Wednesday News Round-Up

AIDS denialist Christine Maggiore died on Monday.

Ms. Maggiore started a group that challenges "common assumptions" about AIDS, and self-published a book that claimed the cause of AIDS is still unknown. the HIV virus is harmless, AIDS is not sexually transmitted, and HIV positive people die because they are poisoned by toxic antiviral drugs,

She was HIV positive and refused to take antiviral drugs.


"I'm not really dead!" she said in her defense.

Maybe some people are enriched by having siblings. Maybe they share experiences, form bonds, and enjoy each others' company, their affection growing deeper over time. My two sisters just taught me world-class selfishness.

I tried to hold onto a bare-bones civility, but it didn't stand a chance. If I caved in to a request for a sip of my soda, I'd get back an empty can. By the time the mashed potatoes got around to me, the bowl would be licked clean. I needed to do something desperate if I wanted to stave off scurvy, so slowly but surely I came up with the Three Commandments of Selfishness.

1) Eat when you don't feel like it or you probably won't eat at all. Don't feel like hot chocolate on a sunny summer day? Tough. It's now or never, bucko, so man up and suck those mini-marshmallows down.

2) Hide food the second you get home from the supermarket. Nobody can eat what they can't find. Plus, even if they eventually discover those Ding Dongs squirreled away in your underwear drawer, you're probably still home free.

3) Add something disgusting to everything you cook. Driven by desperation, I learned how to turn inedible crap like potatoes, melba toast and lentils into palatable foods. Rather than developing similar skills, though, my sisters just circled the kitchen while I cooked, waiting for me to turn my back. Just needs a little salt, I'd think, and when I'd return to the pot a second later it'd look like locusts had attacked.

My sister Jazz unwittingly gave me the solution. "This is disgusting," she announced as she spat out a bite of my enchiladas. "What is this horrible green stuff?"

At first I couldn't believe she'd criticized my cooking, but then it hit me. That's the key! I realized. Cilantro! I'll use that peppy green herb like Superman's foes use kryptonite. From that day on it turned up in everything I cooked, from soup to chocolate mousse.

I finally moved out when I turned sixteen. They hadn't broken my spirit, though I could slide through wrought iron fences without turning sideways. Though my selfishness was no longer needed it held on fast, morphing from a survival strategy to an anchor that weighed me down. It seemed like every guy I dated was raised by loving parents in a warm and caring home. They shared, shared, and shared some more. Everything they did was generous. Everything they had was up for grabs. "That's a gorgeous sweater," I told Ralph.

"Take it!" he said. "The blue looks amazing with your eyes."

My selfish brain, set in its ways since those formative years, strugged to process this new information. Generosity? Altruism? Attractive clothing being passed around for free? Holy Jesus, I thought -- what end times are these?

Ralph and I lasted three weeks. I loved my half of the relationship, but he wasn't totally happy with his. The final straw came when we went to a Starbucks that only had one apricot walnut muffin left and I was closer to the cash register than he.

After eight more nice, generous guys ran screaming from me, I decided I had to change, but I quickly discovered that I couldn't. I'd try to bring my boyfriend a sandwich but my body would literally shake its complaint. What the hell are you doing? it'd wonder. What about us? Sure, maybe we don't need that sandwich right away, but winter's coming, and it's going to be cold. Just shovel down half of it, dude, and I'll store it away for later.

I'd fight those little voices as best I could, but next thing I knew I'd be standing in front of my man holding a plate dusted with crumbs and a pickle.

Luckily the fates intervened when I met Raoul, because my selfishness didn't bother him. He didn't complain. In fact, he barely seemed to notice. I knew he was the one when I woke up next to him after our first night together. He had a whole huge spread of food covering the bed: pancakes, sausages, ham slices dotted with cloves and pineapple. Biscuits with gravy, croissants, muffins with cranberry butter.

This is what it's like to wake up in heaven, I thought. I couldn't believe my luck. I propped myself up with a pillow and surveyed the startling spread. "Is this breakfast?" I asked excitedly.

He shoved a forkful of French toast in his mouth, then glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. "You mean yours, or mine?"

According to a new poll, the celebrity most Americans would like to have as a neighbor is ex-VP hopeful Sarah Palin, with Oprah taking second place and swimmer Michael Phelps taking third.

The worst celebrity neighbor is Britney Spears, followed by Rosie O'Donnell, Joe the Plumber, and Lindsay Lohan.

The Palins would have been my first choice too. I mean, it's annoying to have to hop in the car every time I need crack.

Australian scientists gave cocaine to honeybees, and discovered the drugged insects act suspiciously like humans. They dance energetically, communicate more frequently, and get cranky when their supply is cut off.

Unfortunately, it took the scientists a lot of trial and error to determine an effective dosage, and several bees nearly OD'd. "OHMIGOD!" one screamed shortly after the drug was administered. "What's this yellow shit coming out of my ass?"

(Via Joe.My.God)

Well, in a desperate bid to make a little pocket change, I started up a bumper sticker business. Unfortunately, it's not doing so great. I printed up a generic version of a popular genre, but for some reason they aren't exactly flying off the shelves.

If you'd like one, they're only a buck apiece, plus postage. I'll go a lot cheaper if you order a thousand or more.

Ask RomanHans

Dear Friend,

Recently I celebrated another birthday. Every year there are celebrations in my honor, and this year was the same. I'm comforted to know that at least once a year people think of me.

My birthday celebrations began many years ago. At first people were thankful for what I did for them, but these days nobody remembers why we celebrate. People get together and have fun, but they forget to include me.

I remember last year there was a great feast in my honor. The dinner table was overloaded with food. The decorations were exquisite and there were huge piles of beautifully wrapped gifts. But you know what? Nobody invited me.

It didn't surprise me. In the last few years everyone has been closing their doors to me.

Though I wasn't invited, I decided to enter the party secretly. I crept in and hid in a corner. Everyone was drinking and joking and laughing. They were having a grand time. To top it off, this fat man all dressed in red with a long white beard came in yelling "Ho ho ho!" He acted like he was drunk. He sat on the sofa and all the children ran to him, saying "Santa! Santa!" like the party was for him.

At midnight everyone hugged. I waited for someone to come hug me, but not a single soul did. Instead, they exchanged gifts. When everything had been opened, I looked to see if there was a gift for me. How would you feel if on your birthday everybody shared gifts and you did not get one? Finally I understood that I was unwanted at the party, and I quietly left.

This season, I want you to bring me into your life. I want you to recognize the fact that I came into this world to save you, and that I gave my life for you. I want that you believe this with all your heart. And one day I will have my own celebration, a spectacular party like nobody has ever seen before. I'm planning it now. I'm going to send out millions of invitations, and naturally you'll get one.

Let me know if you want to come, and I'll reserve a place for you. I'll write your name with golden letters in my great guest book, and only those on the list will be let inside.

If you don't answer my invitation, you'll be left out, and then you'll truly miss a wonderful party.

Be prepared. I hope to see you very soon. I love you!

Jesus




Dear Jesus:

I know you didn't ask for my advice, but I'm guessing your email was a cry for help. You recognize that you're doing something wrong. You know change has to be made, but you don't know how to start.

Please, reread your letter, and spend some time reflecting on it. You sneak in to a party where you aren't wanted, then sulk in the corner. My grandma doesn't have this kind of nerve, and she's from Florida! Think about it: was the fat man in the red suit so popular because he's a fun-loving guy? Were you a little less well received because, well, maybe you whine a bit? The fat man was laughing and entertaining everyone, while you were cowering. Did you bring presents for anybody? Or did you just want them all to sit at your feet and listen to those stories about you and your Dad again?

Your party is a good idea, but I question your motivation. Writing names in a big gold book? Regardless what you hear, Paris Hilton is not a role model. Why not throw open your doors to everybody? No, everything has to be a production with you, Mr. Drama Queen. Something tells me that even if people RSVP to this alleged bash, you're going to complain once they're inside. Do they need to warn you if they're going to drink a cup of punch? Send you a fax if they plan to eat cake? Girl, you need to start giving freely rather than making your "friends" send you a telegram if they need a hook to hang up their coats.

I'm sorry to say, Jesus, you sound pretty self-centered. Somebody holds a party on your birthday and it's a personal affront? What if it's their birthday too? Still forbidden? What if it's a baby shower? Still bad? You've got to wake up and realize, dude, that the world doesn't revolve around you, Au contraire, you're like the high-maintenance chick in the halter top and skintight Diesels who begs a man to come over, then once he's there whines that he didn't bring Mickey D's.

You say you want us to enter your life this Christmastime. Why don't you try to get into our lives for a change? If people have forgotten you, do something to remind them! And this time around make us think, "Hey, I'd almost forgotten how cool Jesus is!" rather than "Oh shit, what does that dude want now?

If that fails, seek professional help.

Your friend, and a big fan of alcohol and presents,
RomanHans

News Round-Up

Those flying shoes didn't bother President Bush, but First Lady Laura is definitely peeved. "It is an assault," she declared on Fox News Sunday. "And I think it should be treated that way."

Looking on the bright side, she says, "this proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that what we're doing is working, now that the Iraqis finally have the freedom to tell us to go fuck ourselves."

Did you hear about this? Frankly, I'm horrified. I'm outraged. I'm disgusted. What has happened to us? This incident raises some very big questions that we as a society need to address.

Like, when did knives stop shutting people up?

Yesterday the New York Times printed absolutely the cutest, most colorful story. Seems this sweet little old lady buys expensive food at various markets, eats some of the stuff, then takes the rest back! Is that adorable? She's absolutely shameless, returning half-eaten salmon because it smells salmony, or holding onto cookies for a year and then returning them because now they've got bugs. She makes such scenes nobody can turn her down!

Once, after she broke a pot, she wrote a sad little letter in pitiful old lady handwriting, and the sucker manufacturer sent her double her money back!

This woman is an absolute delight. She's even enlisted her hapless kids to help her, now that she's in her eighties and can't swear and scream like she used to. What blessed kids they are. Free food -- and now one daughter gets a byline in the Times and a fat paycheck! I swear, if they'd given Ma a cute nickname, like Tina Returner, they'd be filming this thing with Jennifer Aniston by now.

Shit. And my useless old mother just does fuckin' volunteer work.

Readers, we're going to have a little change of focus here at World Class Stupid. I'm sick and tired of tearing my hair out, writing smart little stories in my blood, sweat and tears, only to get zero comments and zero recognition from all the fashionable websites. For the New Year I've resolved to take my writing to the big league, so with that goal in mind I'm going to start giving the people exactly what they want.

As of today, this site is called LOLplantz. Every day we'll feature another funny photo of a tree, flower or shrub with a funny headline in a lower-case font. Here's the first. Forward it to your friends! Heck, I'm already up to half a million hits, and six publishers have expressed interest. Stop by tomorrow to see an annoyed jacaranda.

A produce stand in Sussex, England has created a nativity scene using fruits and vegetables.


The Three Wise Men are made out of onions, apples, and squash. The animals are cauliflower, potatoes, and parsnips. Mary and Joseph are butternut squash, carrots, and lemons.

The baby Jesus is a carrot.

The owner of the produce stand said he thought a vegetable nativity scene would be a great way to get children to think about eating right.

And with that, kids, I wish you a happy holiday. Have fun, play safe, and eat five servings of the Holy Family every day.

P. S.: Go here and vote for me. Thanks!

The Meaning of Christmas from the New York Times

Got a dog? Why not buy him his own Mercedes?

I've been taking tennis lessons. This here's my coach. He's a pretty thoughtful guy. In fact, he'll even correct your stroke while you're in the shower.


His teaching methods are a little strange, though. For instance, his lessons in human anatomy mostly consist of wearing a jockstrap to class.



Maybe there's something to it. But then again, maybe it's just an excuse to make bad jokes about balls.



You know: fuzzy balls, white balls, bouncing balls. Here's one: Why are my balls like tennis balls? They both come in cans.



I never really liked tennis, but coach turned me into an athletic supporter.



What, coach? You want me to do your laundry? Well, okay. But I gotta tell you, that old lstrap is a little crusty. Tell you what: I'll pick you up a new one, and just stuff that one in my mou-- the trash.

(Balls Out: The Gary Houseman Story starring Seann William Scott opens next year. Full sized pix and more at Superhero Fan)

Last Sunday the New York Daily News published an article titled "Fast
Lane" that took a look back at fifteen people who got their fifteen minutes of fame in 2008. Being social climbers ourselves, we scrutinized the article closely, trying to read between lines in hopes of discovering some obscure pattern that might help us to achieve similar results in 2009.

Here's a random sampling of the men and five out of six of the women they featured. See if you can come up with anything.

Michael Forbes:  Scottish fisherman who refused to sell his family farm to Donald Trump
William Lopez:  Streaked Yankee Stadium during his graduation ceremony
Veeramuthu Kalimuthu:  Mechanic who jumped onto subway tracks to rescue a stranger
Alain Robert:  French daredevil who climbed the New York Times building

Kristin Davis:  Ran a high-end Manhattan prostitution ring
Laura Fay:  Slept with Vito Fossella
Rielle Hunter:  Slept with John Edwards
Mindy McCready:  Slept with Roger Clemens
Ashley Dupre:  Slept with Eliot Spitzer

Secret Millionaire stinks, though not quite as badly as Oprah's The Big Give. Oprah's show suffered from a bizarre concept, criticizing people for helping others. "You raised money for a little boy's kidney dialysis?" a judge barks. "Well, Sharlene found a home for a handicapped orphan. So. Get. Your. Lame. Ass. Out. Of. My. SIGHT!"

SM sticks a rich person into a poor environment, to show them how the other ninety-nine percent live and convince them to help out. Unlike Oprah's show, it's forty minutes of bragging and five minutes of charity. We meet our "secret millionaire" in scenes straight out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. There he is on his yacht! Look at his Bentley! He's got nine homes! Oh, how wonderful it is to be rich!

The producers obviously want a stark contrast with the selfless, thoughtful person the millionaire becomes at the end, so they paint him as a real asshole at the beginning. They did a Grade-A job with Gurbaksh Chahal, who's supposedly worth three hundred mil. His seven-million-dollar penthouse is so tacky it makes Donald Trump's gilded pad look like an Amish barn. His monogram is carved into everything but the upstairs maid. He calls himself "G," which naturally means that penthouse is called The G Spot.

We're immediately sucked in. It's the opposite of Peter Pan: clap your hands and think happy thoughts, kids, and we'll all see an asshole shot down! We're on the edge of our seats as he's shoved out onto the mean streets. To, uh, wander around.

Hey, I thought he was supposed to get a job! Dude's just wandering around San Francisco. What, is he going to buy clam chowder for a homeless guy? And wasn't he was supposed to leave all that luxury behind? He's got at least a hundred thousand worth of gel in his hair.

G isn't drawn into the new surroundings: we're drawn into his. We too are filthy rich folk slumming in a soup kitchen. Ohmigod! What hideousness! Here's a hundred dollars: just please stop touching my coat.

He breaks down in tears at one point, so we've got our fingers crossed. We can't wait to see how this catharsis plays out in cash. He awards thirty-five thousand to a soup kitchen. Uh, whaaa? He's got a quarter-billion and he won't even round off? Yup, it's an omen: another thirty-five thousand goes to a homeless shelter, and two people each get ten thou.

Ninety thousand dollars. (There's no explanation why he didn't cough up the hundred thou they require.) That's like a guy with thirty thousand in the bank giving away NINE DOLLARS. Judging by this criteria, my grandma should make the news every time she sends me a birthday check.

One $10,000 recipient literally says, "I can't accept this," because there's something distasteful in G's face. He's not even remotely involved. He's tossing a quarter to a cripple and waiting to hear "Thanks." Besides, it's hardly transforming. In San Francisco, it'll barely cover a month's rent and an iced latte.

With the help of this episode, I narrowed down exactly what I like about the program. Giving money to poor folk? Eh. Sticking rich people in cheap motels? Nope. No, it's making rich people work. Their money doesn't even remotely correspond to any effort they've made, so that's always the part that stuns them, that sends their plucked eyebrows sliding up their botoxed foreheads. If they strung together the middle bits of every episode and called it "Attractive People Do An Honest Day's Work," I think Fox would have a hit on their hands.

Still, the show teaches a valuable lesson. That's why G's rich and we aren't, we realize as he drives back to the G Spot in his white Bentley. We saw Secret Millionaire as a show about giving. He saw a chance to pay $90,000 for an hour of primetime PR.

Pope Benedict said on Monday that saving humanity from homosexuals and transsexuals is just as important as saving the rainforest from destruction.

Transsexuals, sure, but homosexuals? We're not chopping down anybody's wood.



Speaking at the U. S. Army War College in Thorpe, Pennsylvania last week, President Bush declared that one major success of his two terms in office has been spreading democracy throughout the world. As a direct result of his administration's efforts, he said, ''more people live in liberty than at any other time in human history.''

Then he sang "Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose" and flipped everybody the bird.





The New York post office has temporarily suspended "Operation Santa," the program where volunteers "adopt" underprivileged children's letters to Santa and then deliver presents to the kids.

Because the #1 most popular present Santa's helpers were delivering? Dick in a Box.





On Friday a clown wearing brightly-colored pants, giant shoes and a policeman's helmet was strip-searched by security guards at Birmingham International Airport.

Dave Vaughan, 60, who performs for sick children as Police Constable Konk, was with a crowd of 100 disadvantaged youngsters about to board a charity flight around Britain when he set off a metal detector. Guards examined his plastic scissors, toy camera, wacky glasses and bubble saxophone before ordering him to strip.

Guards were horrified to discover that his lapel carnation isn't the only thing that squirts.

Poem Made of Song Titles from Jamie Foxx's New CD "Intuition"

Freak'in me
Slow.

She got her own
Number one
Just like me.

I don't need it,
Weekend lover.
I don't know
Why.

New York Phone Call

ME: Hello. Do you have chocolate-covered cherries?

GUY: This is a florist shop. You looking for a chocolate shop? This is a florist shop. We sell flowers.

ME: On your website it says you sell gift baskets, and some of them have chocolate-covered cherries.

GUY: (PAUSE) Six ounces for fifteen dollars.

A burglar hit Paris Hilton's Hollywood Hills home at around five o'clock this morning. The crook forced his way through the front door and absconded with an estimated $2 million worth of jewelry and other belongings.

Paris stumbled upon the burglar in action but thought it was somebody she'd slept with, since he was wearing pants. He'd been gone for seven hours before she realized the duct tape and handcuffs weren't foreplay.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a direct descendent of Forrest Gump: an odd central figure who almost seems mentally stunted charts a timeline through history. Look, there's World War I! Now Pearl Harbor! Look, it's the Beatles, and hippies!

It's almost the opposite of The Wrestler: sprawling, epic, big budget. Where a writer could have rendered The Wrestler brilliant, in Benjamin's case we wonder what an actor could have done with the title role. It's calculated and mass-market, but somehow it's still got vision and heart. The diversions add texture and depth to the film, as opposed to the confusing, jarring tangents The Wrestler almost seemed to ad lib.

It's sweet, it's sad, it's sappy, it's terrific. One of the best films of the year.

Two small quibbles, though. One, my hopes for a finale featuring a giant fetus with boyish dimples and six-pack abs ascending into space à la 2001 were dashed. And two, Brad Pitt's supposed to pass for a middle-aged dude just by painting on wrinkles and tousling his hair?

Really, you need the incessant farting, too.

I ran into a politically-connected acquaintance last night. He's a big dude, with one of those personalities that can instantly swing from gregarious to killer should the need arise. His stories range from interesting to just plain crazy, from Rush Limbaugh to Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory.

I asked him if he was going to the inauguration, and he said no fuckin' way. He said the whole city will be full of miscellaneous crazies, and he hinted that there might be problems.

"If terrorists had any power, wouldn't they have acted against Bush?" I asked.

"Bush Sr. is the most powerful man in the world," he replied. "He made some serious connections while he was in the CIA. Nobody's gonna touch his son."

"What about the Iraqi shoe-thrower?" I asked.

He laughed. "Bush Jr. set that up himself. C'mon, think about it: two foreign objects come flying at him, and he doesn't run? The Secret Service doesn't shoot the thrower, doesn't surround Bush and get him out the back door stat? No, and there's exactly one reason why not."

He paused for emphasis here.

"Because everybody knew in advance that they were just shoes."

Barack Obama was quick to defend awarding Rick Warren, a prominent anti-gay pastor, an auspicious spot in the upcoming auguration:

[I]t is important for America to come together even though we may have disagreements on certain social issues.

Backing up this statement, Obama cited other people scheduled to appear whose views don't necessarily agree with the mainstream. Clarence Thomas will talk about the role of women in the workplace. Michael Richards is going to perform a comedic monologue. Mel Gibson will reenact scenes from the Bible, like when the Jews killed Our Lord.

And representing miscellaneous nutjobs, Bobby Brown will sing.



(Via Joe.My.God)

Random Rant Thursday

God, I am getting so sick of this stupid white supremacist family. They're all over the news whining about that ShopRite store that wouldn't make a birthday cake for their adorable little ADOLF HITLER Campbell.

Heath Campbell, the dentally-challenged dad, is shocked -- simply shocked! -- about all the intolerance around. I mean, a grocery store here in America refusing to make a birthday cake for a sweet little kid! He thought this was a free country! He thought we had freedom of expression! Why are his rights being trampled on?

He's mystified -- yes, mystified! -- how anybody could brand him a racist. He was exercising his free speech, is all. The kid could just have easily been named Big Yellow Rainslicker Campbell, or Basil-Flecked Minestrone Campbell. He pulls a slightly off-kilter name out of a hat and all of a sudden people freak out! Christ, next thing you know Don Cornelius will refuse to give a shout-out to God Hates Gypsies O'Meara.

So, tell you what I'm gonna do, Heath. You want to exercise your free speech? Change your own freakin' name to Brain-Dead Waste of Space Campbell and I'll make your next birthday cake myself.

You know what pisses me off? I'm an atheist, but deep in my heart I know that we atheists can never be as cool as religious folk.

Take this adorable old grandma who was kidnapped the other day. She's like seventy-five years old, and three teenagers bind her up with duct tape and lock her in the trunk of her own car while they joyride, buying smokes and Red Bull with her credit cards. After twenty-six hours -- yup, the next day -- they're stopped by the cops, who arrest them and finally let her out. While she's recovering in the hospital reporters ask her how she passed all that time locked in the trunk.

She was praying, of course. And talking to her husband, who'd recently died. She was asking Don to tell God that she really needed His help.

And you know what? Don came through. Don told God, and God told the police. Sigh: Don came through.

Now, this pisses me off in a couple different ways. First, my ex-husbands never ran errands for me even while they were alive. But mostly I realize that no matter how cool I get to be in life -- and this is obviously a priority, you know -- I'm never going to be as cool as Sandy Vinge. A 75-year-old grandmother. Because I think the dead are dead, so talking to them is stupid. And I'm convinced there's no God, so I won't be chatting with Him either.

So if, God forbid, I'm locked in a car trunk for twenty-six hours, and reporters ask me what I did during that time, there's no way I can be amazing. What's my choice? "I thought about Taco Bell enchiritos for, like, three hours, and then I tried to jerk off."

Not quite as inspiring, huh? Maybe that's why atheism has never caught on. If we want to attract more followers, we're really going to have to address that.

There's a special-edition Barbie doll now on sale to commemorate Hitchcock's The Birds. Yes, complete with flesh-eating crows.

Fun, but I'm going to wait and see what you get with Vertigo Barbie.

Coulda Been a Contender

Has there ever been a wrestling match where the camera didn't linger long and lustfully on the contenders' perky pouches, ostensibly filming the man-on-man sport but also pretty well documenting just about every bobble of the spandex-clad trunk meat?

There is now. Darren Aronofsky's new film The Wrestler has just about everything else you want in professional wrestling: action, headbanging music and hair extensions. But zero loving updates of What The Protagonist's Willy Is Up To Now.

How strange, we think. UnAmerican. It's like having a picnic and forgetting the fried chicken.

In a better film, we wouldn't have missed it, but in The Wrestler there's a giant hole waiting to be filled. It could be a great film, though it's not exactly a new concept. Cut to commercial:

GIRL: I want to see the veteran wrestler deal with his body's collapse!

GUY: I can't wait to see Marisa Tomei, similarly aging in a youth-obsessed occupation, strip while she's depressed!

We get restless waiting for one of our cliches to do something interesting. We wait in vain. Mostly, they just age, and follow the teachings of Screenwriting 101.

We're treated to a near-naked Marisa Tomei, struggling to act. We're truly impressed by Mickey Rourke's full-throttle portrayal, though we occasionally wonder if a real down-and-out athlete would look like a bulked-up Joel Grey.

But we want more, and we don't get it. The meat is missing from our sandwich. We've got two main characters who barely connect, and a half-hearted attempt to go for something deeper, with Jesus tattoos and quotes from The Passion of the Christ. Seriously, dude? A guy strips almost naked and wrestles with other dudes, and you see religion in it? That's preposterous.

Priests don't go back to their corners when you count to three.

Every year the White House releases a holiday video, and this year's is particularly wacky. Barney, the president's dog, was in charge of decorating!

Too bad he didn't do foreign policy too.



"Sprinting to the finish"? Dude, you stumbled over the starting gate.

Old Spice's Man of the Year

Ooh, Matt Chancey is a manly man. Or so says his wife, Jennie, fifteen times in her entry essay.

How manly is Matt? He likes John Wayne movies. He likes hunting. He thinks women shouldn't vote, hold political office, attend college, or work outside the home. (Isn't there enough work to do inside?)

Naturally, Jennie is the paragon of the womanly arts. She likes to sew and design patterns for their eight homeschooled kids. She has two websites: Beautiful Womanhood and Ladies Against Feminism. Her father, Reverend Ovid Need, speaks regularly on the evils of race mixing.

I'd recommend Jennie's essay on how women need to stay home and blindly follow their husbands, but really my favorite part is the address:

http://www.visionforumministries.org/issues/family/ jennie_chancey_responds_to_tit.aspx

Get thee behind me, Satan! Defile not our URLs. And if one of your minions has to get me stinkwater this Christmas, make it Hai Karate instead.


(Via Queerty.)

A white supremacist couple is furious after a ShopRite store refused to decorate a cake with birthday wishes for their son, Adolf Hitler Campbell.



Luckily a local WalMart agreed to their request, writing "Happy Birthday Adolf Hitler Campbell!" in big flowery letters on a German chocolate cake.

And I'd still rather have that cake than a Cookie Puss.


(Via Gawker and JoeMyGod)

Paul McCartney claims that he was the politically-active Beatle, rather than John Lennon. In an interview Sunday McCartney said he was the first to raised objections to the Vietnam war within the group, thus initiating their anti-war stance.

Fans have always thought that John Lennon was the group's political conscience, penning songs like "Revolution," "Imagine," and "Give Peace a Chance."

McCartney bolsters his claim by saying that "Hi Hi Hi" addresses global warming, and "Band on the Run" is about him and Linda chasing Osama bin Laden.






In today's Times, a recovering alcoholic says drunkenness is no longer fashionable in New York.

And in an exclusive interview to be published tomorrow, Nancy Reagan declares blowjobs déclassé.




God forbid you teach kids how to use a rifle. No, it's much better to teach them that cameras kill.

Virginia is for Liars

Virginia has started a publicity blitz in an effort to get more tourists to visit. Television, magazine and newspaper ads are reminding America that 2009 marks the 40th anniversary of the state's motto Virginia is for Lovers, declaring it "one of the most recognizable and enduring tourism slogans in the country."

2009 also marks the fifth anniversary of HB 751, which bans all contracts between same-sex partners in Virginia. Which means gay adoption, gay marriage, domestic partnerships and civil unions are illegal.

"What the Virginia Legislature has done is a great example for other states to follow in protecting our country from counterfeit marriage," said Jan LaRue, Concerned Women for America's chief counsel. The Virginia bill is more comprehensive than the laws in other states because it bans any agreement giving gays equal rights, regardless of the name.

So remember, kids: when they say Virginia is for lovers, they mean homosexuals need not apply.

Maybe Bush is right and the war isn't a total mess. I mean, now that our soldiers are over there, the Iraqis are learning to fight back.



Naturally Bush put a positive spin on it, acting proud to be the target of such an insult. "Uh, it's like going to a political rally and having people yell at you," he declared after ducking the flying footwear. "It's like driving down the street and have people not gesturing with all five fingers."

Yup, it's an honor. And Bush is proud to be the most honored president in U. S. history.

Before he was carried away, the shoe-thrower -- a journalist named Muntader al-Zaidi -- said the war was destroying Iraq, and that Bush was a dog.

"Well, that's just his opinion," the president replied before trotting off to fetch the shoes.

After dinner I'm sitting in my easy chair. I'm hoping dinner'll go down without too much of a fight, but considering we had tofu, quinoa and brussel sprouts I'm thinking the odds aren't good. My grandson is playing with his LeapPad in front of the plasma TV.

He's the spitting image of Rooster, my ex. It's like one day they're wearing OshKosh onesies and crying all night, and the next they're in a commune in Palo Alto, sharing a bisexual biker with a chick named Rainbow. "C'mere, Keanu," I say, "and sit on your granddad's knee. Did I ever tell you about what gay bars were like when I was a kid?"

"Only about a thousand times, Grandpa," he says, rolling his eyes.

"They weren't like bars today," I say, ignoring his indifference, "with ferns and brass and Madonna on the stereo. Guys didn't have fauxhawks, or Abercrombie & Fitch. We didn't type each other's names into our BlackBerries, then later check to see what Google said. Nope -- back when I was a kid, the bars were so scary, you'd have to polish off a quart of Jack Daniels just to screw up the courage to go in. You never knew who the hell you were gonna run into: amputee fetishists, body-mod dungeonmasters, or your high school gym teacher, hopped up on speed, with a hard-on longer than your arm."

My son Rooster Jr. glances in from the kitchen, apron tied around his waist. I smile reassuringly so his worried look disappears and he goes back to the dishes. "Man, I used to love the One Way," I continue. "Five hundred sweaty, shirtless men, with one little red lightbulb. Every wall was painted black, with cyclone fencing dividing the space into rooms so you'd feel just like a caged animal. You'd shake so much you could hardly hold a beer, not knowing if some butch leather daddy was going to drag you home and chain you to his radiator, or if they were just going to tie you to the pool table and let everybody take turns. Nope, it was dark and dank and totally out of control, and gosh darn it, I loved it."

Rooster Jr. returns, looking all concerned. "What's brought all this on, dad?" he says. "You find another Quaalude under the fridge?"

I sigh. "It's this new Richard Morel two-CD set, Death of the Paperboy. The first CD's got some nice tunes, but on the second he remixes the hell out of that shit. It's hot and dark and amyl-nitrate sexy, swirling purple sound that makes you want to grab another dude and suck his face so hard light can't escape. 'Shoegazer disco,' Morel calls it, but all I know is, you crank this shit up and you're gonna get flashbacks of leather chaps and blacklights and a dude named b-boy cleaning your boots with his tongue. The perfect soundtrack whether you're speeding down the highway in the middle of the night or stopped at a red light, cruising some pierce-nosed cub. I was listening to it in the park this morning: I swear, one minute I'm tapping my foot and humming along, and the next thing you know my shirt is tucked into my back pocket and I'm dry-humping somebody's dog."

"Can I listen to it, dad?" Keanu asks.

"Absolutely not," Rooster Jr. declares. "You're not nearly old enough."

"Goddammit," I say. "Don't coddle the boy! When I was his age, I had my photo on a Led Zeppelin album and genital warts."

"Exactly," Rooster Jr. says, heading back to the kitchen.

"Fine!" I shout after him. "Let's all listen to the Indigo Girls!" When he's out of earshot I grunt in disgust. "Hey, did I ever tell you about how I met Rooster?" I ask the kid.

"Only about a million times, Grandpa," Keanu says with a bored sigh. "He wore leather chaps, and had five o'clock shadow that could scrub lasagna pans clean. You left to have a quickie with him in the alley, and three days later you got woken up by Jane Fonda underneath a philodendron in Golden Gate Park."

"Okay, okay," I tell him. "Pardon a cranky old man for reminiscing. For thinking back to when guys didn't take other guys to Jamba Juice for a date, or start screaming when they found out you had pubic hair. No, everything's fine today! Let's all go have Pinkberry and talk about Lindsay Lohan's career!"

Keanu starts to look alarmed, and I realize maybe I've gone too far. "Oh, fuck it. Everything's great. Really. This generation is just fabulous. Out of the closets and into the streets! Now, five bucks to the first kid who finds me something white and round underneath the fridge."

Oh, yeah? Well, here's the headline in the paper I read:

While gays protest, heteros lap up fermented juices at local watering holes

(Via Gawker)

Tiny plastic figures of Barack Obama relieving himself in public have become instant bestsellers in the Catalonia region of Spain. President-elect Obama has joined a host of politicians, sports stars and celebrities to be given the dubious honor of being turned into a caganer.

Catalonians traditionally celebrate Christmas by placing a caganer, which translates as pooper, in a nativity scene. People find it fun to try to spot the tiny defecating figures which are supposed to bring prosperity and a good harvest.


Thus answering that age-old question: What, child, is this?

An English town is naming all their new streets after classic Rolling Stones songs. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards supposedly met at Dartford, England's train station, and local politicians want to commemorate this event on the town map.

The announcement was made from Dartford City Hall, located at the corner of Stupid Girl Boulevard and Hey You Get Offa My Drive.

Email from Johnnie Walker

Yes, we Johnnie Walker fans are a special breed. Not like the ass-scented poonhounds who drink Glenlivet.

Kids, don't worry -- Santa will get here. But first he's gotta kill some goddamned ducks.

From the latest Star magazine:

Britney Spears is beautiful, rich and talented, but the pop star is so desperately lonely that she was filmed giving her number to a Broadway star.

Yeah, that's desperate all right. Me, I've been texting a waiter at the local Chili's, and I just mailed nude photos of myself to Billy Mays.

The Golden Globe nominations have been announced. Heath Ledger nabbed a best supporting actor nod for his turn as the Joker in The Dark Knight, while Tom Cruise and Robert Downey Jr. were nominated as best supporting actor for Tropic Thunder: Cruise hidden behind a bald cap, beard and fat suit, and Downey playing a black man.

What, so crazy makeup is the same as great acting? Somebody give Ann Miller a lifetime achievement award.

The Truth About My Family. Though oddly the words "She marries me, and I give her ten million dollars" never appear.

As for his "favorite photos," I'm guessing three are of J. C. Penney's underwear models and one is from a Bowflex ad.

(Via Gawker)

What if the writers of The Mentalist had also written Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock Holmes has assembled the suspects in the library at Castle Howard. As the crowd murmurs their discomfort and unease concerning the recent string of brutal murders, the world-famous detective takes center stage in front of the fireplace.

"While this grisly string of attacks may appear almost haphazard to the untrained eye, lying just beneath the surface there's an explanation that renders it all sensible. You see, Miss Irene Sheppington, the children's maid, is really Gerta Schoenfeld, long-lost daughter of Harold Schoenfeld, a German Jew who was murdered by the Third Reich after they confiscated his priceless collection of French impressionist paintings. Years later, when a teenage Miss Schoenfeld toured Castle Howard as part of a Belgian church choir, she spotted the paintings, flashed back on the theft, and instantly knew what she had to do. She started working for the Collier family under an assumed name with the sole purpose of getting the paintings back and extracting her revenge."

The accused woman's eyes dart furtively across the room before settling on a pair of gilded French doors. "You'll never catch me alive!" she shouts, racing toward the doors, only to be stopped midway by a pair of uniformed gendarmes hidden in the alcove.

Dr. Watson stared at his esteemed companion with furrowed brow. "My goodness, my dear Mr. Holmes! You confound me once again! How on earth did you deduce this?"

Holmes leans against the hand-carved mantel, a practiced humility spreading across his face. "I've trained myself to tell when people are lying and when they're telling the truth. I notice the very smallest behaviors that everyone else overlooks: the furtive glance, the nervous stammer, the twitch of a hesitant hand."

"Oh," says one of the policemen. "That's cool."

"Yeah," says the other policeman. "Who'd a guessed?"

FIN

The L. A. Times Wants You To Know About A Very Special Day

What? Today is what? Oh. I guess they'd probably have written about that, too, but this bag shit took up all their space.

I didn't open this email. My guess is it's either for expensive watches or RolePlayingMasturbaters.com.

In the spirit of Digger the Nascar gopher, here are more cartoon creations from the talented pen of David Hill, chairman of the Fox Sports Television Group:

-- Snapper, the endangered sea turtle who can work on her tan now that a Mexican developer has paved over her eggs

-- Charo, the puppy-mill Chihuahua who'd love to see her kids end up in Paris Hilton's closet

-- Clucky, the chicken who think small cages are cozy, and doesn't see any real need to stand up

-- Rocky, the raccoon who'd rather live under a Polo Outlet store than in a hollow tree

-- Backstroke, the polar bear who'd rather go swimming than sit around some dull ice floe

-- Honker, the goose who force-feeds himself

-- Cockadoodle, the rooster who says fighting with razor blades attached to his feet keeps him in tip-top shape

-- Antlers, the moose who hates to admit it but those dudes in the helicopter shot him fair and square

-- Barker, the 102nd Dalmatian who spends his spare time turning his legs into lapels

Because $71.52 just won't pay the freakin' bills.

Tuesday's News Round-Up

"Would everyone PLEASE stop talking about me?" Jennifer Aniston begs yet another reporter.



Behavioral scientists find themselves confronted with a dilemma: now that we've developed great new drugs to lengthen the attention span and improve concentration, how do we keep the poor from wanting them?

Consensus so far: Tell them the drugs don't really work, and then distract them with bits of foil.



According to a new survey, nearly half the people at office Christmas parties have seen their coworkers get drunk and make inappropriate sexual overtures to others.

The other half of the people surveyed said they wished people would knock and then wait a minute before they got their freakin' coats.



In January's O magazine, Oprah Winfrey admits she's fallen off the healthy-living bandwagon and has again ballooned up past two hundred pounds.

Oprah says she's ashamed and embarrassed, and hates how the excess weight has affected her life. ''I had a dress on the Vision Board," she reveals, "but I'm not sure that's gonna fit."

Sadly, she may have to turn to a pink lace granny dress she's been keeping on the Spectacle Board.





David Hill, chairman of the Fox Sports Television Group, has created a mascot for Nascar sports: Digger, the cartoon gopher. Digger is a carefree woodland creature who, Hill says, is initially horrified by the destruction of his native habitat to build a Nascar track but along with the badgers, prairie dogs, rabbits and beavers quickly comes to love the sport.

Next up on Mr. Hill's sketchpad? Swinger, the teacup monkey who just adores having skin cream rubbed in his eyes.

HBO presents "Kid Brothers"

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE - DAY

MIKEY: Hey, Petey, whatcha doin'?

PETEY: My godforsaken stomach has been growling like Curious George with Tourette's. Since the midday repast is nearly an hour away, I figured I'd take the problem in my own blue-mittened hands. I'm baking myself a chocolate cake.

MIKEY: Mmm. I love chocolate. Say, I'm finding myself with a bit of spare time, seeing as how my Hokey Pokey play date has unexpectedly cancelled. Perchance I might assist?

PETEY: Knock yourself out, kid. I didn't realize you enjoyed the motherfuckin' culinary arts.

MIKEY: I don't, really. I enjoy the eating arts.

PETEY: Well, we're a mere fifteen minutes away from digging our burgeoning ivories into a toothsome treat. I added a bunch of water to the cake mix and I'm ready to move onto the next step, but much as I hate to admit it, I can't read the back of the motherfuckin' box unless it's talking about the wheels on the motherfuckin' bus going round and round, or some such shit like that.

MIKEY: It says "Add half a cup of oil."

PETEY: Half a cup of oil? Shit. I won't need my Big Wheel to get around: masticate a slice of this confection and I can just slide from room to motherfuckin' room. Okay, next.

MIKEY: "Stir until moist."

PETEY: Moist? Moist as my motherfuckin' diaper, or moist as our mama's milk-swollen tits? It's already pretty goddamned damp. Now what?

MIKEY: "Pour batter into pan. Bake fifteen minutes on HIGH."

PETEY: Okay, it's in. Shit: this goddamned stove is colder than my weenie in winter. Our heretofore-trustworthy appliance ain't even remotely goddamned hot.

MIKEY: WAHHH! I WANT CAKE! YOU SAID WE WERE GONNA EAT CAKE!

PETEY: Christ, shut your motherfuckin' yap, ya whiny little brat -- it's an easy motherfuckin' fix. Go tell Dada we need another goddamned lightbulb. I gotta hit up Baby's First Crapper. (PAUSE) Oh, shit.

MIKEY: What? Has yet another unexpected problem arisen?

PETEY: Just go, you wee-dicked bastard. And if you've got any sense at all in that soft little head of yours, you won't crawl downwind.

Cambridge University's Space Flight science club recently launched two teddy bears into space -- on a total budget of $90.

The bears, named MAT and KMS, were decked out in custom-made space suits and launched on a weather balloon more than 18 miles above the Earth in the four-hour expedition.

After completing their mission the pair parachuted back to earth and made a soft landing just 50 miles from their launch pad.


Have you ever seen a pair of bears that high?

Okay, outside of a West Hollywood hot tub.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Someone's Going to Get Punched

Line By Line Translation of an Email I Got From Microsoft

Thank you for reporting spam to the Windows Live Hotmail Support Team. This is an auto-generated response to inform you that we have received your submission.

Hi Roman! Gosh, isn't this like the four hundredth time you've written to us? You must still be getting eighty emails a day from people who want you to see the Viagra and Cialis ads they've posted on spaces.live.com. Are you still hoping that Microsoft, as the owners of spaces.live.com, will actually pull these ads down, or make these folks stop spamming?

Sure. That's gonna happen. And one day we're going to have real people read our email.

Unfortunately, in order to process your request, Hotmail Support needs a valid Windows Live Hotmail hosted account.

See, dude, we're not even going to look at your email until you do a few things. First, buy a PC. Second, install Windows. Third, open a Windoews Live Hotmmail acounnt.

Sorry about the typos in the third step, but our hands went awry when we started laughing.

We can help you best when you forward the spam/abusive mail as an attachment to us. The attachment should have full headers / message routing information displayed."

What? You sent it as an attachment, and included the full headers? God, if humans were in any way involved in this correspondence they'd feel awfully stupid right now.

If your submission does not involve a third party, please include your own account name in the body of your message along with the description of your concerns so we can process your report.

Get the message, dude? No matter who you write to at live.com, you're always going to get this email back. Seriously, writing us is just slightly stupider than asking your dog to mix you a martini.

For further instructions on how to submit spam and abusive emails to Windows Live Hotmail, please visit:

http://postmaster.live.com/Guidelines.aspx

For more information about Windows Live Hotmail's efforts and technologies used to fight spam and abusive e-mails please visit:

http://postmaster.live.com/FightingJunk.aspx

Since you've obviously got spare time, here are a couple websites that are even more useless than YouTube. Let's all do our part to fight spam! Why don't you start by not emailing us?

Microsoft: If we had any conscience at all, would we have brought you Vista?

I don't see how stores get away with it.

For a while I thought there were some ridiculously cheap people in New York City. Every Friday a plastic bag full of flyers appeared on my doorstep, advertising sales that started on Sunday. I'd casually flip through them and make mental notes of what to pick up the next time I passed one of these stores.

Rite Aid had the best bargains. Toothpaste, deodorant, mouthwash. Every week something I wanted was half price . . . if rebates didn't make it free.

By the time I got to the store, though, the shelves were bare. I'd drop by on Tuesday and find nothing. Monday, nothing. Finally I dragged myself there on Sunday afternoon and still left empty-handed.

I started to wonder: what kind of cheapsters race to the drug store on Sunday morning just to save a buck off Crest?

Nearly a month out of deodorant, I went to Rite Aid on a Saturday, the day before a Mitchum sale started. I'd take what I wanted and hide it, and then go back during the week. The clerk would eye my rare booty with shock, saying something like, "Wow, where did you find these?" and I'd bask in pride and say, "Gosh, just lucky, I guess!"

Except they were already out. Yup, coaxing us in with cheap prices when the store had absolutely zero in stock.

Furious -- and desperately in need of deodorant -- I went to Target. It's half an hour away, but I'd stock up so it'd almost be worth the time. Two bucks for Mitchum, their ad said. I found the right aisle and whereas Rite Aid would have had four inches of shelf space empty, Target had eight to ten feet.

Empty. Clean. Stripped by locusts bare.

All the blood in my body rushed to my head, and just before it exploded like an overheated teakettle I noticed little pads of paper below the empty shelves. Rainchecks. Yeah, like that'll help. Like somebody's going to come back in a couple weeks just to save a buck or two.

I'll show them, I thought, grabbing a raincheck. That's exactly what I'll do.

I waited in line twenty minutes to get the raincheck validated, then a couple weeks later went back. The shelves were overloaded now that Mitchum wasn't on sale: rows and rows of different types. Brimming with pride at my achievement, I grabbed five of them and strutted to the checkout. The clerk scanned my merchandise, then my raincheck. She shook her head. "This raincheck is for Lady Mitchum, floral fragrance," she announced. "It's not good for unscented men's."

And that's when my life flashed before my eyes.

All that effort. Hundreds of hours spent scanning ads. Dozens of visits to stores. Days and days wasted waiting in line. For nothing. And now, adding insult to injury, if I wanted to save five freakin' dollars I'd have to buy women's deodorant.

What a scam they had. Pulling customers in with promises of great prices. Sending them out with full-priced crap.

I wasn't falling for it.

I took the men's deodorant back and swapped them for five Lady Mitchum floral sticks. "Ring them up," I told the clerk. Eyeing the effeminate little containers I started to sweat, and for the last time I can remember I didn't smell like rose.

President Bush just seems to have a knack for screwing up. All he had to do was make sure a non-offensive image was chosen for the holiday card to be sent out to leaders of the Jewish community. But no, his people screw up, and now they're left scrambling. Sorry! they say. We "inadvertently used artwork that may be seen as offensive by certain religious communities." Forget all about that card!

Well, I don't know. It doesn't sit well with me. But seeing as how it was an innocent mistake.