THE RUNDOWN

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Posted November 20, 2007 in News

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 3

Rundown’s fave Google search this week has been “Republican sex scandals,” what with all the gratuitous cock talk going on inside the (unbuckled) Beltway. Of course, there have been buttloads of pantsless GOP shenanigans throughout history. But in the wake of Foleygate, we thought it’d be a hoot to revisit the IE’s most famous incident of elephantine randiness: the November 1993 rendezvous between Congressman Ken “The Human Popsicle” Calvert (R-Douchebag) and a heroin-addled prostitute. Thirteen years might as well be ancient Rome to his embarrassingly forgetful constituents (of which IE Weekly is one), so we’ll supply the quickie flashback (or you can just download the incident report yourself at www.croftononline.com/calvert.JPG): Basically, Calvert was caught by the Corona cops for getting a blowjob from one Lore Lorena Linberg in the front seat of his car, which was parked just after midnight on Howard Street. Calvert tried to speed away, then thought better of it, claiming he and Linberg were “just talking, that’s all, nothing else” (the fact that Linberg had her face buried in Calvert’s crotch clearly suggested otherwise). Perhaps Linberg had been looking for Calvert’s balls, because his performance in Congress in the years since have proved he doesn’t have any—certainly not when he had the shameless gall to exclaim during the Bill Clinton fellatio whirlygig that “We can’t forgive what occurred between the President and Lewinsky,” and certainly not when Calvert’s ex-wife sued him for failing to pay alimony. Calvert’s a sleaze, alrighty. So why do 44th district voters keep sending this asshole back to Washington every two years? 

 

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 4

Reallywhy?!?

 

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 5

Rundown loves metaphors. Lots. So it was with great joy (about the metaphor, not the incident) this morning when we read of the disaster that hit Ronald Reagan Elementary in Wildomar, which was vandalized overnight by ruffians who broke a rooftop water main and flooded the principal’s office, the health office and the staff lounge. Sure, there are the obvious parallels to the Reagan years—the lie about never trading arms for hostages, the mining of Nicaraguan harbors, the CIA-backed cocaine smuggling while Nancy (Ronnie called her “Mommy;” but he called his birth mother by her first name—issues?) chirpping “Just Say No!” when she wasn’t hitting up astrologists for foreign policy advice. So like the flood that decimated Ronald Reagan Elementary, the Reagan era itself was just as much a nightmare. The Rundown only hopes we’re nowhere near when George W. Bush Junior High inevitably opens—that’s a metaphor that can only be realized by a full-on roof cave-in.

 

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 6

Pssst! Wanna watch a dog get cooked in a microwave? Okay, so it’s not a microwave, it just looks like one. The Press-Enterprise posts on their website a rather sick, sadistic-looking video of Mitch, a Golden Retriever, getting shoved into an automatic pet washing machine at Kittens n’ Pups pet store in Moreno Valley. Mitch isn’t too happy about it, though, and who could blame him, as he’s treated like a furry sack of soiled underwear. “It’s okay, Mitch! It’s okay!,” a voice consoles the poor pooch, which doesn’t help, because Mitch looks like he’s found himself in doggie Auschwitz. “Typically after they go through it one time, you have trouble getting them out because it’s warm inside, they’re kind of sleepy . . .” says a guy who appears to be the Kittens n’ Pups manager. “Very nice,” another voice is heard, as Mitch is put through the drying cycle, fidgeting about and wondering just what the fuck these asshole humans are doing to him (and undoubtedly why his owner is too goddamn lazy to give him a proper bath—they’d probably stick a baby in there if it would save five minutes of work). See what you think—go to www.pe.com/dip/news-archive.html and click on “Mitch the golden retriever gets a bath in an automatic pet washing machine.”

Other than cleansed canine, we could scribble something about the folks in Sun City and Menifee Lakes, who are hell-bent are recalling their homeowner’s association boards, but really—Rundown thinks homeowner’s associations are a sick joke no matter where they’re at, run by people who lost their high school student body elections and are now, as adults, compensating for their microscopic genitalia by taking what little power they have and transforming themselves into mini Mussolinis. Hey—isn’t that how Ken Calvert started out?

Oh yeah, there’s this, too: the thousands of people who flocked today to the public debut of the Promenade Shops at Dos Lagos in Corona (even though most of the stores won’t be opening for weeks), including some guy on crutches, another dude who took a day off from work, and a Lake Elsinore granny who gets there at 5 a.m. for the 10 a.m. grand opening, who can’t wait to engage in mindless consumption. Meanwhile, over in Darfur, most folks are ecstatic if they manage to survive till the next sunrise. And people wonder why the world hates America.

 

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7

Riverside’s Corpus Christi Church holds its third annual Jesuspalooza festival today, featuring 11 bands including One Less Tragedy, Destruction of Innocence and Darkness Awaits. But with such, er, uplifting names as these, it makes us just want to go off and worship Satan.

 

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8

God knows why, but we read Dan Bernstein’s typically unhumorous humor column in today’s Riverside Press-Enterprise, and now we’d really, really love to have those five minutes of our life back, as Dan spends 592 words all on shaving his face. Yet, we’re gluttons for self-abuse, so we look forward to future columns about Dan scratching his groin and popping the festering boil on his ass.

 

MONDAY, OCTOBER 9

Rundown sincerely sheds tears over the imminent closure and liquidation of Tower Records, which will no longer exist in about 10 weeks’ time. Sure, the IE never got a Tower of its own, but we still have fond memories of shopping at the old Tower Brea during our wild, misspent youth: The intoxicating scent of newly-pressed 45 RPM vinyl; The long aisles stocked full of the entire catalogues of our favorite bands; The classical room, to which we always escaped whenever the clerks put on wretched Journey albums; Camping out on the sidewalk for Springsteen tickets spit out by the slow-ass Ticketron machine . . . sigh. But there’s things we won’t miss, like those same rude salesclerks who didn’t know shit about music, and seemed almost proud of it. “You’re buying this?!? Psh!” they’d gurgle, as they sat on the countertops and pointed—with their chins—at the section they thought the record you were looking for might be. Also won’t miss paying $18.99 for a CD with one good song, either. Then again, if we ever have the need to be treated like a turd while plopping down a small fortune for overpriced crap, there’s always the Virgin Megastore at Ontario Mills.


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