You're kidding me, no, you're nuts!

Ha. I'm joking, of course. This fabulous new invention answers the question, "What if I'm romping in the snow and I suddenly remember I'm late for my wedding?" Keep an eye out for their earmuff suspenders, coming in 2014.

Florida D.A. Says You Can Kill Someone Who Complains When You Chase Them With A Gun

Gwyneth Paltrow's patchouli-scented, vegan shit has hit the fan.

Last week, the New York Times published a piece by Julia Turshen describing her life as a cookbook ghostwriter. In it, she tells how what she thought would be a dream job actually held "more humiliations than [she] imagined." She says that sometimes her work got minimal recognition, while sometimes it got none at all.

Many real-world cooks have wondered at the output of authors like Martha Stewart, Paula Deen and Jamie Oliver.... Rachael Ray alone has published thousands of recipes in her cookbooks and magazine since 2005. How, you might ask, do they do it?

The answer: they don’t.

Ms. Turshen goes on to say that while many of the chefs she worked for were brilliant, they'd never written down any recipes, and they lacked those easily-summarized points of view and touching personal stories that media outlets like the Food Network require.

They just wanted cookbooks with their names on them, and Ms. Turshen complied.

Though the article doesn't specifically mention otherworldly sylph Paltrow, it's accompanied by a photo of her latest cookbook and the line, "Gwyneth Paltrow's ghostwriter is Julia Turshen."

Which, in the overly-sensitive world of celebrity branding, is like saying, "Gwyneth sucks dog cocks in hell."

Furious, Ms. Paltrow threw aside her decoupage and took to Twitter. "Love @nytimes dining section but this week's facts need checking. No ghost writer on my cookbook, I wrote every word myself."

"She wrote every word of the book and developed every recipe," echoed her spokeperson. "Julia was her assistant."

Oh. Okay. Gwynie hired a ghostwriter to not write for her. I get it. Now, though, I've got to go. I found a hunky masseur on Craigslist and he's coming over to not lay a finger on me.

Lindsay Lohan's father Michael is fighting mad at porn star Voodoo after Voodoo claimed he had sex with Lindsay while her dad was upstairs.

“This delusional moron wishes he had a nanosecond alone with Lindsay!” Lohan told Radar Online. “If I ever caught a guy having sex with my daughter in my house I’d be in jail the rest of my life, especially a dirtball porn star.

“Can you imagine ME, Michael Lohan, of all fathers, allowing my daughter(s) to be alone with any guy while I was present? Ha ha! Lindsay would NEVER stoop to the level of this neophyte. (The lowest form of living organism on earth)."

Is that disgusting? That's what it's all about today: money-grubbing whores just out for free publicity. And that Voodoo guy is just as bad.

If Isaac Newton had lived in the twenty-first century, he'd have discovered a totally different Law. Fuck gravity and inertia, he'd have declared. Here's the ineluctable rule that truly describes our universe:

There is exactly one hottie in every Starbucks.

I used to love Starbucks, which is why I've visited at least one on every continent. I've discovered that this rule holds hard and fast. It works day and night, 365 days a year; it includes the customers and the employees. It's true whether there are two people inside, or whether there are two hundred.

It's like when a really hot man appears at their door, the previous one clocks out and heads home.

Starbucks is the only company I know that has this law. Lots of chain establishments draw in hot men by the dozens -- Whole Foods, Gold's Gym, Hunting World. Other chains are vast plantations of mundanity. Nobody within half a mile of Quiznos has ever come close to the hottie hurdle. I think that's why their employees are so depressed, aside from the fact they toast Sonoma Turkey Sammies for a living.

Nope, it's just Starbucks that has exactly one hot man in every franchise.

I was a regular for a year or two, spending a few hundred a month and thinking I had a chance with the hottie. I'd scope out the situation while I was waiting in line. I'd find the hottie, then ask myself what Jennifer Aniston would do. Sometimes I'd sit nearby and offer to share my newspaper. Sometimes I'd "accidentally" drop a napkin at his feet. Once in a while I'd pretend to search the ground around him for open electrical outlets while secretly admiring the breadth of his thighs.

I clearly remember the day I gave up. I was right behind the hottie in line, and I ordered the exact same thing he did so we'd have something to talk about. "Why, I would ALSO like a half-skim-soy quarter-caf free-range caramel macchiato, please!" I said excitedly. We waited at the counter, and when the first drink was ready I made a fake grab for it. "Oh, gosh!" I said, pretending to remember. "Looks like we have a lot in common!"

"Except for the 'gay' thing," he replied.

That was it. I gave up. Said sayonara to my long-term goal. I accepted the fact that the insane hottie-to-regular-folks ratio made that $12 coffee break absolutely futile. The hottie would go over to get sugar and there'd be eight other singles elbowing me out of the way. "Skim milk?" offers one. "I don't see an ounce fat on you." "I'll bet you don't need sugar," gushes another. "You look naturally sweet."

Last Saturday, though, the rain was coming down in buckets, and my pride lost out to my flattening hair. I raced eight hundred other soggy New Yorkers into line, ordered my usual, and scurried over to the last empty table. My hair was starting to spring back to life when I spotted the requisite hottie standing at the counter.

Staring directly at me.

No, I said to myself. It's not possible.

I looked back. His eyes never left me.

Well, I thought, maybe it's God's little joke. He waited until I gave up, then he gave me what I wanted. Little pink butterflies fluttered in my chest. Staring. It was like we were the only people in the store.

I blushed. I giggled. I slurped the whipped cream off my frappuccino and let the whipped cream drip from my mustache.

I held my breath as he made his move. It's like time stood still as he approached, his scruffy brown hair announcing the sensitivity of an artist but his broad shoulders promising the force of a brute.

He leaned in close enough for me to smell espresso on his lips. "Hey," he said in Barry White's voice, "you wanna get outta here?"

"S-s-sure," I stuttered, sending an unspoken "Thank you, God!" to the invisible forces above. And then I grabbed my drink and headed toward the door while he and his girlfriend sat down.

You probably noticed that when you walked in the building all of the appraisers just turned and stared. I think I can safely say we've ever seen anything like this on the Antiques Roadshow before. Usually people just bring valuable stuff.

How much did you pay for this? Really? At a garage sale? Well, next time you go to a garage sale, bring me along. Because I'd say, "Girlfriend, if you think this piece of crap is worth three dollars you are totally nuts."

This is a statue of Jesus playing hockey with two boys, dating back perhaps five or ten years. You've really hit the triple crown here, because already you've got hockey fans, religious people, and statue collectors who would look at this and say, "Holy God, this is one ugly piece of shit!"

There are no markings on the bottom, which is to be expected. Nobody signed The Faggiest Vampire either. I'm pretty sure this was made in the American South, because the artists in other regions know you don't have eight joints in each arm.

If this were at one of the major auction houses, I think the director would look at it and say, "Really? Do you really think we sell trash like this?"

Of course, if it went to auction and there were two collectors with deep pockets, one of them would probably say to the other, "Ohmigod, this place is hawking so much crap today. What do you say we cut our losses and go to lunch instead?" And the other would say, "Le Cote Basque?" And the first would say, "Ooh, that sounds delightful! I just loooove their cardamon souffle."

Last, if this were in a retail shop, I think you'd be very wise to say, "What the fuck is this doing in a retail shop?"

Anyway, thanks for bring it in. The sweater my grandma sent me for Christmas doesn't look so bad now.

CARL: Well, when I said I was gonna give you a fast ride on my big log, what did you think I meant?

Two men who got their jobs through their dad went to Africa and killed a whole shitload of animals last year.

Donald Trump's offspring, Donald Jr. and Eric, visited Zimbabwe for a week in March, and the story they brought back would make Ernest Hemingway quake in his boots. The pair managed to take down an elephant, a crocodile, a kudu, a civet cat and a waterbuck with just a fleet of safari vehicles, a platoon of assistants, and an arsenal of guns.

Above, Donald Jr. is seen holding the elephant's tail after a bout of chopping that would have a Benihana's chef crying uncle.

While some animal rights groups are attacking the pair as pitiful, bloodthirsty morons, the unbiased observer must begrudgingly acknowledge their achievement. Perhaps the most impressive of their prey is the civet cat, sometimes called the "jungle raccoon." Known more for a dizzy amble than a walk, it's very difficult to kill these things, unless you've got a flashlight to temporarily blind it and something to hit it over the head. The more patient hunter can hold a bit of food close to the ground and then hit them with a rock when they approach. This can be extremely dangerous if, say, the hunter is also holding a bunch of carrots, or a dozen eggs.

The waterbuck is also an extraordinary trophy. Waterbucks are like river cows, and everyone knows how feisty cows can be if you try to milk them when your hands are cold. You can use some very scary words to describe the waterbuck, but if you want to be accurate you pretty much have to stick to "sedentary." It doesn't sound awfully remarkable when one notes the waterbucks' main predator is the dog, but if you've ever had a pocketful of Snausages you know the damage a feisty terrier can do.

The Trumps must be particularly proud of having killed a kudu. They're extremely dangerous animals, though primarily for what they can do to your rose bushes. Some African native is probably in her garden right now thanking these two fearless men for her flawless florabunda.

Crocodiles, too, are a deadly prey, though if you've ever watched the History Channel for more than eight seconds you've seen a redneck kill one with a pointy stick and a Budweiser bottle. People for miles around must have gasped in appreciation as the manly Trump brothers fired into the water and hoped they hit something. And imagine their terror as they watched their assistants try to wrestle the dead creature into the boat without getting their new hunting ensembles wet.

The studly duo also took down a knobthorn msasa and curly baobab before natives explained that these aren't quite as impressive as the rest of the cull, being tropical plants.

Of course, one must give some credit to Hunting Legends, their outfitter. They're the ones who provided all the equipment, including hunting and game drive vehicles, along with the necessary professional hunters, cooks, waiters and camp assistants. They're the ones who will drive you out to the "HUGE RANCHES" where these animals live, provide you with native trackers to locate them, and then hand you the guns. You have to pull the trigger yourself, and then write them a check for taxidermy and their "Trophy Fee" while your trigger finger is still sore.

Hunting Legends can also arrange for you to hunt from a helicopter, but that's reserved for the most manly hunter. The backfire from the rifle might startle your pilot, and helicopter turbulence is the worst.

"AIEEEE!!!!" came the shriek from the living room of the spacious Union Square loft.

A dozen pair of footsteps hurried to investigate the bloodcurdling call. "What is it?" cried Vanessa, the journalism student from New Hampshire.

"I'm writing my term paper on the greatest film actors throughout history," sobbed Margo, the Cinema Studies major, "and I've mixed up my photos of Channing Tatum!"

Sympathetic squeals echoed throughout the $18,000 abode paid for by sixteen sets of parents. "Oh, no!" said Briana, the visual arts major with a part-time internship at Der Wienerschnitzel Home. "Can we help?"

"Channing recently reprised some of his most famous film roles for the New York Times, including G. I. Joe, The Vow, Magic Mike and 21 Jump Street. The photos show his remarkable facility to physically transform himself into the disparate characters he created even seven or eight months ago, but now I can't remember what photo goes with what film."

"Oh, pshaw!" said LeeAnn, the lesbian Animal Husbandry major. "I think we can figure it out!"

Can you?

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

ANSWERS:
(1) 21 Jump Street, (2) G. I. Joe, (3) Magic Mike, (4) The Vow