You die! You die! The Lost ColuMn™ Articles

Five years ago (well, actually 2/29/08, but close enough) I decided to start a blog.  I’ve talked about the origins of ColuMn™ here and here.  I won’t go into it again.

Given that I haven’t posted anything since last Halloween, I decided that this anniversary wasn’t really one to celebrate.  But I wanted to acknowledge it and maybe use it as a relauching point of sorts for the site.  So what I’ve decided to do is dig deep into the archives and showcase some of the posts that didn’t make it for one reason or another.

If you have a device with Android 4.0 or above, you probably have something called “Currents”, where you can subscribe to various sites, kind of like an RSS reader.  Well, I have one of those for ColuMn™ and discovered, much to my dismay/amusement, that several “articles” that were never meant to see the light of day were featured on Currents in their incomplete form.  Most of the following come from there, but I’ve also thrown in a couple that have just sat in the queue, waiting to either be deleted or finished.  The wait is over, my children.

ADRIANNA’S G1 (7/28/11)

For some unknown reason, I used to watch the new 90210 on the CW (okay, it’s not unknown — I’m a sucker for anything that appeals to tween girls).  When the show debuted, it was around 2008 and Google had just released their first Android phone, the G1. I had one.  So I was surprised to see one of the show’s main characters, the bitchy/hot pop star, Adrianna, using a G1.


This was cool at first, I guess.  A hip, young, attractive TV starlet using the same phone I had.  Okay.  It wasn’t cool.  But it was something.  But as the show continued on season after season, that something turned into unbelievable.  At the time this post was written (7/28/11) she was STILL using the G1! Nobody that rich and hip is going to use a three-year-old phone.  With technology, three years is an eternity.  I got a new phone way before Adrianna did, and I didn’t even have a job.

Why this post was never, uh, posted:  First, aside from the fact that she used the same phone for a little too long, there’s nothing really noteworthy about a character from a show nobody watches using  a G1.  I could never get an angle on the funny side of this, so it just sat there, forgotten, until a picture popped up on Google Currents.


This was back when Sparks was still on the writing staff, doing his “Sparks’ Sandbox” bit.  He started a post for our Halloween spectacular that year that just wasn’t very good, so it wasn’t published.  Here it is, in it’s entirety:

I call to you from another dimension.  The dimension of the dead . . . uh, robot dogs . . . with a warning.  October is here which means that Halloween is right around the corner, stalking you, waiting for you to make one wrong move.  Much like I did when I chased that robot mouse into traffic.  BlackJack Voorhees says that he can reanimate my dead robot body, but that I might not be the same when I come back.  I might be . . . sinister.

Why this post was never, uh, posted:  You read that crap, right?  And no, I don’t know why it’s titled “Nightmare Shack”.


The concept behind this one was to predict fictional characters as winners in the then-current election.  I got one written before I realized it was a stupid idea.

ColuMn has no political bias, but we do have an interest in who wins.  Will it be the old white guy or the black guy?  The old bore or the sorta hot moron?  Is anything, including alien domination, worse than Bush?  ColuMn sent ace reporter Sparks to the future.  January 20, 2009 to be precise.  His assignment:  report back who won what.

Sparks here, reporting live from the exact center of the country, or somewhere in the middle of nowhere.  Seriously.  There’s nothing here.  I’m not even sure I can get the internet here.  Hopefully you’re reading this.

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, the winners of Election 2008.


President David Palmer and First Lady Kasidy Yates.  I have no idea what Palmer’s positions on any of the issues are.  Probably not gun control, anti-torture, or pro-terrorist.  I’m just guessing.  But, as you’ll recall from the 2008 Presidential Campaign, Yates, stranded in Earth from the mid-24th century, is quick with a phaser, disintegrating opponent Thomas Whitmore in an apparent blackmail attempt gone wrong. Still, they’re both better than Bush.


Why this post was never, uh, posted:  Pretty obvious.  It was fucking stupid.

TOP 7 BOOKS I READ IN 2012 (12/31/12)

cmsof’s articles tend to be a bit more cerebral than BlackJack’s.  BlackJack is all about the comedy.  cmsof is all about the journalism (or something like that).  I started drafting this back in October last year and I think it would have been a good throwback to the early ColuMn™ posts where I did hilarious stuff like book reviews.

Ranked in the order I read them:

1.  Supergods by Grant Morrison

I’ve enjoyed Morrison’s comics work immensely. The Invisibles is one of the best series committed to paper.

2.  The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins

3.  Reamde by Neal Stephenson

4.  Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

5.  It’s So Easy (And Other Lies) by Duff McKagan

6.  Memory by Donald Westlake

7.  John Dies At The End by David Wong

Why this post was never, uh, posted:  Just didn’t get around to it.  Which, in reality, is probably why most of these things never made it onto the site.  I’m lazy.


Let’s get this out of the way right off: I love The Cannonball Run.  But I also recognize that it’s profoundly stupid.  So I thought it would make a great “Watch With ColuMn™” post.  So I started writing it.  Then I ran some of the jokes by a friend and he hated them.  So I scrapped the post.  Judge for yourself:

Hey, gang!  It’s time for another installment of Watch With ColuMn™.  In previous episodes, we’ve watched The Mysterious Monsters and Free To Be You And Me.  This time out, it’s something a little less obscure:  1981’s immortal crowd-pleaser, The Cannonball Run.

The Cannonball Run, as you may or may not know, occupies space in a healthy, much-loved genre: the coast-to-coast race movie with a huge all-star cast. Picture It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, if you replaced all the actors with jabbering idiots.

Burt Reynolds movies usually follow a very specific formula:  a) they co-star Dom DeLuise, and b) they suck.  The best compliment you can pay The Cannonball Run is that it’s not The Cannonball Run 2.  The best compliment you can pay The Cannonball Run 2 is cursing whatever God you believe in.

Beepers were invented solely because Burt Reynolds performance in this movie didn’t meet the standards of “phoning it in”.  The only analogy for something as stupid as The Cannonball Run is The Cannonball Run.  The Cannonball Run is to 1981 movies starring Burt Reynolds as The Cannonball Run is to human misery.  That said, it’s still one of the best things Terry Bradshaw has ever been associated with.

Without further ado, let’s begin our race by meeting the colorful cast of imbeciles who we’ll be forced to share the next 95 impossibly long minutes with.

J.J. McClure (Burt Reynolds)
Dom DeLuise (Victor Prinzim/Captain Chaos)

Roger Moore (Seymour Goldfarb, Jr.)

Farrah Fawcett (Pamela Glover)

On the bright side, starring in The Cannonball Run made cancer the second worst thing that happened to her.

Dean Martin (Jamie Blake)
Sammy Davis, Jr. (Morris Fenderbaum)

Jack Elam (Dr. Nikolas Van Helsing)

Adrienne Barbeau (Marcie Thatcher aka Lamourghini Babe #1 –
seriously, that’s how it’s listed on IMDB)

Terry Bradshaw (Terry)
Mel Tillis (Mel)

Both apparently students of the Tony Danza School of Acting.

Jackie Chan (Jackie Chan – Subaru Driver)

Jamie Farr (The Shiek)

00:26:  The first of way too many times we’ll hear Burt Reynolds’ signature fake laugh.

They keep threatening to remake The Cannonball Run, and I just wonder why?  Does the world really need another celebrity-driven ensemble piece where the various actors smirk their way through a ludicrous feature-length movie that seems more like an excuse to get paid to hang out with other smirking douchebags?  I mean, other than the Ocean’s Eleven trilogy, of course.

The fact that there’s a novelization of The Cannonball Run proves that literacy isn’t necessarily a sign of intelligence.  On one hand, dogs can’t read.  On the other hand, dogs can’t read The Cannonball Run novelization. Edge: dogs.

Why this post was never, uh, posted:  I don’t know.  I think it’s funny and it’s inclusion here is one of the primary reasons I wanted to do this “Lost Articles” post.

DAMN YOU, CANADA (4/29/10)

Sometimes it takes me a couple of stabs to get a post right.  That’s what happened here.  A friend sent me the photo from a playground and I thought it was hilarious and wanted to create a post around it.  This was my first try:

Okay, Canada.  We let you beat us at hockey because, well, it’s all you’ve got.  We may be cowboy dicks down here, but we don’t like to see grown men cry.  We may have only won the Silver in hockey, but we got the Gold in being awesome.  So no sooner do I get back from your country, than I see this alarming sign at the local children’s playground.  (note: there are reasons for a middle-aged man to be alone in a children’s park that aren’t technically “illegal”).

What does that mean?  There are really only two possibilities, and they’re equally disturbing.  The first is that children born and/or living in the United States are developmentally retarded by 6 months at the age of 18 months.  I’m not sure if I believe that, but having not been around a child since I was seven years old, I have no idea if that’s an accurate representation or not.  No big deal, I guess.  By the time we hit five, we’re caught up.  I can only assume that accelerated growth continues in all areas for the remainder of the average American’s life.  So by the time we’re 50, the poor Canadians are only 45.  Damn.  Canada wins again.

The other possibility is that the United States government has a vendetta against Canadian children between the ages of 18 months and two years of age.  Who knows how many accidents pre-two year old Canadians have had to endure as the government sits in silence, probably from across the street in an unmarked van, gathering intelligence.  We know your weakness, Canada.  Do you dare us to exploit it?  DO YOU?

So, in closing, I think either Canadian children between the ages of 18 months and two years or American children in the same age bracket should launch a class action lawsuit against the US government to right this agregious case of isolationist ageism.

Not bad, I thought, but I can do better.  And I did.

Why this post wasn’t, uh, posted: Fairly obvious.


THE BOX OF TACOS (12/2/10)

The plan was to eat a box of Taco Bell tacos (12 in a box) and write about my experience, with (hopefully) hilarious results.  This image is as far as I got:


I can’t say I regret not completing this one.

Why this post wasn’t, uh, posted: I wanted to live and I wanted that life to be without shit-filled pants.

Happy 5th Anniversary, ColuMn™!  Looking forward the the next post in, say, 2018.


Project: Canada

In early 2006, the United States government embarked on a covert operation that shook the world’s intelligence agencies to their very core.  Top officials in every nation on the planet still debate the events that took place (and, some allege, continue to take place) in places ranging from secret enclaves to right out in the open.  Did this conspiracy cause not only the world economic collapse, but Hurricane Katrina and Catholic Priests sodomizing deaf kids?  ColuMn™, as usual, is ahead of the pack, scooping the mainstream media in exposing what will irrefutably be called the news story of the aeon.  We’ll lay out the history.  You decide what happens next.

It was a cold, dark day in Washington, D.C. when REDACTED was summoned to the Oval Office to meet with the Commander-in-Chief.

PRESIDENT:  REDACTED, things seem to be going really well in our other wars.  With the world distracted by insignificant events, it is time to implement our main plan.

REDACTED:  I knew this day would come, sir.  I hoped it wouldn’t, but I knew it would.  Does that make sense?



PRESIDENT:  Yeah.  Thanks.

REDACTED: So the third target in the Axis of Evil is confirmed.

PRESIDENT:  Yeah.  Oh man.  That’s good.

REDACTED:  Yeah.  So what’s our first step?

PRESIDENT:  I’ve got the CIA working on this.  MK-ULTRA.  Project: Bluebook.  Skull and Bones.  JFK.  All those guys.  Totally already on it.  We’re good.

REDACTED:  JFK has been dead for almost 40 years, sir.  I’m not sure if you’re talking about agencies, nicknames of people, or just rattling off a list of conspiracy-related terms.

PRESIDENT:  David Duchovny.


PRESIDENT:  Uh.  David Duchovny.

REDACTED:  I’m not sure how to respond, sir.

PRESIDENT:  Just rest assured.  Our top people are working on it.

REDACTED:  I’m tendering my resignation.

PRESIDENT:  Our TOP people.



In March of this year, Secret General Stones Cocksmith (possible alias) sat down for an interview with Vanity Fair.  He opened up about not only his homosexuality, but his involvement in Project: Canada.

COCKSMITH:  Well, first of all, it’s a terrible codename.


COCKSMITH:  Well, it’s not really coded.  The intent of the project is practically stated.  The target was Canada.  But Duchovny liked the sound of Project: Canada, so we had to go with it.  He was in charge.

VANITY FAIR:  Actor David Duchovny?


VANITY FAIR:  Well, I guess that explains, sort of the, uh . . .

COCKSMITH:  Complete failure and general all-around ineffectiveness of the entire campaign?

VANITY FAIR:  And the President was aware of this?

COCKSMITH:  President REDACTED was there!  He’d sit in the back of the room, applaud, and occasionally make bizarre anti-semitic remarks.  It was a little distracting, but I think my team did the best job they could given what we had to work with.  I mean, my team was made up of a book with a blue cover, a VHS copy of JFK, and, of course, Mr. Duchovny.

VANITY FAIR:  So what, exactly, did the plan entail?

COCKSMITH:  I suggested we just not do anything.  I mean, I saw no real strategic advantage to a war with Canada.  I’m not really sure the President realized that Canada was a real country, but I’m quite sure he had no idea where exactly it’s located on a map.  When giving us location-based instructions, he’d just keep pointing at various oceans.  But I’m a military man.  He’s somehow the Commander-In-Chief.  I’m obligated to follow his orders.  No matter how profoundly retarded or incoherent and filled with made-up words those orders are.

VANITY FAIR:  So when you couldn’t talk the President out of declaring war on Canada, what were your goals?

COCKSMITH:  I’m not sure.  At that point, the President turned the project over to Duchovny.  He was the expert, I guess.  Though I’m still not sure why.  But I stepped aside and let Duchovny take the lead.  Though, as you know, eventually he let the VHS copy of JFK take all the credit, or blame if you’re a rational, thinking human being.


The world might have never found out about Project: Canada if not for longtime ColuMn™ reader, REDACTED, who dug up the evidence to expose the conspiracy and knock world diplomacy on its motherfucking browneye.  Once he supplied the photographic proof, the dominos began to fall like, uh, dominos(?).  Somebody sent us some cassettes that had the words “Secret White House Tapes (like Watergate)” crudely stenciled on the box.  The following tape may be the most revealing and, depending on your point of view, the most awe-inspiring or the most damning.  Yes, recorded over a copy of Foreigner’s Greatest Hits, was this slice of history:


DAVID DUCHOVNY:  Hello, Mr. President.  You wanted to see  me?


DUCHOVNY:  Ah.  heh heh.  You’re trying to make a joke there, I think.

PRESIDENT:  Our country’s democracy and capitalism and stuff is nothing to joke about, Scully.

DUCHOVNY:  I think you’re thinking of the female lead on X-Files, played by my good friend, the beautiful Gillian Anderson.  I played Mulder on the show and in two moderately successful motion pictures.

PRESIDENT:  Talk slow.  What?  What’s an X-Files?

DUCHOVNY:  I just assumed you were referring to the X-Files because you called me Scully.

PRESIDENT:  I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Scully.

DUCHOVNY:  My name is David.  David Duchovny.

PRESIDENT:  Those words have no assigned meaning to objects or concepts in my head, Scully.  Just give me your report.  I’m busy, uh, taxing and spending and gay marriage abortioning stuff.

DUCHOVNY:  Well, the team has really been inspired, sir.  Project: Bluebook is just surprising us practically every day.  JFK is, well, JFK.  “Living” legend.  haha  I keed.  I keed.  And MK is so covert we’ve never even seen him.  That’s how badass MK is.

PRESIDENT:  Great work, Mel.

DUCHOVNY?  Thank yo–.  Wait.  Mel?

PRESIDENT:  When can we expect Canada to surrender, Gibby?


DUCHOVNY:  Are you calling me Mel Gibson?  I sort of almost understood “Scully”.  But Mel Gibson?

PRESIDENT:  What does Bluebook have to say about our chances of doing this with maximum bloodshed, Mel Gibson?

DUCHOVNY:  I don’t ge–.  Oh, man.  You’re referring to that movie, “Conspiracy Theory”, right? (inauthentic chuckle)  Good one, sir.  Witty.

PRESIDENT:  Git ‘er done.

DUCHOVNY:  (audible sigh)

PRESIDENT:  Fuckin’ Jews, right, Mel?  Fuckin’ Jews.


With that kind of brain power behind Project: Canada, how could there possibly be any other outcome?  Even so, experts warn that we won’t know the full measure of the impact Project: Canada has on the world for another 15-25 years.

This is all we know right now.  The United States government has a vendetta against Canadian children between the ages of 18 months and 2 years of age.  Who knows how many “accidents” pre-2 year old Canadian toddlers have had to suffer as the government sits in silence, probably across the street in an unmarked van or El Camino, gathering intelligence.

It plays on their smug superiority.

(note: there are reasons for a middle-aged man to be alone with a camera in a children’s park that aren’t technically “illegal”).

The world may have forgotten/never heard of Project: Canada, but the legacy of that fateful operation will go on.  Word is that Mr. Duchovny is working hard to sign his team to multi-year contracts with Fox and developing an “American Pie-style comedy” that would reunite them on the big screen.

The 2010 Winter Olympics: A ColuMn Special Sports Report

For the past two weeks, the entire planet has been abuzz over the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver, BC.  Now that Bush is out of the White House, the planet is free to celebrate the spirit of competition that unites us all as human beings.  As you, the ColuMn reader, knows all too well, ColuMn strives to deliver the utmost in cutting edge journalistic integrity, be it gritty political reporting, compelling undercover crime exposes, or top level sporting events.

Last year I contacted the Canadian bureau of The Association and ordered them (begged, really, I guess) to procure us tickets to an Olympic event.  Klaus and The Instigator were already on the case and after an arduous and mind-blowingly bureaucratic process, we had tickets to one of the semi-final hockey games.  I was thrilled and packed that day.

Nine months later I hauled that suitcase out of my closet and took a taxi to the Amtrak station in Seattle.  The plan was the meet Klaus and The Instigator at an acquaintance’s house.  Since we didn’t want to spend thousands on a hotel, we were quite grateful to, uh, “Don” for opening up his doors and extending us his hospitality.  If we’d only known what nightmarish events would unfold over the next 17 hours.  If only.

Since the Olympics is a huge terrorist target, understandably extra security measures are enforced.  Why a terrorist would take the Amtrak I cannot begin to guess, but the heightened security was immediately apparent.  Dogs sniffed around, while security officers armed with automatic weapons patrolled the station.  Once aboard the train, a dog was lead through numerous times, always accompanied by the M-16-wielding officer.

The only terrorist on the Amtrak was a man who insisted on clipping his nails in his seat.  This lasted an excrutiating ten minutes.  If this man has any nails left at all, I’d be amazed.  Seriously.  Where do people get off grooming their nails in a public venue?  This has to stop.  These people are every bit as much of a danger to our way of life as Al-Queda.

Public Enemy #1

Once in the Vancouver Amtrak station, we were informed that they would only be unloading one car at a time.  I was anxious to get off and the progress was extremely slow.  I noticed a couple being allowed to disembark early because they had tickets to the USA/Finland game at 12:30.  My tickets were for the Canada/Slovakia game at 6:30, but I was wearing my USA hockey jersey, so I went with it and, while not outright lying, subtly encouraged the train officials to believe I too was going to the earlier game.

Once through Customs (never an easy feat for me — I think I’m on some sort of list), I took the SkyTrain to Burnaby, where Don was waiting in his truck to drive me back to his house, where we would meet up with Klaus and The Instigator.  I was pretty hungry, but Don was in a hurry to get back to watch the early hockey game and I couldn’t really argue.  So to his house we went, where he made me feel at home and I cracked my first Kokanee.

Klaus and The Instigator arrived soon after, and once they settled in we got to the drinks while watching the Women’s Curling Gold Medal game. I may or may not finally understand curling. I guess we’ll see if I remember what I learned when the next Winter Olympics comes along in 2014.

Soon it was time to begin our journey to Canada Hockey Place. We made our way by bus to the Sky Train station that took us within walking distance of the arena. We could have gotten closer, but Don arranged it so we got to see a little bit of the city and really take part in the Olympic experience. It really was awesome.

As we approached the security area that surrounded Canada Hockey Palace, Don pointed out the Inukshuk that lined the shore. He explained that people had begun to build their own inuksuit  and literally hundreds packed the rocky beach. It was an impressive display of spontaneous public art, made all the more wondrous by the simple fact that nobody had knocked them over.

The security check was easy and almost jarringly polite. When my belt set off the metal detector, the security guard asked, “May I have permission to give you a light pat-down, sir?” We were through quickly and made our way into the arena.

We grabbed two beers each (Molson, of course) and made our way to our seats. They were near the back of the arena, but the sightline was still very good.

Originally I was a little disappointed that we didn’t end up with tickets to the USA/Finland game, but that disappointment was minor and brief. I still wore my Team USA sweater. I endured plenty of shots, but surprisingly not insulting or threatening. Of course, everybody was supremely confident in the eventual Gold Metal victory of Canada, so a smattering of Team USA jerseys weren’t seen so much a threat as the minor annoyance of a pesky little brother.

The game finally got underway and we enjoyed 55 minutes of great hockey. As time was ticking away in the closing minutes of the third period, Slovakia scored a goal, bringing the score to 3-2. The last couple of minutes were fast and furious hockey with the outcome in question. The Canadian crowd was on edge. They had no idea what to do if their team was relegated to the Bronze Medal game. The thought hadn’t crossed their collective minds. They couldn’t accept the possibility now. They wouldn’t accept it.

And, as it turned out, they didn’t need to. The final score would stand at Canada 3, Slovakia 2.  Canada would go on to meet the USA team in the Gold Medal game, and defeat the Americans in an OT thriller watched by a record television audience.

But I didn’t know that then. I was sure the US would find some way to pull off the upset. For the moment all any of us could do was look forward to the Gold Medal game we’d all wanted.

Drunk and excited we made our way out into the light rain and hopped on the SkyTrain with too many of our fellow revelers.  Don had pretty much started in on the portion of the evening where he gets loud and obnoxious and we all try to pretend we don’t know him.  When a girl on the bus from the SkyTrain to his house asked me, “So how do you guys know each other?” I stammered and muttered something along the lines of, “Well, we don’t really know each other that well,” and slunk even lower in my seat.

Finally we arrived back at Don’s house and cracked some more beers.  Don grew more and more obnoxious, cornering The Instigator in one of his patented unintelligible conversations and basically creeping everybody the fuck out.  Mercifully, despite the fact that he had no more to drink than the rest of us, he passed out on his sofa shockingly early.  Enjoying the brief respite, Team Association decided to try to put the uncomfortableness behind us and continue partying.

About an hour later, the three of us were standing in Don’s kitchen, sipping drinks, listening to music, and enjoying ourselves.  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted movement on the sofa.  Don was stirring.  Eyes still closed, he drunkenly rose up off the sofa.  I put forth a tentative, “Hi, Don,” to which he did not respond.  In lieu of response, and in front of our horrified eyes, Don reached deep down into his jeans.  The thoughts raced through my head as my brain tried to find some reason in the madness unfolding before me.  Did he have an itch?  Was it some sort of elaborate game of charades?  Should I shout out my guess of The Crying Game?

But no.  It was none of these things.  Out flopped Don’s dick and he began to urinate on his coffee table.  The very table that I had eaten nachos off of mere hours earlier.  Klaus sprang into action, tackling the pissing madman and violently dragging him into the bathroom.  But the damage had been done.   The, uh, cat was out of the bag.

The rest of the evening was spent in near-silent disbelief at what we had been forced to witness.  It would be bad enough if this was an isolated piss-related incident, but sadly it was not.  Don had pissed on plenty of things (and people) in the past in his typical state of drunken stupor.  But this was the first time I had been present for it.

For a minute there, I really wished I could trade places with this guy.

We finally shuffled off to “bed” (I actually spent most of the night in a chair) after I changed my reservation to leave early the next morning.  Around 5:30, Don re-emerged from his alcohol-induced coma, turned on the lights, grabbed a fresh beer, and loudly announced that he was ready to continue partying.  We were not, and after a few angry words were exchanged, I carefully crashed in the back bedroom while Don rocked out to music videos on his computer.

The return trip home was difficult, hungover with almost no sleep (and on the bus to top it off).  The bus was nice though, more a tour bus than a Greyhound, and I grabbed a front seat and got to “enjoy” the trip home wihout somebody sitting next to me.

It had been a whirlwind trip.  It had been great to see The Instigator and Klaus again.  It had been awesome to attend a Team Canada hockey game during the Vancouver Olympics.  The city, the people, and the experience won’t soon be forgotten.  The only downside was Don, and a huge downside it was, but I had learned a valuable lesson: rock out with your cock out is just a dumb saying and never intended to be taken literally.  If I had it to do over again, I’d cough up the cash for a hotel and leave the waterworks where they belong.  In the toilet.