Repeat Friday: Bothered and Bewildered

Every member of every minority group has a specific life goal to fulfill. Jews have to visit Israel, Muslims have to go to Mecca, and gays have to persuade a straight guy to have drunken sex with them.

Scott lived a few doors away in my college dorm, and I fell head over heels for him. He was a farmboy straight out of Nebraska, with the stocky, broad-shouldered body that came from hard work, fresh air and twenty years of eating nothing but beef. But it wasn't just physical attraction that drew me to Scott: his personality drew me in too. He was quiet and confident and an all-American boy, Jimmy Stewart with eighteen-inch arms. He was butch as Hoss Cartright, straight as a rail, and owned a Harley Davidson, which was two virtues more than I required to pledge my undying troth.

To my eternal surprise, Scott wasn't totally horrified by me. He was either curious or envious of the fact that I was relatively hip. That had taken no work whatsoever on my part: my roommate was one of the dorm's major drug dealers so I got some of that cachet, plus being gay in San Francisco earned me bonus points. Every Friday night I'd head to Castro Street and paint the town red, sometimes not returning home until just before classes on Monday. The first time I did this the Resident Advisor called the police to report me missing. He started to give them my description and the officer cut him off. "Oh, that guy," the officer said. "We've been looking for him for years."

Needless to say, by the time I returned, word had gotten around. The police wanted me. Just by being a cheap tramp I became the Lindsay Lohan of my dorm.

Scott didn't protest, then, when I followed him around like a puppy, content to bask in his presence and occasionally try to peek up his little red shorts. I hung out in the TV room when he was there, joined his table at the cafeteria, dropped by every party he attended. I knew from Day One that nothing would ever happen between us, because he was completely and totally straight. Even if he was curious, I was hardly the type who could talk fence-sitters to jump over to our side. Besides, I liked Scott. I respected Scott. I wouldn't have fallen for him in the first place if he listened to anything I said.

The first time he mentioned his motorcycle I gushed with admiration. "I'll take you for a ride sometime," he offered, fueling my sexual fantasies for a year. I pictured him commandeering a massive hog, muscles bulging beneath his denim shirt, and me wedged like a biker bitch behind him. I'd hang on tight, my groin to his ass, and grind against him as all of San Francisco gaily zipped by. He could drive us straight to hell and with my hands wrapped around him I'd have paid all the tolls.

One night I saw him in the TV room, so naturally I went in. He was reclining in one club chair, with his legs propped up by another, his muscles making both look understuffed. As usual he wore his little red shorts, and the vast expanse of his hairy legs was covered with homework assignments. "Hey," he announced suddenly, "I promised you a motorcycle ride. You wanna go drive around?"

I was so startled I could hardly believe my ears. I'd long since given up hope. I'd decided the odds of this happening were just short of Jesus dropping by and asking if I wanted to go meet Dad. "That would be . . . absolutely . . . fantastic," I gushed, almost too excited to speak. Five minutes later he had his hands on the handlebars, and I had my hands on him.

We bounced and zipped and swerved all over San Francisco, for the better part of the night. We stopped by Coit Tower, varoomed past Fisherman's Wharf, and circled the Cannery, him looking cool and confident and me with an shiteating grin on my face. I was the picture of discretion, keeping my hands where safety required rather than pushing my luck. I was happy making any kind of contact at all, and he seemed oddly comfortable too.

After we'd been down every street in the South Bay, the neighborhood turned familiar, and my heart sank when I spotted the college parking lot. "Hey," I said, after took our helmets off, "you wanna come up and smoke some dope?"

We lit up joint after joint while perched on the edge of my bed. Clearly this was a new bond of intimacy between us. I was content to bask in the afterglow, but some small part of me wondered how far it would go. No matter how stoned I got, my hands still trembled with excitement. I snuck a fresh glimpse of him whenever I got the chance, picturing us intertwined in an erotic embrace while ignoring the fact that very few attractive people have longings for stick-thin, bearded teens. I absent-mindedly chatted about how great the ride was, and how great motorcycles were, and how much I liked San Francisco, and when the conversation dried up we just sat there. Passing the joint I let my eyes linger on him a minute, and this time he looked back. Then he flipped on the TV -- nervously, it seemed -- and spun the channel until it landed on "Bewitched."

I never really liked the program, but here totally killed my buzz. Scott, on the other hand, became visibly excited, the red slits he had for eyes opening saucer-wide. Slowly he slid back onto the bed, and you could almost watch his crotch expand. His eyes stayed fixed on the TV as his hands sat poised astride his groin, like a gunslinger getting ready to draw.

"That Samantha is completely, totally hot," he announced before taking a hit off the roach.

"Yeah," I said, almost honestly. "But I'm not all that fixated on appearance. Personality is more important to me: it's what really makes people attractive. Whether they're fat or skinny or young or old, it doesn't matter. You touch, you hold, you connect. Sex is a physical manifestation of affection that shouldn't be weighed down by looks."

"So you'd do an ugly chick?" he asked from deep inside a cloud of dope smoke.

"I don't select my partners based on looks," I corrected. I gestured toward the television: "So that's who you're holding out for?"

"Well, not necessarily," he said cryptically. "I can fantasize. I can pretend. Besides, everybody looks the same in the dark."

He looked at me and I looked at him, and then it happened. I could actually seen the green light flash in his eyes. He went for the lamp and I went for his pants, and in a nanosecond both were off. Rather than meeting in a mutual embrace, though, it was more like a wrestling hold. Two enormous, cornfed arms pulled me to my feet and bent me over the coffee table. Without so much as a hug or a kiss he plugged right in and started banging away. "Ohmigod," came a groan from somewhere in the dark, "this is so freakin' hot."

Me, I wasn't so sure. It had all happened way too fast. Was this it? I wondered as he slammed me back and forth like a ragdoll. My head cleared the table like a battering ram, clanging my knickknacks together like windchimes. Was I actually having sex with my soulmate and it was nothing but a pain in the ass?

"IS THIS IT FOR POSITIONS?" I yelled as I head-butted the lamp to the ground.

Scott kept pounding away, oblivious. "Oh, Samantha," he groaned, fraught with passion. "Oh Sam, oh Sam, oh Sam!"

His speed increased, and realizing I was in a distant second place, I took matters into my own hands. Futilely I tried to coax my genitals into something approaching interest, but before they could respond Scott made a sprint for the finish. "OH SAM!" he yelped. "OH SAM! OH SAM!"

"Oh LARRY!" I groaned. "OH, LARRY! OH, LARRY, LARRY, LARRY!"

The thrusts came to an abrupt halt, and his iron grasp loosened on my hips. "I'm DARREN," he declared testily, "not LARRY."

"I know," I croaked, mentally shredding my unwritten love letters. "But if you're that lousy in the sack, I'm pretty sure she's thinking about somebody else."

Oscar-winning actress and singer Jennifer Hudson is scheduled to perform at the Democratic National Convention in Denver on Thursday, the night Barack Obama accepts his party's nomination for president.

If she takes requests, I'll suggest "And I Am Telling You He's Not Going to Win."



I can't help but watch this video wistfully. Seriously, if women ever become extinct, clothes will become extinct about five minutes later. Beer will become the national beverage, and every night every gay man will go to sleep with a smile on his face.



(Changed so it won't crash your computer. Click on the "WATCH" button in the upper right.)

That's Reassuring Part Three

Starting September 8, The Dr. Phil Show will begin broadcasting in High Definition.

New York is an incredible city, in part because there's so much to do. Just last Sunday the choice was between a water pistol fight in Union Square, a barbecue/blues fest at the pier, and Turkish oil wrestling in Central Park.

The discerning resident, then, has a mental checklist that separates the wheat from the chaff. Me, I sort through all the possibilities with this primary thought in mind:

Will there be lots of shirtless Turks wrestling?

Luckily, one of Sunday's choices just happened to qualify. Bright and early I was off to Central Park, where a crowd six or seven deep surrounded a makeshift ring. We waited impatiently in the dust and heat, and finally the wrestlers appeared. They acted more like rock stars than semi-naked athletes, but maybe it's hard to look nonchalant when you're oiled up like a Christmas goose. I thought it was odd that there were nine of them, but the organizers insisted that they didn't need any volunteers whether or not they're wearing their lucky leather shorts.

The object of the sport is to get your opponent's shoulders to touch the ground. Usually this involves jamming your hands down their pants to get a good grip, jerking them off-balance, then kicking their legs out from under them and hoping they'll land on their backs. The wrestlers proved as adept as kittens, though, twisting in mid-air and, like four of my ex-husbands, always landing butt-side up.

I watched for about an hour, but slowly the wrestlers lost steam and the matches were about as exciting as sweaty, grunting chess. I headed to the food court and downed a platter of souvlaki, shepherd's salad (mostly diced cucumber), and baklava, then hit the road. The afternoon left me with a plethora of happy memories, but also one nagging doubt. How did these guys ever get this sport going? I mean, I've suggested pretty much this same activity to various guys over the years to consistent unsuccess. I'm thinking the Turks must focus on the camaderie, the athleticism, and the cultural significance rather than the thrusting of greasy hands down each other's pants.

It started off looking like a Turkish Fear Factor.


If there were a God, this is what my cocktail parties would look like.


"Hang on -- you got some lint in here."



And all my dad taught me to do is whittle.



Make up your own sexy scenario. Mine always involve dirty Florsheims.


It's a lot easier to control a guy when you've got your hands down his pants. But you knew that already, right?

Random Tidbit Tuesday

Hell, I'll take my chances for a tasty piece of chicken.



Fourth Child on the Way for Charlie Sheen by a Mother to be Named Later






"Guaranteed Laughs for Everyone!" Um, EXCEPT THE DUDE STANDING NEXT TO IT.



Dave Freeman, co-author of ''100 Things to Do Before You Die,'' died after hitting his head in a fall at his home. He was 47.

The really spooky thing is, #87 is Move that goddamn ottoman.

Roman's Olympics Wrap Up

I am absolutely dumbfounded by the unbelievable artistry that was the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympic Games. Did you see them? They displayed so much unearthly, mindboggling intricacy that you'd be watching and simultaneously questioning your eyes. Could this really, actually be happening? Is it physically possible for perfection to exist on this scale?

If I had my druthers, absolutely not.

We saw an enormous metal globe suspended in midair with runners sprinting around it, oblivious to gravity. We saw a thousand people raising and lowering boxes with otherworldly precision. We saw floating 3D whales, people making enormous pictures by waving big wooden oars, and hundreds of neon-wheel bicycles weaving through intricate patterns made by five thousand costumed dancers.

And what is it that made such repellent spectacles possible? The inflexible upper hand of a totalitarian regime.

I angrily switched off these showy displays the second they were over. They totally, completely disgusted me. Because what kind of nation would inspire twenty thousand people to toil ceaselessly for six months, fifteen hours a day to create such masterworks? Where in the world would such sheer numbers of people, out of unabashed love for their country, don diapers so their bodily functions wouldn't interrupt their training? Not the USA, that's for sure.

Towards the end of the Closing Ceremony, when the focus moved from China to London, I began to regain my sense of hope. Thank God, with our pure, unblemished Olympics finally wrested from the filthy hands of such a backward nation, we'll never see anything like this again. Goodbye five thousand neon-lit drummers; hello Leona Lewis!

I for one can't wait until the next Olympics shows the world exactly what's possible in a nation that respects human rights. Will we see another double-decker bus drive around? Will David Beckham knock over another Japanese schoolgirl with a soccer ball? I know I speak for millions of freedom-lovers when I say that four years from now, I hope to see a half-assed, uninspired show. I hope to see something that was created by designers whose contracts specify twenty-minute Starbucks breaks every half an hour, lit by union workers who are paid ninety dollars an hour to screw in light bulbs, filmed by men who get eight days paternity leave every time their dogs have puppies. I want to see oceans of bored young people only taking part so they'll have something rude to write in their blogs. And then I'm going to leap up off my couch and say, "Now that's what we stand for in the good ole' USA!"

In mid-2005, Dick Ebersol, the chairman of NBC Sports, had secured the support of the International Olympic Committee for the critical move of the finals of the key television sports of swimming and gymnastics to morning hours in China so they could be shown live in prime time in the United States. But he had one more person he needed to consult: Michael Phelps.

"Michael was the first outsider I talked to about it," Mr. Ebersol said. . . . He said he wanted to make sure that competing in the morning would not harm the performance of the likely American star of the Games.

Oh. Okay. Michael Phelps got to decide what time of day his Olympic finals took place.

Yeah, that's fair.

The article also implies that Shawn Johnson got the same perk, and she too went on to win. Yay America! Setting the start time and then winning the race.

David Hayes was fishing with his 3-year-old granddaughter Alyssa in the pond behind their house when she decided she had to go to the bathroom. She handed him her rod, and while she was gone a fish snapped at her bait. After a twenty-five minute battle, Mr. Hayes landed the largest catfish ever caught in North Carolina.

With a pink plastic Barbie fishing rod.



This being the rural south, the burly outdoorsman took quite a bit of ribbing from his neighbors. Luckily nobody thought to ask why he had the sunglasses on.

This goatee trimmer is absolutely the most amazing new invention in years. You bite down on the little knob, adjust the thing to fit your chin, and then shave around it. Presto! A neat and tidy little oval that looks professionally done.



One small quibble: if they could somehow manage to drill a hole through the middle of the thing, I could use it to trim my pubes too.

Napoleon's Elusive Penis Found

After seven decades spent collecting anything and everything, urologist John Lattimer passed away, leaving behind some 3,000 miscellaneous oddities for his family to sort through.

His daughter Evan catalogued the bounty with a mixture of curiosity and dread. What would the next box hold? she wondered. A dinosaur egg? Nazi cyanide? Abraham Lincoln's bloodstained shirt?

One can only imagine the look on her face when she discovered a severed penis in a jar. Her brother suggested they throw it out, proving he's never heard of eBay. But then they remembered their father's stories, and realized what they'd found:

A penis that may have belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte.

Dr. Lattimer supposedly bought the item at a Paris auction for $3,000 in 1977. His daughter believes its provenance is ironclad, traceable to the surgeon who performed Napoleon's autopsy. X-rays have determined that it is a human penis, but the French government won't give up a sample of Napoleon's DNA to compare.

Ms. Lattimer plans to sell the item at auction later this year for at least $100,000. Trust this intrepid reporter to be there with a healthy skepticism and measuring tape.

Welcome to the Straight Talk Express!

Third class is thataway.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ms. Lewinsky yawned. "You'll have to do better than that to impress me."

I know, you looove Michael Phelps. You've watched all eight thousand Olympic hours of him. You adore his crooked teeth and oversized ears. You worship the ground trod by his enormous feet.

You're his biggest, biggest fan? Okay, smart guy. Find his nipples.


















ANSWER: c is correct.

My friend Steve was telling me about Madonna's birthday. "Everybody had Crack Babies," he announced. "They're soooo fashionable these days."

You know, I'm all for celebrities adopting unfortunate children, but we've got to draw the line somewhere. "Goddammit," I snapped. "And I just put a deposit down on a four-month-old amputee."

Steve stared at me pitifully for about fifteen minutes, then explained himself. Turns out a Crack Baby isn't a fashion accessory but a new cocktail. Apparently I've been out of the alcoholic loop for quite a while. Back when I was in college, it was all Fuzzy Navels and Long Slow Bangs on the Beach. Now -- well, I'll let you judge for yourself. Which of these are probably being quaffed at hot Hollywood parties, and which are just random ethnic slurs?

1. Greasy Swede
2. Petulant Slav
3. Sticky Canadian
4. Intemperate Peruvian
5. Chain-Smoking Frenchman
6. Nutty Irishman
7. Clinically Depressed Norwegian
8. Pickled Ruski
9. Sweaty Mexican
10. Bow-Legged Cuban
11. Angry German
12. Crossdressing Turk



ANSWER: 1, 3, 6, 8, 9 and 11 are drinks found here. 2, 4, 5, 7, 10, and 12 are ethnic slurs. Don't try to order these in a bar.

That's Reassuring Part Two

According to Midas Auto Service Experts, over half the cars brought into their shops for inspection don't need a new muffler.

That's Reassuring Part One

According to the Food Network, every 32-ounce container of Welch's Strawberry Spread contains over a pound of strawberries.

Nope, I sure shouldn't go there -- but John McCain himself has thrown open the door and practically shoved me through.

For somebody who's constantly complaining about the race card, he plays the POW card a lot. Every day he seems to come up with another convenient memory, ranging from the questionable (the cross-in-the-sand story, seemingly copied from Solzhenitsyn) to the offensive (declaring without elaboration that "a lot of [his captors] were homosexual" and got off on whipping the prisoners).

Here are a few of the latest memories Mr. McCain has announced. See if you find them a little odd.

1. Before he left home, he tattooed hundreds of tiny drawings all over his
body in order to help him break out.

2. It seems like every time he took a shower Christopher Meloni was there.

3. Once he barely dodged death by convincing a guy it was duck season.

4. The lesbian prison matron was always poking fights with Adrienne Barbeau.

5. He ate twice as many hard-boiled eggs as Paul Newman.

6. He had a pet mouse named Mr. Jingles that a big black dude kept bringing back to life.

7. He spent eight months in solitary, three months at hard labor, and six months building a bridge over the river Kwai.

8. He'd just about given up hope when a plucky rooster showed up with plans to build a catapult.

9. His least favorite captor? Colonel Klink.

10. He remembers writing in his journal that he still believed, in spite of everything, that people are really good at heart.

Repeat Monday: Small Wonder

Tall guys have to be careful who they go out with. Wander around with another tall guy and the world will cower at your feet. Hang out with an average-sized guy and you'll still get admiring glances. Venture into public with somebody short, though, and you may as well glue a "Kick me!" sign to your ass.

I'm not talking about all the problems due to the height difference. Sure, the short guy will amble along just slightly slower than a disabled dachshund, while snails and Frankenstein scamper past. Then there's the impossibility of having a conversation: his mouth is roughly ten feet from your ear, which means you'll hear more audible words out of a seashell. Either you pretend to understand what he's saying and just randomly nod your head, or you actually make the effort and say "What?" every time he speaks. You're going to end up a frustrated hunchback, and he'll burn out his throat yelling like Grandpa. Both of you will be spitting nails, but it'll get worse when he gives you an ear trumpet for Christmas.

Now, all this is irritating -- I mean, I'd prefer a sweater -- but the real horror is how everybody else treats the two of you like a Ripley's exhibit sprung to life. The rudest folks whip out cameras to get proof to show their friends. You're not just interesting: you're one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and they'll snap away like you're the Virgin Mary floating over the Topeka Wal-Mart. They won't just stand across the street and worship from afar: they'll want to twist the pair of you into all sorts of insulting poses. "We wanna play up the height difference," drawls Wilbur from Bag ‘o Pretzels, Idaho, like a redneck Orson Welles. "Whyncha pretend yer stuffin' Tiny in yer pocket?"

"No, no, no," his wife Durlene protests. "Have Tiny sit on Lurch's lap, like a ventriloquist's dummy."

I hate taking part in these scenarios, though I can talk without moving my lips. I leave the house feeling like an average guy, and then these folks go and spoil it. I want to run screaming for a land where people are compassionate and considerate, but somebody's got to pry Tiny out of that teacup.

Worse than hanging out with somebody short is hanging out with someone heavy. Here's a weird phenomenon: Now the pair of you won't just look strange-- you'll transform into a number. The number 10.

Oddly, this is the only time I've heard of people turning alphanumeric. If Pamela Anderson kicked a skier nobody'd see RL. If Marlon Brando screwed Wally Cox nobody'd see Qr. When a pregnant lady frisks a midget, nobody sees BY.

But pause for a second near an overweight guy and suddenly everybody's an accountant.

Most embarrassing by far, though, is hanging out with a short female, because now everyone will assume you're having some kind of freakish relations. Now they won't just casually glance at the pair of you, or stare as you walk by. They'll chase you down the street, screaming in disbelief. They'll follow you home, pluck out their eyes, and roll them under your door to get a better look. And then the inquisition begins, always with the same idiotic question:

"Gawrsh, you're like ten dang feet tall, and she's eentsy as a mouse. How in the name of Our Good Lord Jesus do the two of you manage to have SAYYY-ex?"

Now, I get so confused by this I wonder if I'm doing something wrong. Height doesn't have anything to do with any of my bedroom activities, yet these folks give me the feeling I shouldn't let anyone under five foot eight take a ride. I mean, it's not like my partner and I aren't flexible. It's not like furniture doesn't exist. C'mon -- half the stepstools you see are like twelve inches high. They're not exactly made for changing lightbulbs.

I thought about this long and hard, and I narrowed it down to two possibilities. One, they're concerned that while our genitals are busy, our faces are too far apart to express affection. Sure, I'm not thrilled that my mouth is closer to the Australian outback than my current companion, but as long as our middles meet I'm fine. Or two, they're worried that our genitals don't match up when we're standing. Yup, it's true: I have to do a lot of crouching. It's good exercise, though. My arms may look like chopsticks, but my thighs rub together when I walk.

Still, I refuse to dignify this stupidity with an intelligent response. I shake my head. I wonder why I have to put up with this. I wonder why these idiots think that's a question you can ask a stranger.

And then I tell them, "I do it the same way you do it, except my relatives are in a different room."

Knowing Donald Trump, I'm thinking the second one is right.

Ten Things You Didn't Know About Julia Child

Yesterday the press leaked the news that Julia Child served as an undercover agent for the U. S. during the Second World War. Here are a few of the details they didn't reveal.

1. Her code number was EVOO7.

2. Before she killed somebody, she said, "Bon appetit, suckah!"

3. Once she killed a spy with a Ginsu knife and then sliced a tomato afterward.

4. Her code name was Blanche du Beans.

5. When she grilled a suspect, she really grilled a suspect.

6. Once she killed a double agent with buttercream frosting and then licked the spoon afterward.

7. She brought a lovely mint sauce to the Bay of Pigs.

8. Her favorite way to kill? Smothering guys with onions and gravy.

9. Once she fricasseed a lobster just to watch it die.

10. Every time she went to FBI headquarters, the security guards would say, "You're looking particularly lovely today, Mr. Hoover."

Dad totally freaked out when he saw what the triplets had done to the cat.

Random Thought Thursday

Why is it they can put a man on the moon but they can't make a liquor bottle that holds more than one serving?

At work the other day I signed up for a 401K. Was that a mistake? I can't run twelve feet without cramping.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease, but only after everyone's decided kicking isn't going to help.

The women in Indiana are hotter than the women in California. Though maybe it's just because the suspenders make their tits look bigger.

If the post office were in charge of the airwaves, right now I'd be listening to 197-34397-523 Groove Radio.

I thought it was hard to walk on gravel, then I met a woman with a wheelie cart.

I'm very inventive in bed. Just this morning, in fact, I made a cotton gin.

They call me "Casino Willie," because when I take off my clothes that's what everybody says.

A new store just opened here in New York called "The Best of L. A." It looked like they had some pretty cool stuff, but it was so crowded I accidentally knocked over the tostada display.

I saw a bunch of priests on vacation once and when I sneezed they refused to bless me.

Tonight's Olympics Coverage on NBC

8:00 - 8:24 Men in speedos pretend nobody notices their pokey bits

8:25 - 8:43 Round-table discussion: Does the evil eye work? Maximizing American victory

8:44 - 9:02 Pretaped profile: "Michael Phelps: A Regular Guy Who Eats 9,000 Calories a Day and Has Never Done His Own Laundry"

9:03 - 9:17 Russian fencers place fourth, ponder how they'll be killed

9:18 - 9:37 American athletes screw up things they've done millions of times

9:38 - 9:52 Exclusive Bob Costas poll: Which toupee is better, this or this?

9:53 - 10:01 Watch guy who does nothing but eat, sleep and swim eat

10:02 - 10:14 Chinese women gymnasts yearn for medals, real lives, puberty

10:15 - 10:38 Women in bikinis act like somebody gives a damn about volleyball

10:39 - 11:02 Watch guy who does nothing but eat, sleep and swim sleep

11:03 - 11:05 Chinese gymnast injured trying to hug Martha Karolyi

11:06 - 11:18 Controversy after the Chinese replace several weightlifters with artist's renderings

11:19 - 11:55 Watch guy who does nothing but eat, sleep and swim swim

11:56 - 12:00 Exclusive NBC poll: Should the US keep letting foreigners compete for medals meant for us?

Last Night on ABC/Disney's "High School Musical: Get in the Picture"

Ugly and Fat were eliminated.

Still in the running: Spunky, Edgy, Cute, Pretty, Wholesome, Hunky, and Black.

What's the last headline you ever thought you'd read?

Katie Holmes Wins Oscar? L. A. Jury Finds Celebrity Killer Guilty? Grateful Nation Thanks President Bush?

Well, I'm thinking this has to be in the Top Ten, from today's Guardian:



A giant inflatable dog turd created by the American artist Paul McCarthy was blown from its moorings at a Swiss museum, bringing down a power line and breaking a window before landing in the grounds of a children's home.

If ever a story required pictures, this is it, but unfortunately they offer none. Here's an artist's conception of the devastation.



Okay, so I'm not much of an artist. My sympathies are with the people of Switzerland, who must be fondly looking back on the days when they just had to wipe off their shoes.

Ann Coulter shows you just can't be more wrong.

What Michael Richards said at a Los Angeles comedy club:

MICHAEL RICHARDS (responding to a black heckler): Shut up! 50 years ago we'd have you upside-down with a fucking fork up your arse! (Sound of laughter and cheering from the crowd.) You can talk, you can talk, you can talk, you're brave now, motherfucker. Throw his ass out. He's a nigger, he's a nigger, he's a nigger. . . .

AUDIENCE MEMBER 1: Oh my God.

MR: A nigger, look there's a nigger. (Sound of surprise from audience) Ooh, Ooh!

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: (inaudible) . . . calling me a nigger?

MR: (inaudible) . . . you calling me (inaudible), nigger?

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: That ain't necessary.

MR: Well, you interrupted me, pal. That's what happens when you interrupt a white man.

Michael Richards' apology:

Mr. Richards appeared on numerous TV and radio shows to apologize, and to announce that he would begin psychiatric counseling. Here's what he said on Jesse Jackson's radio show:

I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry to the African-American community for the upset and as a performance artist in the course of what comes through in the motion of my work, I can't say that I'm happy this has all come about because it's out in the open and I've been a conduit to something that I think is quite meaningful and the work begins outside, and the work begins inside. Bless you.

Effect on Michael Richards' career:

Killed it.





What Bernie Mac said at several hundred comedy clubs:

(Talking about his two-year-old niece and effeminate six-year-old nephew): I came home at two o'clock in the morning. The two-year-old gon' tell the faggot -- (pause for audience reaction) -- to go downstairs for some milk and cookies! I'm comin' upstairs, the faggot walkin' downstairs. He gon' walk past me like I'm a visitor, you know. (Imitates his nephew's blank stare.) I said, uh, "where the fuck you goin's?" (As his nephew, in a stereotypically gay voice:) "To get some milk an' cooookies!" He said it so funny, I wanted to hear him say it again! I said, "some what?" (As his nephew:) "Some milk an' coooookies!!'"

Bernie Mac's apology:



Effect on Bernie Mac's career:

Won him a starring role in Spike Lee's movie The Original Kings of Comedy. That appearance inspired Fox producers to create The Bernie Mac Show.



Fast-forward to 6:55.

Ten Things You'll Think While Watching "The Dark Knight"

1. Wow. I've got both halves of my face and I still can't control my drool.

2. The Joker looks pretty damned freaky, but why's he doing the Al Franken impression?

3. Really. Every bullet shot into a wall shatters in exactly the same way. Really.

4. Is Maggie Gyllenhaal really a great actress, or can anybody make Katie Holmes look like a lump of cheese?

5. So, Batman's got a special Atmospheric Suit to protect him from high altitudes. How about the guy he's carrying?

6. Christ, kid -- your hero just FELL OFF A BUILDING. Try to sound, you know, SAD.

7. If my torso was covered with open sores, I think I'd wear an undershirt, thanks.

8. That Two-Face is a great, great new villain. I can't wait to see his character develop and deepen over the next few. . . . Oh. Never mind.

9. I didn't realize boat captains always carry five hundred identical little scraps of paper with them just in case the passengers need to vote.

10. What is this shit?

Thursday's News Roundup

Queerty has a great new quote from Sally Kern, the Oklahoma Representative who recently came out flailing against gays. Seems like now she's trying to backtrack:



Sister, from your lips to God's ear. Because we all know there's three main problems facing the world today, and that's Buddhists, Buddhists, Buddhists.





A dog bit off more than he could chew when he swallowed a two-foot-long stick. Hector, a Great Dane puppy, got the conifer branch lodged inside him while playing in the garden of his home in Wheathampstead, Hertfordshire.

Amazingly the hungry pooch still managed to wolf down his dinner.

The owners said they'd never have realized that anything was wrong except neighbors started lining up to have Hector hump their legs.



A team of researchers have discovered that, just like humans, pet dogs find yawns "catching" too. Until now, only humans and our close primate relatives were thought to find yawning contagious.

The researchers say it was a fluke they discovered this odd phenomena. "We were actually going to study their coordination," Dr. Philippa Petit declared, "when somebody put Animal Planet on."





A reptile regarded as one of the last living remnants of the dinosaurs will become a father for the first time in decades at the age of 111.

I have to tell you -- I saw his wife on TV the other day, and man, that chick just glows.

From September's OUT magazine:



When I close my eyes and imagine really hard, I can see a wonderful future ahead of us. I can see peace and harmony throughout the world. I can see hatred and ignorance and intolerance abolished, and people joining together in the spirit of brotherhood.

And I can see gay people who know how to multiply.

Jesus wakes up early and glances outside at the beautiful day. The sundial on his windowsill reads exactly 7:42. He rubs his eyes and watches a man lead a burro into the bustling town square. "My friend!" someone yells to the burro's owner. "I haven't seen you since they invented the wheel!"

At the blacksmith's shop, a roan mare whinnies as the smithy pounds her a new shoe. The smithy wipes his brow with the back of a muscular hand, and with an exhausted sigh thrusts the shoe back into the fire again.

After he finishes his ablutions, Jesus goes to the temple and clears out all the moneylenders. He wanders out into the desert, prays for a few hours, then speaks to the people who follow him. He washes the feet of a prostitute, and after the sun sets he meets his apostles for dinner in an assembly room over a tavern.

The thirteen men sit around a table overloaded with food. "This is so cool!" Jesus says, looking appreciatively at his friends and the food. Still, something inside him is unsettled. Judas is acting strangely, and Jesus senses that something is up. "Unfortunately," he adds, "one of you is going to betray me before this night is done." The apostles all deny it, thinking Jesus is paranoid, but later Jesus takes Judas off to one side. "If you have to do it," he says, "do it now." Judas denies he has anything planned, but runs off all the same.

Everyone finishes dinner, and afterwards they head to a nearby garden. Judas reappears with a cadre of guards. "Hey, guy!" Judas says, giving Jesus a peck on the cheek. The guards recognize the prearranged signal, and they arrest Jesus. As they drag him away, the full impact of what he's done hits Judas. "I'm an absolute idiot!" he yells, stomping the ground. He runs to the river and throws in his reward money, then he hangs himself from a nearby tree.

Jesus is brought before Pontius Pilate. Pilate thinks Jesus is innocent, but other religious leaders force him to condemn Jesus to death. Jesus is dragged out to Golgotha, where a cross is constructed. The guards make him carry it to the top of the mountain. They nail him to the cross, and then everything goes black.



Jesus wakes up early and glances curiously at the sun streaming in his window. "Holy moly!" he says to himself. "That was the weirdest freakin' dream." The sundial on his windowsill reads exactly 7:42. He rubs his eyes and a man lead a burro into the bustling town square. "My friend!" someone yells to the burro's owner. "I haven't seen you since they invented the wheel!"

At the blacksmith's shop, a roan mare whinnies as the smithy pounds her a new shoe. The smithy wipes his brow with the back of a muscular hand, and with an exhausted sigh thrusts the shoe back into the fire again.

"What the hell is going on?" Jesus asks himself. "This is exactly like yesterday." He goes to the temple, goes to the desert, meets the apostles for dinner. He sees Judas and again gets that unsettling feeling. "Man," he thinks, "This is some powerful deja vu."

The thirteen men sit around the table, overloaded with food. "This is so cool!" Jesus says, but his heart isn't in it. While the others are eating, he takes Judas aside. "I know about your plan," Jesus whispers. "Please, my brother -- think twice about it." "I'm not planning anything!" Judas declares, but seconds later he runs off.

After dinner, Jesus tells the apostles he's got a headache and he's going home, but they won't let him go. They drag him to the garden, and Judas turns up again. Next thing Jesus knows, he's back on the cross.

"Goldarnit," he says to himself. "I really should have done something about this while I had the chance."



Jesus wakes up early and glowers at the beautiful day. The sundial on his windowsill reads exactly 7:42. He hides his head under the pillow. "My friend!" he hears one man shouts to another. "I haven't seen you since they invented the wheel!" A mare whinnies, and Jesus goes to the window just in time to see the smithy sigh and thrust the shoe back into the fire.

"Holy cannoli!" Jesus mutters to himself. "This again?" He goes to the temple, goes to the desert, meets the apostles for dinner. "Okay," he says to himself as all the friends exchange greetings, "this time I'm definitely doing something different."

Jesus gives Paul the center chair and grabs a seat by Judas. "I know exactly what you're up to," he whispers accusingly. "And you're going to regret it. You think forty pieces of silver is anything? Dude, it's crap. Very, very soon, you're going to realize how stupid you were, and you're going to throw the money in the river before you hang yourself."

Judas is astonished by his friend's prediction. "I'm not up to anything," he lies, and he dodges the accusing eyes by grabbing another helping of the roasted lamb. He thinks about what Jesus says, though, and by the time dessert comes he's completely forgotten about his plan.

After the men finish dinner, they head to a nearby garden. They laugh and joke and sing songs. They have a great night, and drunkenly stumble home. That night Jesus lays in bed with his fingers crossed.



Jesus wakes up late and rushes to the window. "WOOHOO!" he shouts, sticking his head outside. "I never thought I'd be happy to see rain!"

Random Thought Monday

If you can't put a drink on your table without hurting it, you don't need coasters. You need to learn how to buy tables.

I don't sleep so well. Some people are out like a light. Me, I'm a motion sensitive light. Hey, something move? I'm on it.

I agree with the fundamentalists: gay couples are unnatural. If God had meant for both halves of a couple to fart, He'd have given us all bigger windows.

I don't think the Bible is really the word of God. Some of the things in there don't sound like something an all-knowing person would say. "Be fruitful and multiply"? What, like we wouldn't do that without encouragement? Like if He hadn't commanded us to do it, there'd just be three Irishmen in the world today?

If He really existed, he'd have come back years ago and said, "You know what I told you earlier, about fruitful multiplying? Well, STOP."

The term "otter" seems to fit straight men more than gays. After all, they're the ones who eat clams while laying on their backs.

Women are changing, and not for the better. Years ago somebody said the perfect breast could fit in a martini glass. Nowadays you couldn't stuff one of them in a Big Gulp.

My sister is almost forty, and she still calls me to talk about our childhoods. I refuse. It starts off innocently enough: "Remember Space Food Sticks?" "Remember Yosemite?" "Remember putting on plays in the backyard?" But ten minutes later she's screaming. "You ate the last of the ham! You ate my share of the ham!"

I was walking down the street yesterday and an ambulance started heading towards me. A few seconds later, another ambulance came from the other direction. I thought, jeez, if they cared at all about helping people, when they first saw each other they'd have turned around.

Relationships are always annoying. Once you get over the big stuff, the small stuff gets bigger. My longest relationship was eight years, and we never stopped arguing. In the first year he whined about monogamy. In the second he whined about household chores. By the fifth he yelled because I bought the wrong kind of coathangers and jingled my change too much. Finally I came to my senses. I pictured us after fifty years, when the inevitable came. He'd be laying there on his deathbed, and he'd prop himself up on an elbow for his final words. "Roman," he'd say, "it's been great, but this ISN'T MY FUCKING PILLOW. WHERE'S MY FUCKING PILLOW?"

I've got far too many possessions to fit into my tiny apartment, so last week I ordered some Space Bags on TV. In the commercial they look amazing. In real life . . . well, I'll let the instructions speak for themselves.

Congratulations! You're the proud new owner of a SPACE BAG, decluttering your home with cutting-edge technology. Your possessions will be safely stored away in seconds provided you follow these simple rules.

1. Carefully remove your new SPACE BAG from its colorful outer box.

2. Now that there's a hole in your SPACE BAG, you'll want to repair it. For this you'll need scissors, duct tape, eighteen feet of plastic wrap, a bucket, six gallons of everyday tap water, a liter of Jose Cuervo and margarita mix.

3. Put something large into your SPACE BAG, like whatever you were going to store in it before you ruined it. Seal the patented zipper lock. Use the patented zipper slider mechanism to make doubly sure it's sealed. If all this looks familiar, it's because your space-age SPACE BAG is just a big version of those cheesy sandwich bags you buy at the Dollar Store.

4. After the bag is sealed, press your vacuum cleaner hose to the valve nozzle. The bag should rapidly deflate. If it doesn't, ask yourself the following questions. Did I seal the bag properly? Is the vacuum on? Are the SPACE BAG folks ripping me off, selling me a giant sandwich bag for $9.99? Of course not! That's why we gave you two SPACE BAGS for FREE, charging just a nominal $9.99 shipping and handling fee for each.

5. Once you've gotten the bag to deflate, you've got to move quick to find the hole. Hold it next to your ear and listen: the leak will hiss like a snake. If you put snakes in the bag, toss the whole thing in the trash and make yourself a margarita.

If you can't locate the leak, cover the SPACE BAG with plastic wrap. The patented vacuum action will suck the plastic wrap into the bag. Or put the BAG into a bucket of water and see where it seeps in.

6. After you find the leak, cover it with duct tape. Yes, now you've got a strip of duct tape on something you've owned for eight minutes. If you're one of those fancy pants who doesn't like their possessions covered with duct tape, think about taking advantage of our limited three-day warranty, but remember we don't honor that warranty if you mishandle the bag, and a leak is pretty much proof positive that you did.

7. Eventually you may actually get the bag to shrink with your possessions inside. Congratulations! Now take special care in putting it away. Our workers do their best to build a quality product, but after eighteen hours in a factory even a disciplined Chinese mind can wander. Don't put anything on top of your SPACE BAG, and don't slide it around on an ungreased shelf. If there's a choice between dropping your baby and dropping a SPACE BAG, remember babies can heal themselves.

Store the bag deep inside your closet and resist the urge to look at it again. Scientists know nature abhors a vacuum, and this one's not going to last long. Tomorrow, when you discover your bag has puffed back up to full size, just thank God we're not cloning corn.