
"Ga-ddammit," mused National Transitional Council Executive Chairman Mahmoud Jibril, upon being told the news.
When asked how the entire world could be fooled by footage of a rubber sex doll flopping around and being shoved into a truck, psychologist Ben Wahbals explained the powerful role suggestion plays in the way our brains interpret the outside world.
"For example, all I had to do was tell you I was a psychologist, and because of that you never even noticed that I’m wearing an Arby’s uniform and we are, right now, inside an Arby’s," explained Dr. Wahbals.
The day went from bad to double-bad for Libya’s new government later Monday afternoon, when a closer inspection of the corpse of Qadhafi’s son Mo’tassim (Ed. Note: Seriously? Fact check that name), thought killed in fighting last week, revealed it to actually be a goat wearing a dress.
Monday’s shocking developments raise several disturbing questions, not the least of which is where the actual Qadhaffi might be if he’s not really having his anus measured in a morgue in Libya. The leading theory as of news time was that Gathafi has been hiding out for months as a member of the cast of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, though journalistic ethics require us to point out that this almost-certainly-true theory has not yet been backed up by hard facts or cursory examination.
Upon the first breaking of this story on news breaker site Zapshit.com, several posters in that article’s comments section admitted this news made them feel less guilty about having masturbated to the YouTube footage of Godhafi’s capture last week.
Possibly even more pressing, however, is the question of why in the holy Allah someone would make a sex doll to look like Malomar Kurdhafi.
"Male sex dolls are relatively rare compared to the female models, yes, and are mostly purchased by conservative politicians and for the rec rooms of women’s prisons," explained Starsky. "But there is a demand, and a demanding demand at that."
Sure, but why Gutthafih?
"Likenesses are entirely based on popular demand. And who is to say the sexual appetites of the public are wrong? Is being sexually attracted to Dick Butkus wrong? Just because I want to dip my wick in a life-sized plastic Ernest Borgnine, does that make me a freak? On a side note, our Ernest Bornine FeelDolls are all on sale this week, those things haven’t been selling worth a goddamn." The commune news vows to stick with this story until the real Gudhafi is found, no matter how long this may- Oooh! I think this is an Alabama quarter! Ivan Nacutchacokov sadly arrived in Sirte too late to dodge any revolutionary gunfire, but he was videotaped being dragged naked through the city’s streets, which Ivan insists is a common local greeting. Sure it is, Ivan.
|  Los Angeles Gangs Infuriated by YU55 Drive-by  Wienerdoodle Voted Worst New Dog Breed  Jobs' Last Laugh: Suri Cruise Somehow Inside Your New iPhone  Al Davis' Shard Reinserted Into the Dark Crystal |
|
|
| 
 October 24, 2011 Eighth Theistthe commune is back, people, and better than ever. But then again, who am I to decide your tastes? I shouldn't just declare matters of opinion as if they're fact. Maybe the commune is back, slightly inferior compared to what it used to be, but still tolerable. Or maybe it was never tolerable. Don't let me make the call.
Why do grapes come in so many different colors? Pick one and go with it. You don't see bananas pulling that shit on you. Bananas—there's a food that's secure with itself. Never care much for the shape, though.
I hear Ted Danson is replacing Laurence Fishburne on the long-running crime drama C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigations. Both are very talented actors and seem like fine people. Yet I could not give less than a shit.
Hav...
º Last Column: Eighth is Enough
º more columns
the commune is back, people, and better than ever. But then again, who am I to decide your tastes? I shouldn't just declare matters of opinion as if they're fact. Maybe the commune is back, slightly inferior compared to what it used to be, but still tolerable. Or maybe it was never tolerable. Don't let me make the call.
Why do grapes come in so many different colors? Pick one and go with it. You don't see bananas pulling that shit on you. Bananas—there's a food that's secure with itself. Never care much for the shape, though.
I hear Ted Danson is replacing Laurence Fishburne on the long-running crime drama C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigations. Both are very talented actors and seem like fine people. Yet I could not give less than a shit.
Have you ever found that Russian novelists, classic Russian novelists especially, are obsessed with depictions of death? Americans, on the other hand, maybe all western novelists, seem more concerned with depictions of life; however, it may be argued that it is the Russian novelist who has the courage to face reality, while what we write about indicates our need to escape that grim reality. This might be changed considerably if more Russian novelists wrote in English. Russian is a hard language to write in. Trying to figure it out makes you suicidal. That's my guess.
Has there ever been a cereal called Nutsack Crunch? I'm thinking maybe a cluster-type cereal, sold in a canvas bag. If there hasn't, good. Cereal manufacturers be warned: What were you thinking? The mere sound of it puts most people off their appetites. Nutsack Crunch… Jesus.
Now a cereal named Jesus, on the other hand, that's bankable. No better way to start your day. In my opinion.
Oasis is now banned from performing in this country. They know why.
It should have been obvious General Custer would meet his end at Little Big Horn. Little Horn? Big Horn? The place was clearly named to confuse the white man. That's why I never stage any battles there.
What would you do for a Klondike Bar? Wait, don't agree to anything too fast. I found one today in the frozen foods section of my local grocery store. All the humiliation I've endured, they were just sitting there for sale the whole time. The whole time. Not even that expensive.
Remember when they used to say "Mike Connors is Mannix"? I kept waiting for that to come up in the show, but no matter how frequently they reminded us of the fact, I never saw it amount to anything. I expected a big "I am Spartacus" moment that never happened. What a waste.
I had a job selling car stereos once, and the manager used to tell us to go "balls out" during any big sales push. Let me save you some trouble and warn you right now, it doesn't sell any more car stereos. Boxer shorts, perhaps, but not car stereos. Then the manager had the nerve to get mad at me.
Do you know the Muffin Man? The Muffin Man? The Muffin Man. Don't trust that son of a bitch. The first one was free, then he jacked up the price. Now I've got a muffin problem.
I'm telling everyone now: If I'm ever hooked up to a machine to keep me alive, promise me you'll tell me in detail exactly how that machine works. It sounds unbelievable. A machine?!? That keeps people alive?!? Wow. Just… wow. So tell me all about it, assuming I'm not a catatonic pile of flesh and bones.
That's all I can stands, I can't stands no more. º Last Column: Eighth is Enoughº more columns | 
|
| |
Quote of the Day“Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel. The second to last refuge of the scoundrel is a cave in the Ozarks. Third to last? Under the bed in a four-star hotel in Paris. Fourth? Puns. Puns are the fourth-to-last refuge of the scoundrel.”
-Johnuel SamsonFortune 500 CookieWhoever cut your jib, they fucked it all up, dude. Try wearing more spandex this week, your current quantities aren't providing sufficient coverage. Remember: an ounce of prevention is worth an inch of milk-fed veal. This week's lucky pizza restaurant mascots: The Noidette, Little Greaser, Humpy the Pizza Camel, "Cheese Dick" Richard Romano, Lumpy-Thighed Sex Goddess Valotta Ricotta.
Try again later.Top Racially Insensitive Desserts| 1. | Mint Jew Lips | | 2. | Negroreos | | 3. | Vanilla Dick | | 4. | Mr. Li's Chocolate Chink Ice Cream | | 5. | The Dirty Spaniard Sundae from Baskin Robbins | |
|   NetFlix Raises Subscription Rate For Non-Subscribers BY orson welch 11/18/2011 I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for a...
I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for all the movies you made hits in the years since I last wrote.
Transformers (2007)
In the words of the great John F. Kennedy: Come on, America. We can do better than this. The Hollywood blockbuster has been boiled down to its basics, and its shiny robots, automatons, beating the shit out of each other in the middle of a city. Director of Godzilla, Roland Emmerich, reportedly watched this film and apologized to the world. There is not a single human anywhere on screen in this entire film. That Megan Fox Real Doll is not even convincing, though yes, I would strangle the fleshy giraffe watching her bend and writhe around a hot rod, if only I could stomach cars and my movie-viewing room at work had a lock on it. The only thing more nauseating than the dialogue is seeing an animatronic Pirate of the Caribbean feature that looks uncannily like talented actor John Turturro speaking it. I don’t know what he got paid to license his image to this cinematic holocaust, but I’m sure dignity cannot be bought with the fee. Did I mention they made two more of them? If my will was law, everyone leaving the theater would have been sterilized and the films would have at least done some good to the world.
The Dark Knight (2008)
After Batman Began, he decided to start talking like the world’s worst Fat Albert impression. Christian "Bail Me Out, You Fucking Bitch, Mom" stars as the titular hero, who either has throat cancer or has trouble speaking plainly with tight leather wrapped around his throat. If I remember correctly, Heath Ledger acted so well in this film it killed him, but most of it amounts to wisecracks and doing a McLovin voice all the way through the film. The plot is convoluted and involves more characters than a season of Deadwood, and the action sequences would have been far more enjoyable if they had decided to light them. But in the end, the film makes a great statement: Sequels work best when they raise expectations to unrealistic degrees, making the third film an inevitable stinkbomb.
Avatar (2009)
I don’t go to see 3D films. I’m less worried about the damage to the eyes or the high cost of tickets and more frightened that it’s all a ruse to take pictures of an audience full of idiots sitting in the dark and watching a $12 movie while wearing sunglasses. Has the wonder of 3D ever lasted past the 20-minute mark? I wouldn’t know. Thankfully, Titanic auteur James Cameron squeezed every drop of wonder out of this film in the script stage. A paralyzed Kevin Costner finds a tribe of very tall Smurfs and becomes one of them, and though he’s pulled by conflicting loyalties for a solid three minutes of screen time, he sides with the primitive but lovable Land Gungans and Wesa all happy by the end of this tired yarn. Cameron thought about removing all the people in this one, they didn’t quite look real next to the CGI animation, but he remembered the last time a director did that they called it Transformers, and the critics burned it to send it to hell. This one was a bigger success, despite its lack of sinking ships and a dastardly lifeboat-stealing Billy Zane. Spoiler alert: Everybody wins and is happy in the end. Oops, gave away the ending.
Inception (2010)
Based on the novel Huh? by WTF. Batmastermind Christopher Nolan takes on the world of dreams in a fast-paced mind-blowing adventure epic that wowed critics and audiences alike. The only problem is it seems Nolan has never had a dream and never bothered to write a plot anyone could understand. What might have been a daring, big-budget exploration of dreamscapes and the psyche boils down to a bunch of car chases and people getting shot. I have always prided myself on telling when the Emperor has no clothes, and this one’s sack is dangling in the wind, people. Dreams are not as depicted in the movie, these vast landscapes where you’re chased by organized subconscious thoughts and doing gravity-free Kung Fu on other badasses. If Nolan had been honest, the plot would have been Di Caprio driving a Hyundai around inside a Home Depot looking for a place that’s open to buy French fries, and then they stop at a P.F. Chiang’s, which doesn’t normally serve French fries but for some reason they have them, only the French fries turn into hush puppies halfway through eating them, and Avery Brooks is a sukiyaki chef, then before he’s finished cooking Di Caprio finds they’re all on Deep Space 9 and the Crest Cavity Creeps are attacking. Then he wakes up. That would have gotten you the Oscar, Mr. Nolan, instead of losing to some stuttering fey king.
Those were the biggest moneymakers since I last wrote. Don’t blame me, America—blame yourselves. If you don’t apologize before I write again, I may decide to take on your Oscar winners. I dare you to give me a shot at Slumdog Millionaire. I dare you.   |
!["](graphics/news_".gif){kind=small}
