Yesterday Tiger Woods took the full blame for his recent crash where he plowed his car into a fire hydrant and a tree. "The only person responsible for the accident is me," he wrote on his website. "This situation is my fault."

In press conferences held shortly thereafter, both the fire hydrant and the tree expressed relief that their names have finally been cleared.

Thank you for buying a sex doll from Bird Industries. A sex doll is a great investment and a perfect gift. Most men have videogame systems, or juke boxes, or pool tables, yet very few have high-quality sex dolls. When properly maintained, your sex doll will give you far more pleasure than any of these. A good host should always have a sex doll on hand, because sometimes the guys just don't want to play Wii.

Your doll is made of high-quality rubber and dirt will not permeate it. We here at Bird Industries, though, believe a gentleman should always restore a lady to the cleanliness she showed before your encounter. This is why we include a tiny cleaning kit with every sex doll including:

-- a tiny bottle of Formula 409
-- a very small squeegee
-- a miniature Wet & Dri vacuum with six-inch hose

You don't need to clean your sex doll after every "date." Just wipe her down with a damp cloth. We recommend a thorough cleaning at least once a month, however. Think of Francine like your car: just park her in the garage on most nights, but she'll need a real going-over, inside and out, after ten or twelve times of riding her home.

Avoid the use of harsh chemicals such as paint thinner or acetone in cleaning your doll. We don't recommend giving your doll "love bites," no matter how affectionate you feel. While we're sure Francine returns your feelings, her flesh isn't as resilient as the real thing, and really, it's like eating tofu.

If your doll appears to be deflating, check for leaks by immersing her nude body into the tub. I don't think I need to remind you to MAKE SURE THE CURTAINS ARE DRAWN.

If your doll appears dry, use any over-the-counter hand cream or moisturizer, such as Jergens or Oil of Olay, to lubricate it. Rub the lotion all over your doll, making sure to get it deep into all the nooks and crannies, but don't get carried away. Remember -- that's what got Francine into this state in the first place.

Once again, thank you for buying from Bird Industries. And on second thought, maybe you should probably just crumple up this sheet and throw it away.

If you were any good at following directions, you wouldn't be fucking a doll in the first place.

President of Company That Claims Best-Fitting Men's Pants Apparently Hasn't Seen Own Ass

On my way to see Fantastic Mr. Fox yesterday, I saw a well-dressed couple leave a pie on the top of a shopping cart full of garbage owned by some homeless man.

But it wasn't just any pie: it was a Thanksgiving-themed pumpkin pie with a dough-cutout shaped like a turkey on top.

Part of me said, aww, isn't that nice? Isn't that thoughtful?

But another part of me pictured the man returning to his cart, seeing it, and thinking, "It's Thanksgiving? Hey, thanks for letting me know!"

Restitution and Rehabilitation in the Federal Penitentiary System, by The New York Times

[World Record sprinter Tim Montgomery, arrested for bank fraud and drug dealing] is now in a minimum security prison in Montgomery, Ala., and works as a landscaper. But he said he has had some tough moments since being locked up, including having to beat up a pedophile cellmate in a New York prison because otherwise ''the other inmates would have thought I was soft.''

From My Inbox

Master RomanHans:

There be millions of Olde Englishmen in the New World today, and I daresay you insult every one with the wretched palaver which you so freely distribute. You wish me graveled, no doubt, but i'll chaffe with you and I'll have you know, I smell thy rat!

Thou actually contend "He witnesseth" is proper grammar? All and sundry know in sooth, they are the words of a jesting monkey, as much as thou might proclaim "I gone to the store." Of similar ilk, "malefactors . . . doth" and "yon morrow" be devilish spectacle rather than propertly-comported King's English.

Wiseacre, guard thy tongue! Thou be a pus-filled blight upon a sow's arse, and it shall be your haslet which boils over. We base wretches flee the distant old country, and the iron fist of George II, to eke out hardscrabble existence in this incarnadine land, and for what? So some illiterate ponce can make merry of our language, with all "Prithee this" and "Gadzooks that"?

I don't think so, asshole.

Your faithful servant,
Bumbletort the butcher

Well, looks like I have to eat my words. Adam Lambert was on The Early Show this morning, and apparently ABC showed remarkable wisdom and foresight in banning him. The New York Times has already filed a news bulletin about this, so I'll let them describe the unbelievable scene:
This morn the detestable and abominable Vice of Buggery claimed this fair screed after he witnesseth a performance by Mr. Adam Lambert. The crooner appear'd possessed as if by the devil himself, as he stalked the stage with a countenance midway between man and beast, holding the vile mechanisms of electrified musicianship between his fingers like a Scottish tart. He belched and roared with the fervor of Satan himself, until, squealing like a banshee, he had performed two songs from his debut album, For Your Entertainment. Then he signed autographs for the audience.

Everyone who witnessed this acursed spectacle was instantly debauched, with the softest Kid turned into uncouth leather. Now malefactors of all description doth congregate in our cities, and buggery is spreading like wildfire from blackguard to jackanape. All hope for this fledgling civilisation is lost. Alas, even this poor reporter, dear reader, is without a blush in saying he has been sucked up into base delights, and is sodomizing a sharp-tongued goat as he writes.

More prattle yon morrow from scribe Alex Kuczynski.

You Too Can Learn Street Lingo: Lesson One

“Barf!” Rihanna squealed, at the sight of a pair of pale pink satin Brian Atwood stilettos. In her world this is a compliment. “Usually it’s ‘ill’ or ‘I want to throw up on it,’ ” she explained. “But barf is the worst,” meaning the best. “Barf is 10 out of 10.”

In a no-frills rehearsal space near the Burbank airport, Rihanna, the R&B star, was picking out the sickest outfits for her next few weeks of appearances. “This whole line is barf,” she said.

So, Adam Lambert had a goal: he wanted to push the envelope. "I do feel like there's a bit of a double standard in the entertainment community, on television, on radio," he said. "I feel like women performers have been pushing the envelope, especially, for the past 20 years. And all of the sudden a male does it and everybody goes 'Oh, we can't show that on TV.' For me, that's a form of discrimination and a double standard."

Well, I know I speak for a lot of good Christians when I say, we don't want our envelopes pushed! So today Mr. Lambert learned there's consequences to every action. Today ABC told him he's been kicked off Good Morning America because 1,500 Christians angrily emailed them, like our good Christian websites told us too. I'm sure the gay community is going to jump up in arms, but after hearing about his performance on Sunday night, I think ABC is justified.
Today ABC announced that it had canceled a performance by Mr. Lambert scheduled for Wednesday on Good Morning America. An ABC spokeswoman explained that “Given his controversial American Music Awards performance, we were concerned about airing a similar concert so early in the morning.”See? Perfectly understandable. They're simply concerned that, if a gay man gets that crazy on a music awards program at 10:58 at night, he might go totally off the rails on a program aimed at middle-aged, mid-American housewives at 7:30 in the morning. How do we know he won't once again give in to his gay impulses? Because God knows when my twins Kristi and Karli are checking out the weather reports before heading off to Baptist school, they don't need to see some guylinered dude fellatiating his guitarist's crotch.

Now, I'm sure all the gay activists are going to leap up and scream about a double standard, but this is just ridiculous. ABC has blacklisted dozens of heterosexual performers after questionable acts. Remember a young man named Justin Timberlake, who tore the top off a young woman during the Super Bowl? No, I don't either -- because ABC banished him from their airwaves. And how about that young woman, with the sparkly sunburst nipple? Her name is forever lost to history because of what they done.

And remember a singer named Madonna? She had a potty mouth and filthy attitude, but ABC wouldn't have none of that. They banished her, smartly, out of concern that during an interview with, like, Matt Lauer, she might mount him and start simulating sexual acts while wearing a conical bra. ABC's trash heap is littered with the names of has-been heterosexual performers who posed similar dangers to their viewers, from the totally-forgotten Christina Aguilera to something called "Lady Gaga."

So, gay activists, don't go screaming double standard.

Well, or if you do, here's the place to do it. (ABC is owned by Disney, and here you can CC a whole bunch of folks.) And here is another place. You might want to mention that you're not going to watch Good Morning America until Adam appears.

Yahoo has hit the nail on the head with this one.

I hate it when smarmy white-bread couples seemingly appear out of nowhere when I'm trying to take a picture of Stig.

Jennifer Lopez had such a great idea: everybody who loves lightweight, fluffy pop also enjoys watching hulks beat each other senseless, so why not use boxing as the theme for her performance? And hey, why not sing a song about $800 high heels?

Too bad Ms. Lopez got winded climbing the stairs to the ring.

I haven't paid attention to her career, since I prefer performers with talent, but answer one question for me: were you all chattering incessantly about her ass to distract us from her chunky thighs? Yeah, like shorts made out of the lint from Tom Ford's dryer will distract from those monsters. On my cheap flat-screen TV her thighs looked like Three Mile Island, except occasionally something entertaining happens there.

As for her dancing, well, it looks like she learned everything she knows from Britney's "What, am I actually on stage now?" routine. And then she fell. God, if she'd actually been trying to dance at the time, she'd have wiped out the auditorium. This morning there'd be nobody left but the Jonas Brothers and Taylor Swift.

Toward the end of the song JLo wandered into the crowd and passed hubby Marc Antony, and you could see him mentally rehearsing what he was going to say when they got home: "Honey, I told you from the beginning it was a crap idea."

Naturally, Adam Lambert stole the show. Good song, provocative performance. A friend called me this morning and said she thought it was "hectic," but I'm guessing she never went to a movie where, two minutes in, half the audience got bored and pulled out their BlackBerries.

I'm listening to his record this morning and it's actually pretty great. Mostly it sounds like Queen, but it veers toward Lady Gaga and occasionally Poison. A Loaded Smile is beautiful. Soaked is a great power ballad that sounds like the best thing k. d. lang's done in thirty years.

Needless to say, the New York Times is pissed off this morning because Lambert sings to the indefinite pronoun "You." That's right, the Times -- the paper that called gay sex "buggery" until, like, two weeks ago. Now they're all finger-snapping, going "Girlfriend, be PROUD!" Yes, Adam: listen to the Times. Next time around sing to specific people, like Tom Cruise, or John Travolta's boyfriend.

As for Lady Gaga, I'm thinking heads will roll this morning. What idiot put her piano inside a giant glass box? God, some people are absolute morons. I'm just glad she broke in in time to finish the song. I also enjoyed her smashing bottles on the piano. Next time around maybe she can spin some plates on sticks too.

Okay, now you want real hating? WHITNEY HOUSTON SHOULD SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO AWAY. She was the most talented singer in the world, bar none, and for the last eight years I've been hoping she'd come back. And whaddaya know, finally she does, and now girlfriend is even more annoying sober. She acts like Satan broke her shoelace, but Jesus bought her a new pair of Louboutins. The minute she put the crack pipe down she started spouting this "I knew I'd survive!" and "You haters know I'm too strong to fail!" and "Just put your faith in the Lord!" claptrap. She's sooo strong and sooo tough, she knew she'd make it through the rain.

Well, except that was EIGHT YEARS of fuckin' rain, during which her children grew up. Even people in Seattle would be going, "What the fuck? She sounded like Debbie Reynolds gargling last night, because that rain totally drowned her ass.

So, call me crazy, but I'm thinking the "Praise Jesus!" routine is preposterous. What, was he in line at Pinkberry for the first seven years eleven months? Dressing Bratz dolls with Bobby Christina? And yes, it's us haters who are the bad guys, sitting around screaming "COULD SOMEBODY PLEASE GET WHITNEY'S ASS TO REHAB?" while she was freebasing coke off Bobby Christina's head.

Naturally the first line of her acceptance speech was, "Of course, God is always Number One in my life." Yeah. Always Number One. Like she's been smoking incense for the last eight years.

Whitney's idiocy is matched only by Kirstie Alley. "Scientology is amazing!" she screams. "We don't need psychiatrists! We don't need drugs! All is possible by the power of the mind!

"Now who the fuck can help me lose eighty pounds?"

Sunday Quickies

Oprah News: Fat Lady Sings!

Note to Kate Moss: Nothing looks as good as intelligent feels.

A British couple have named their new baby daughter Kia after she had to be delivered on the back seat of a Kia SUV.

Tony Richardson and Samantha Smyth were heading to Poole Hospital in Sam's mother's Kia when they realized they were not going to make it. Baby Kia was born at 4:30 am in the back of the car -- and was christened to celebrate the unusual birth.

Welcoming little Kia home were her brother Festiva and her sister Rickshaw.

Went to a great party celebrating Instinct magazine at Greenhouse last night. The club is fantastic, though problematic. It has like fourteen levels, which means roughly every three feet there's another platform and everybody on the bottom level is staring into the crotches of the people up top. Two muscle hunks wandered the party wearing nothing but angel wings and well-packed underwear, and it seemed like every time I turned around there were feathers or other things poking me in the face.

I wasn't there two minutes before a companion of one of the editors tripped on a riser and sent a Pineapple Daiquiri straight into my crotch. Of course I've been wet and sticky before, but it usually follows the part where I have to be an interesting conversationalist.

There were a few minor celebrities -- the amazing Amanda Lepore, underrated gay rapper Cazwell, Nolin Marin from America's Next Top Model. I ran into the awesome Joe.My.God, who naturally is on Instinct's "Leading Men of 2009" list. You can probably guess from his blog that he's smart and handsome and funny, and meeting him in person you discover all your assumptions are right. I swear, if he had a step permanently attached to his feet, I'd be at his door with flowers and lube right now. He was accompanied by Father Tony, who shared my sentiment that Ms. Lepore only improves when naked, and Jeff, this year's model from the Tall and Hot Sidekick store.

The music was so incredibly loud we all faked comprehension.

JOE: Orange pineapple hedgehog.

ME: Really? Fascinating! Mmm.

So instead we played Name That Tune and Joe won, 481 to 0. I'm pretty sure he made up his answers: right, like one of those Real Housewife bimbos has a club hit. I'm positive I would have whipped his butt but they didn't play a single song from 1973.

Another awesome thing about Joe? His stardust is contagious. A handsome young man accosted me after seeing the two of us together and just had to get to know me better. Naturally our conversation sparkled.

HIM: Egyptian toenail oyster.

ME: Honestly? Amazing! Mmm.

I wish I could close this with the mention of another wet crotch but lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place. Instead, thanks to Instinct for a great party, and here's a piece I wrote for them called "Gay Math."

--------------

I flunked math in high school, and I blame word problems. “If one train heads east at thirty miles an hour, and another heads west at twenty miles an hour, when will they meet?” All I can think of is, why didn’t these people fly? I mean, twenty miles an hour? Ice cream trucks move faster. And the horrible food, the crowds, the screaming kids. My head starts to spin so fast bystanders ask me for rides.

Now if they’d asked questions I could relate to, I’d be Stephen J. Hawking today. I came up with some examples: see if you’re better at solving these than the junk they gave you in school.

1. Carl’s nipples are two feet from his penis, and twenty-four inches apart. A leather loop passes through the rings in each piercing. What’s the minimum length of this loop?

(a) seventy-two inches
(b) Sir Isaac Newton
(c) Is Carl spherical or what?

2. Twelve men are in a bar. Three are wearing shoes, five are wearing socks, and two are wearing both. How many men are in bare feet?

(a) God, and I thought “Pajama Night” was annoying.
(b) six
(c) This is why they don’t sell alcohol in Utah.

3. Al likes two hours of foreplay. Ted likes intercourse for forty-five minutes. If they have sex together how long will it last?

(a) The important thing here is that Al and Ted seek some form of counseling.
(b) two hours forty-five minutes
(c) Are you sure these guys aren’t lesbians?

4. If Sam has four inches soft and twelve inches hard, what percentage does he grow?

(a) Spain
(b) 300%
(c) If that’s the Sam I used to date, he thought watermelons were eight feet across.

5. Pat and Chris leave the Manhole at 2:15 a.m. Ignoring lights, they cross Melrose, then Vermont, then Hyperion. What will the policeman give them?

(a) If the Manhole is a straight bar, a friendly wave.
(b) If it’s a lesbian bar, a stern warning and a long, google-eyed look at their breasts.
(c) If it’s a gay bar and this is the LAPD, twelve jaywalking tickets and six shots of mace.

6. Arnie says “All three of us are bottoms.” Wayne says, “You’re the only bottom.” Fred says, “Wayne and I are both bottoms.” If each of them always lies or always tells the truth, how many are lying?

(a) two
(b) the Japanese art of paper-folding
(c) Sigh. They’re all bottoms, aren’t they?

7. There are thirty guys in line at the Pit at 1:30. Eight are more attractive than Wayne. The doorman lets one guy enter every three minutes. Every five minutes four more guys arrive, and two are more attractive than Wayne. When will Wayne get inside?

(a) Ugly dudes ought to stay home. That’s why God invented TV.
(b) 12:15
(c) When Pat Boone stars in “Naked Boys Singing!”

8. At 8:04 on Christmas morning Pete unwraps a G. I. Joe. If it takes ten minutes to take his helmet off, eight minutes to take his shirt off, six minutes to take his boots off, and seven minutes to take his pants off, when will Joe be naked?

(a) 8:41
(b) Christmas is a time for joy and happiness. Pete should just yank Joe’s pants down right away.
(c) Don’t remind me. That was the day I discovered disappointment.

9. A troll spends three-fifths of his money on a stud. He spends half of what’s left on another stud. In all he spends eight dollars. How much money did he start with?

(a) I know why the studs keep leaving.
(b) ten dollars
(c) I wouldn’t wave at an ugly guy for less than twenty.

10. Brad is a 10, and usually sleeps with other 10’s. After every beer, though, he’ll settle for one number lower. If he gets to the bar at seven and has one drink each half-hour, when will he approach Ernest Borgnine?

(a) Ernest Borgnine? What, is Jim Varney dead?
(b) midnight
(c) When his liver swells up like a loofah.

11. Al has two cats. He moves in with Ted, who has eight cats. If each cat eats a can of Sheba every day, how many cans will feed all the cats for a week?

(a) I could never buy cat food with a tiara on it.
(b) 70
(c) If these are the same guys with the two-hour foreplay, they are positively definitely lesbians

12. If a man and a half have sex with a man and a half in a day and a half, how many men will have sex in six days?

(a) twelve
(b) Just out of curiosity, are we talking top half or bottom half?
(c) Jeez, and I thought my boyfriend was a whore.

13. A man’s penis is twice as long as his big toe, and half as long as his feet. If the three measurements total forty-two inches long, how long is his big toe?

(a) Ohmigosh, I’m shaking like Katherine Hepburn in a massage chair.
(b) six inches
(c) This guy’s going to cause fistfights at “Barefoot Night.”

14. Black paint is $50, used toilets are $10, and a crummy sound system is $100. How much will it cost Luigi to convert his garage into a gay bar?

(a) You forgot to include how much three bad techno CDs cost.
(b) $160
(d) Garages are dark, cramped and disgusting. He’ll make a fortune.

15. Two gay people are sitting in the park. The little one is the big one’s son, but the big one isn’t the little one’s father. Explain.

(a) Didn’t I hear about this on “Dateline”?
(b) I don’t think these guys are really related at all.
(c) Everything’s so crazy these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if the big one had a uterus.




HOW TO SCORE:
Dress nicely. Avoid open-toed shoes. Thank anyone who says you've got a hot ass, but run when they pull out thermometers.

There are a lot of good words printed on this toilet paper wrapper describing the contents:

"Saving Trees Since 1950." "A Small, Easy Step to a Greener Earth." "Right For the Environment." "Green, But Hard Working."

So I bought it and brought it home and discovered really only five words can describe it properly:

HIGHWAY
REST
STOP
TOILET
PAPER

You know, I don't understand why this stuff still exists. I certainly do my part to kill it off. When I encounter high-quality toilet paper in my travels, I count off five squares, and I double it twice. But when I run into lousy toilet paper, like this stuff -- Hey, Barnes & Noble! -- I want to punish the people who inflict it on me. Maybe they're cheap, and maybe they don't want to be bothered with changing the roll more than every autumnal solstice. In this case I grab the end of the toilet paper, and I yank.

The wheel starts spinning and I expect Pat Sajak to appear. I keep yanking as the paper comes out to build up some momentum, and pretty soon the wheel is spinning like there's a runaway stagecoach attached. As the paper shoots out I try to loop it around my hands, like somebody's grandma sorting out her yarn, but the stuff is thin as tissue and my arms are four feet apart and inevitably I lose control. What should be a simple process instead looks like I'm throwing some kind of Mexican Birthday Party in my rusted-metal stall.

So I dump it all in the toilet and try again. And again. And again.

With good paper, when I'm finished there are three little pads in the toilet.

With bad paper, when I'm finished it looks like someone with a puffy white afro is going down for the third time.

Meanwhile, there's one weird phenomenon that surely deserves that "Only in New York" tag. Did you know that stores here sell toilet paper by the INDIVIDUAL ROLL? They've got the four-packs, naturally, but next to them there's always a pyramid of single rolls on sale for a buck apiece.

That's the fastest thing that'll get me depressed in America today. Faster than Carrie Prejean, or Viagra commercials, or Bjork movies. Because it's impossible to imagine somebody buying one single roll without adding dialog like, "Hey, who knows if I'm still gonna be pooping tomorrow?"

An Open Letter to Adam Lambert

Dear Adam:

It has come to my attention that you're feuding with a prominent periodical that serves the gay community. Out magazine called you for an interview, and you didn't come running when they called. Now they've published an open letter to you detailing their pique, and you're acting like you're incredibly busy and have better things to do.

Brother, that's the last mistake you want to make.

Make no mistake about this: the gay community is entirely responsible for your success. When all our straight friends were watching American Idol and saying how incredibly talented you are, we were standing there going, "I know!" Sure, an adolescence spent perfecting your talent helped, but you'd still be at a supper club in Bag O' Pretzels, Wyoming without the support of your gay fans, many of whom voted for you on American Idol literally dozens of time if we didn't Tivo it.

Sure, you've never been in the closet. Sure, the second American Idol ended you declared unequivocally that you were out and proud. You've been photographed making out with a boyfriend, and you don't give a damn who knows. But when a gay magazine that's available at several newsstands in a few major American cities calls you and you claim scheduling conflicts, we can't help but ask the question: Exactly how "out and proud" are you? And the answer comes back way too fast.

You haven't dated Lance Bass.

You haven't adopted a Romanian baby.

You haven't hosted the Tonys.

Would it kill you to duet with Elton John?

Buddy, maybe you were blithely unaware, so I'll spell it out for you: when a homosexual magazine with dozens of semi-faithful readers calls, you jump. These people are the Gay Media Elite. You literally could not put on a Hamptons tea dance without them. Yet you spit in their faces and let yourself be photographed by magazines that heterosexuals read.

You run straight to Details, and Rolling Stone -- magazines read by people who don't even own ostrich-skin belts -- and you're photographed cavorting with naked women!

So much for gay and proud, we think. So much for showing solidarity with the guys who get nauseous at the thought of tuna boob.

Still, Adam, I'm happy to say that with a minor attitude adjustment, you can return to the gay fold. Before you sing a song, before you color your hair, before you call Edible Arrangements for a bouquet of decorative fruit, think about how your gay fans will react. Concentrate on re-establishing our trust. Because if you want your face on another undersized free periodical with classified ads by masseurs that include their penis measurements, you're going to have to do a few things.

You need to cover a couple Judy songs.

You need to cavort on a beach with Ricky Martin.

You need to turn up at our dances even before the amyl does.

Because we're the ones who are going to buy your records.

Well, maybe the next one, at least. Girlfriend, that debut looks waaay too gay.

Sincerely,
RomanHans

Welcome to Joe's Pub, New York's friendliest venue

Yes, it's the only entertainment venue in New York where, even after you've sprung for $50 general admission tickets to see Carpathia Bentley and the Mothership Casserole, we're just getting started on your ass:
Dinner reservations are strongly recommended. Seating, as well as standing, is available only on a first-come, first-served basis for all shows without a dinner reservation. There is a two drink or $12 food purchase minimum at Joe's Pub. All events are subject to change without notice.Got that? Sure, you bought a ticket, but you got there late and the place is jammed, so you're standing your butt outside. Tough! Have your lawyers call our lawyers! And even though you can't drink out there, you're still on the hook for the two-drink minimum, so hand over that credit card. Sorry for giggling, but you look like an alkie with a drink in each hand!

And by the way, Carpathia cancelled, so if you got a spare minute, come on in and sing us all a fuckin' song.

German prosecutors say the 26-year-old man who tried to extort $100,000 from former supermodel Cindy Crawford has turned himself in to police. Edis Kayalar allegedly threatened to release a photo of Crawford's scantily-clad daughter bound to a chair and gagged when she was 7. According to court papers, a former nanny took the picture as part of a ''cops and robbers'' game.


SCENE: Former Supermodel Cindy Crawford talks to a household employee in the foyer of her luxurious Beverly Hills home.

CINDY: My taxi's here, so I'm off to Stuttgart. Have you seen Kaia?

NANNY: She's around here somewhere.

Spunky young KAIA runs by wearing sneakers that blink with every step and a lacy black teddie by Victoria's Secret for Pre-Tweens.

CINDY: There's my little supermodel! Well, I'm off to Germany. See you two next week!

KAIA and NANNY: Bye!

CINDY exits.

KAIA (pouting): I'm bored.

NANNY: Let's play a game. How about Chutes and Ladders?

KAIA: It's dumb.

NANNY: Candyland?

KAIA: That's for kids.

NANNY: How about Cops and Robbers, a game usually played by teams that casts one side as overly imperious and the other as sociopathic career criminals in need of incarceration?

KAIA: Okay!

NANNY picks up KAIA and carries her toward an oversized Chinese Chippendale chair.

NANNY: I'm taking you downtown for questioning about the theft of some very expensive electronics. You'd better do what I say or you'll regret it, young lady.

KAIA: I thought this game was just a lame variation on tag. Forget it -- let's play Parcheesi instead.

NANNY: Hah! Maybe you should have thought about that before you pocketed that GameBoy. We didn't get to be America's biggest retailer by letting hoodlums like you get away scot-free.

NANNY pushes KAIA into a chair and binds her hands with an emergency stash of rope she found nearby.

KAIA: Nanny, you're starting to scare me. And I hope that's pretend rope, so if God forbid anything happens to you I'll be able to call for help.

NANNY: Pretend it is, you remorseless little punk.

NANNY rips off her apron and tears it into strips.

KAIA: Hey, now you're creeping me out. Why do we have to use a gag?

NANNY: That's what they'd do at Wal-Mart. And you won't learn anything at all from children's games unless you cling to the rules with the utmost verisimilitude.

KAIA: Oh. Okay.

NANNY stuffs the makeshift gag in KAIA's mouth. NANNY steps back and admires the child.

NANNY: You know, I hate breaking out of character, but you look absolutely adorable.

KAIA: HMPHHLG?

NANNY: I'm thinking it's like an allegory of the struggle to maintain innocence. The scantily-clad child-bondage thing is incidental to its appeal. (PAUSE) I'll go get the camera.

KAIA: PHLARFF!?!?!

NANNY: Yes, of course Mommy would have celeb shutterbug Steven Klein snap the picture, but Mommy's out of town. You know, I bet this turns out so well I'll keep a copy on my table at home.

TWO WEEKS LATER.

CINDY: But then police caught the culprit and now the whole nightmare is over. (PAUSE) Well, I'm off to Bangkok. You two have fun!

KAIA: Bye Mommy!

NANNY: Bye Ms. Crawford!

CINDY exits.

NANNY (clapping her hands together): Who wants to play Plastic Surgeon?

FIN

I get thousands of invitations to parties that bear the words "open bar," and then I get there and discover it's an open Pabst Blue Ribbon bar. An open Night Train bar. An open Cheetos bar.

Last night at GLAAD's Out Auction -- ticket prices starting at $125 -- the "open bar" featured Bud, some unknown wine, and Stoli. Maybe it was intended to remind us about the tragic plight of the gay community: I mean, we can't even get fuckin' Grey Goose to pony up a bottle or two.

Still, the art was good, with Herb Ritts' fun-house photos of Madonna a highlight. Lots of handsome men, good music, okay food, great gift bags. Joel Grey is exceedingly nice to people twice his height. At the buffet a chef held a knife to an enormous wheel of cheese. I walked up to him and he looked at me like, "Yes?"

If you're standing next to one huge wheel of cheese, what are the options? I felt like saying, "Could I borrow that to kill a dog?"

I have mixed feelings about GLAAD, and the party was the perfect metaphor: you really can't judge their accomplishment without knowing their staff or budget. Also, I question president Jarrett Barrios' claim that they were responsible for getting So You Think You Can Dance to apologize for insulting a same-sex couple.

Still, in the end I was reminded why these events are necessary. They help form community, they spur fundraising, and they show us that there are optimistic, enthusiastic people on our side trying to do things that need to be done. Maybe there are better or cheaper ways of doing what they're doing, but I haven't seen anybody doing them. So thanks, GLAAD, and keep up the good work.

Two weeks ago, Professor Robin F. Wilson of the Washington & Lee University School of Law testified before a D. C. court about the rights that religious people have under the law.

Professor Wilson declared that "circuit after federal circuit" has determined that, for example, police officers have the right to refuse to guard places that violate their religious beliefs, such as abortion clinics and casinos.

"[P]olice officers and firefighters . . . have been exempted from two things, in specific cases, " Professor Wilson declared. "[O]ne is standing guard at casinos against their conscience. In one case called Endres, the person was actually a Baptist and I guess didn't like gambling."

Unfortunately, the truth is pretty much the opposite. "Firefighters must extinguish all fires, even those in places of worship that the firefighter regards as heretical," the court declared. "Just so with police."

Professor Wilson testified that in another case the courts decided that Chicago police officer Angelo Rodriguez had the right to refuse to guard an abortion clinic

The truth? The court said Officer Rodriguez could try to transfer to a district that didn't have abortion clinics, but the police department didn't have to allow the transfer.

Professor Wilson's odd declarations were caught by D. C. Councilman David Catania, who noted that Professor Wilson is a member of the Virginia Marriage Commission, a group that's fighting marriage equality. Councilman Catania wrote up a fiery little letter [pdf file] than he CC'd to her employer and the state bar.

Remember last week when I said newspapers should use words like fink, liar and asshole instead of dodging them for propriety's sake? Well, here's Councilman Catania's final paragraph:
In closing, I am concerned about the ethical implications of your behavior and strongly caution you to consider your professional obligations of competency and candor. The democratic process depends upon an honest dialogue and open disclosure. As a professor of law, you should know better.This letter is beautifully written, and on point. But sadly, most Americans aren't going to wander through four-pages of legalese, and if Councilman Catania had used a few of the off-limits words they wouldn't need to.

"You're either incompetent or a liar," is what he means, "and if you want to keep being a lawyer, you need to watch your ass."

A 19-year-old New York City man arrested on robbery charges has been exonerated thanks to his Facebook page.

Rodney Bradford was imprisoned for twelve days on suspicion of robbing two people. Bradford and witnesses insisted he was innocent, saying he was at his father's apartment when the robbery took place, but only after it was discovered he'd posted on his Facebook page during the robbery were the charges dropped.

So, for anybody keeping score, the NYPD has just put "Online networking sites" above "Black witnesses" and "Black suspects" on its Believability Scale.



More than two million dollars worth of counterfeit cigarettes filled with rabbit droppings instead of tobacco have been confiscated by customs officials in Spain.

The fake cigarettes were discovered after smokers noticed the smell wasn't right. "They stunk," said a customs official. "They smell just as you'd imagine burning poo to smell."

The cigarettes also pose a health hazard. "They not only smell bad but the toxic chemicals they give off are pure poison," explained the official.

The customs official says it's possible some of the counterfeit cigarettes made it into the country, and he warns customers to beware of cigarettes branded Chesterfeces or Virginia Squits.

I am sincerely very, very sorry for beating up that gay man. I was minding my own business, sitting on a bar stool, and he came up next to me and kept on touching me. I warned him several times to back off, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. Finally, after he groped my genital area, I snapped. Even though he's small and I'm huge, I genuinely felt afraid for my life, so I did what I had to do.

And I am really very sorry for assaulting that Greek priest. He was wearing a robe and sandals and I'm a Marine but he still had me fearful for my life. I was minding my own business when he came up and shouted "Allahu Akbar," which is what Muslims yell before they blow you up, and then he tried to touch my penis. So I had no choice but to chase him down the street and hit him with a tire iron.

And I am very sorry for beating up that old Hawaiian man. He was wearing a loose grass skirt, which made me think he was hiding a weapon. And then he did the hula, where every movement tells a story, and the story he was telling started out "I want to touch your penis," so I hit him repeatedly with a coconut.

I am also sorry for hurting that old Jewish lady, but she called me "bubelah," which is Jewish for "I am going to make you eat knishes until your stomach explodes!" And then she grabbed my cheek really hard and squeezed it, which made me think she was going to grab my penis next and cause it physical harm. So I smothered her with a potato latke.

Last, I regret killing my lawyer, but after he got me acquitted of all these charges he tried to high-five me, and that made me think he was going to grab my penis next.

I now kneel before the court and beg your forgiveness, but I gotta warn you guys, if anybody gets a groin within half a mile of me, well, you know what's up.

There's one major benefit to living in New York. Take three steps in any direction and you'll find something amazing to do.

I went up to Shady Hollow for Halloween, because it seemed appropriate. That's where Washington Irving wrote his Headless Horseman story, and he's buried there. They've got to have crazy celebrations, I thought, but after a 90-minute train ride I discovered the city offered nothing more than thousands of SUVs circling the downtown streets, dropping kids off at karate and picking up drycleaning.

Back at Grand Central, though, I found a wonder. Disney had converted an entire working train into a promotion for A Christmas Carol, covering it with billboards and replacing the seats with scale models of all the sets, photos of the stars, and interactive displays showing how they did the special effects. In the last car, the pièce de résistance: have a computer snap your photo and it'll morph your face with Scrooge, Tiny Tim, or some chick who looks like Julia Roberts.

I snapped my photo, morphed it with Tiny Tim, and the result was fabulous. My wrinkles were gone, my eyes were no longer yellow, and my sallow, sunken cheeks were red and full as apples. I gave them my name and email address so they could contact me when the photo was done. Clinging tight to my claim check, I raced home to fetch my photo and post it online.

There's one sad fact about the internet: it exists solely to force you to send personal information to capitalist enterprises so they can spam you every five minutes and convince you to buy worthless crap. After giving Disney my details at Grand Central, now I had to open an account at Wal-Mart -- yes, Wal-Mart -- to claim my photo. It was an amazing photo, I reminded myself, so adios privacy. I gave them everything they wanted, relatively sure that tomorrow morning a Greeter would be at my door at 7 a.m. wanting to power-walk to the nearest location with me.

Once I'd officially joined Wal-Mart, I checked my photo status. Not ready. Check back. If it still don't show up in seven days, get in touch.

Seven days elapsed. I emailed.

They emailed back pretty quickly, though at 10 at night, which I take to mean "Our customer service is in New Delhi!" Evidently my name, address, password, and eighteen-digit claim number weren't enough to identify me. Now they needed my mother's maiden name, Social Security number, and guesstimated weight of Rue McClanahan. You know, just for security. Just to see what was happening with that pic.

I emailed everything they wanted, and once again they replied at ten that night. Here it definitely turned spooky. "We received your email and to ensure we provide you with accurate information, we are researching the matter," they said. "We will call you with the requested information within the next 2 business days. Please respond with an updated contact number or your preferred contact method so we can resolve the issue."

Yes, now they needed a phone number.

And that's exactly what I needed: some Iowa housewife calling me when the sun came up, saying, "Mr. Hans, we still haven't found your photo, but did you know Glade Electrical-Outlet Adventures come in tangerine-vanilla now?"

Honestly, I don't need to talk to anybody. Nobody needs to call me. And for sending photos around, my preferred contact method is EMAIL. Because the pony express moves so slow.

So, now I have to send them a third email -- SUBJECT: RE: TO ASSIST IN YOUR RESEARCH REGARDING THE MATTER OF A PHOTO OF A DUDE MORPHED WITH TINY TIM. I'm already guessing how they'll reply to that: "We're hot on the trail. Please send us your underwear."

Really, you should have seen the Christmas Carol Train. Fabulous. Literally millions of dollars were sunk into this thing. And then Disney partners with Wal-Mart, where Two Dollars Means Two Hours of Hard Work.^TM

I'm letting it go. It doesn't matter. Who cares about a computer-generated photo of me looking attractive? Put it in perspective. I mean, if they'd been subcontracted to process NASA's photos, they'd probably still be waiting for John Glenn's sperm sample and we'd still think the moon was made of cheese.

Pope Benedict XVI sings and prays along to a mix of modern music and ancient church chants in a new album entitled ''Alma Mater -- Music from the Vatican." The pope's voice is interwoven with eight original pieces of contemporary music and Gregorian chants.

The record is being released on Seriously Deaf Jam.

There are a couple problematic homosexuals in the news today. Which actually isn't too bad, considering our problematic counterpart in the heterosexual community is a family values-spouting ex-cheerleader who, we recently discovered, filmed herself while waving her pompoms and exhorting viewers to spell "C-L-I-T-O-R-I-S."

State Senator Rubén Díaz Sr. is one of New York's most homophobic senators. Two of his brothers are gay, though, along with many of his friends. "I love them," he says. "So how could I be a homophobe?"

Well, here's a hint, dude. You argued that the Gay Games shouldn't be held because they would spread HIV. You personally sponsored a rally against gay marriage in the Bronx, busing in 10,000 evangelical homophobes to bolster your argument. You sued the city to shut down a high school for gay and transgender students.

You don't need Miss Marple to spot the clues, buddy.

I'm fed up with bigots denying reality. I mean, if we interviewed Hitler today, I'll bet the first thing out of his mouth would be, "Personally, you know, I like the Jews!" I'm thinking the dictionary is partly to blame. Homophobia is defined as "the irrational fear of homosexuals," which makes it sound like if you don't run screaming from us, you're cool. For somebody to qualify as homophobic, they've got to rank gays right up there with confined spaces and rats.

While one might think homosexuals would have a problem with Mr. Díaz’s agenda, Christopher Lynn doesn't. He's Mr. Díaz’s chief counsel, though he's gay and partnered. They all double-date, though nobody mentions whether, during good-night hugs, pepper spray is involved. Mr. Lynn unapologetically declares that Mr. Diaz is “a true believer in Christian values, in treating people the way you want to be treated."

Corinthians 8.27.1: And Jesus dragged the sissies from their safe space and exhorted, "C'mon, be a fuckin' man!"

In similar denial is fashion designer/director Tom Ford. "If you said name 10 things that define me," he says, "being gay wouldn’t make the list." Wow. I'm not saying it has to be in the top three, but if it's not top ten you have a problem. When "being gay" drops below "enthusiastic ice skater" and "Fiestaware collector" I'm thinking there's something wrong inside your head.

Ford compares himself to Christopher Isherwood. "There are many gay characters in his works," Ford says, "because his work is so autobiographical, but their gayness isn’t the focus."

Maybe I'm having an acid flashback, but that was called "being in the closet" in my day.

Ford says, "The one thing I liked about Isherwood’s work -- especially when I was younger and grappling with my sexuality -- is that there was no issue about it in his writing."

On the other hand, normal teenagers who read Mr. Isherwood's works notice that all the heterosexuals are running around having fun and screwing everything that moves while the homosexuals return to their hotel rooms alone to think about Berlin and arrange flowers. Admire Mr. Isherwood's discretion if you want -- we have yet to find a film of him instructing us on how to spell F-E-L-L-A-T-I-O -- but considering he was quite promiscuous, I'm thinking somebody needs to refresh his memory on what "autobiographical" means.

I don't mention this to a lot of people, but last year I choked on a chunk of pineapple lurking at the bottom of a Jamba Juice smoothie and I died for three minutes. Luckily a paramedic nearby gave me the Heimlich Maneuver and brought me back, but I was out long enough to see absolutely everything that's on the other side. It was so unspeakably unsettling that I'd just about blanked the whole experience from my memory, but on Queerty today I see some photographer has captured the scene I saw.


Believe it or not, the afterlife looks exactly like this picture. Up above there are all these absolute perfect gay men who are wandering around in towels, looking down in judgment at all the gay men who aren't quite up to snuff. Really, it's just like being at the gym. Well, except there isn't a naked old Italian guy sprawled across a vinyl chair, watching everybody change clothes with his legs spread wide open, like "Sure, I could towel-dry my balls, but I think I'll just let air do its thing."

Everywhere I look there are near-naked, oily men cavorting, screaming, hollering. I can make out some skyscrapers, and a streetlight, and I see Jesus hovering there. Toss in eight dudes dressed as stewardesses and it could be West Hollywood on Halloween. I go up to Jesus and say, "Um, I think I'm supposed to go to heaven," and he says, "Sorry, dude. You didn't hold me close within your heart, plus you've got 23.7% body fat."

So, he sends me straight to hell. Literally I'm flung atop a heap of sweaty, anguished bodies, to fend for myself. A cute Cuban beneath me says, "This is how I pictured Carnival Cruises," and I totally agree. Well, except here nobody's going to hold a Hairy Chest Contest, and even though we're being burned alive and our limbs rent asunder we still draw the line at board shorts.

Honestly, it's awful. Everybody is complaining, like "Who's the bitch who reserved all the lounge chairs?" and "I know you're busy, Lucifer, but I've really got to have an egg-white omelet." Naturally some queen brought her dogs, and let me tell you, Mariah and Whitney are absolute bitches if they don't get their Iams precisely at noon.

Anyway, I see these cherubs blowing what looks like cocaine on the crowd, so I race over there, but it's a trap. All these pigeons poop on my head and the cherubs laugh and as I realize there are no hair care products down here whatsoever I totally get what God's going for. I repent of everything sinful I've done -- asking forgiveness from all the people I've stepped on who didn't specifically ask for it -- and for the very first time since college I wake up with Jamba Juice in my mouth.

Ever since the minute I was born, I've been asking questions. Why doesn't anybody talk about why Aunt Janet has a man's haircut and a girlfriend? How come we can afford sherry for Mom but I'm stuck with Kool-Aid? And why don't newspapers, so prone to blathering on and on about meaningless things, cut to the chase with words that everybody uses, like "fink" or "creep" or "asshole"?

As for the latter, at least, I'm still wondering. I mean, all these words are in the dictionary, so technically they qualify for print. They have concrete definitions, so their use isn't subjective. Really, there's nothing much that separates them from words like "dictator" or "accountant" or "fry cook," and those are words newspapers use every day.

It actually seems like a conspiracy. Journalists drone on and on, using all the words in a definition, when they could save time by jumping ahead and using the actual word. You don't see this in the food section. "Dice an edible member of the lily family and saute in the yellowish fat obtained by churning cream." You don't see this in the automotive section: "For sale: 1994 Ford Compensated Part-Time Companion, runs good."

They're not dodging these words out of politeness. They don't hesitate to label "dictator" or "puppet" or "terrorist," as long as it's foreigners they're talking about. They attack Saddam Hussein, Hugo Chavez, and Fidel Castro, when frankly I'd pick at least two of these dudes for my government before anybody in George W's unlabeled cabinet.

But where are the harsh words for Rush Limbaugh? James Dobson? Dick Cheney? They're clearly logic-challenged, hate-mongering liars, yet from the absence of any strong descriptors in their press coverage they frequently come across like Kurt Cobain without the guitar.

Is it xenophobic cowardice? "All the News That Won't Offend"?

Nowhere is this dodge more obvious than in the coverage of the recent elections. We've always claimed to have equal rights in America, yet voters in Maine created a distinct lower class for gays. Instantly the word "hypocrite" comes to mind. They divided their state into the entitled and the unentitled. If some girl in your high school did this with birthday party invites, the word "bitch" would have been used.

And how about the recent news that two gay men were arrested in Salt Lake City for kissing on a downtown plaza? Turns out the city officials sold the plaza to the Mormon church -- a group renowned for their bigotry -- so they can do whatever they want with it. They can literally confront everyone on the plaza and decide who's suitable. "Hetero? Go ahead. Homo? Find yourself another sidewalk."

And nobody cares.

Gays get arrested for trespassing -- refusing to tolerate second-class citizenship -- and nobody cares.

Now, if the city government had sold this plaza to Satanists, and the Satanists sat outside in lawn chairs and said, "Declare your allegiance to Beezlebub or you shall not pass!" I'm thinking something would be done.

So, we've got a government that does something discriminatory and stupid. We've got a population that doesn't complain. It's like seeing a sign that says "NO BLACKS ALLOWED," then glancing down at your pale skin and thinking, "Whew! Thank God I'm cool."

Clearly, harsh words are deserved.

They say print is dying, and I'm thinking this cowardice is a reason why. I'm more likely to read The Onion than the New York Times, partly because The Onion doesn't mince words. "HOLY SHIT! MAN WALKS ON FUCKING MOON!" is one of their classic headlines, and I'm thinking regular newspapers would do well to capture some of that truth.

"MOST PEOPLE IN UTAH ARE ASSHOLES!" and "MAINE VOTERS DECLARE: YEAH, WE'RE BITCHES!" would have been a good place to start.

Archaeologists have learned much about daily life in the twenty-first century from this fragment of a catalog found in New York City that dates back circa 2010. Though the hard data this catalog offers is woefully inadequate, we can perhaps find the answers to some of our questions in the photographs.

Life must have been quite harsh, because there are no adults to be found in the entire catalog. The children pictured range in age from newborn to preteen, leading researchers to project an extremely brief lifespan. In what seems like a flagrant violation of child labor laws, the boys spent most of their time assembling weapons using miniaturized, standardized hardware known as Lego blocks. Perhaps answering our question about the abbreviated life span are the numerous pictures of young boys battling dinosaurs that, while small, were apparently quite vicious. In these pictures, the boys stoically bear their fate, fighting these brightly-colored beasts with short, blunt-tipped spears or foam-bullet air blasters that, quite frankly, would have offered pathetic protection against these beasts.

The outcome of these battles is easily seen in the paleontological record. Lots and lots of fossilized bones, but nothing from the tiny dinosaurs.

While today we have clearly defined castes to which one is assigned at birth, during this epoch every female was apparently a princess. Some researchers guess that perhaps the middle- and lower-class females were sacrificed to the tiny dinosaurs to win respite from their attacks. While today it might strike us as relatively comic to see a parade of princesses wandering the streets, all those tiaras must have served as a tearful reminder of the plight of the lower class.

Due to the absence of a support staff, however, the princesses bore the responsibility of running the castles themselves. This princess -- her name and lineage aren't given -- bears her responsibility with a smile, clearly telegraphing how much stronger children were in the past than they are today. With no parents or indeed any adults to assist them, they had to push their food in tiny carts around their kitchens, and -- in clear contrast to today's royalty -- had to get all the meals on the tables themselves. That's assuming their spouses weren't killed by the ever-present miniature dinosaurs.

As for those tables, they were oddly inexpensive at the time, but today they would be worth a king's ransom. This one, for instance, appears to bear extensive amounts of inlaid semi-precious gems, cloisonné, and gold leaf that must have kept an atelier of artisans busy for many years. In a highly-publicized auction today, it might retail for close to a million yen.

Of course, to our eyes this style seems dated, if not laughable. With the pink castle motif running from tiny cupboard to table to chair, one can guess what the aristocratic toilet looked like.

Overheard

MAN IN SUIT ON CELLPHONE: We got the email servers back up five days after 9/11. Who are the real heroes now?

Election Notes

Faithful reader, I know times aren't great. In New York, we let a billionaire idiot buy our democracy, and folks in Maine just flipped us a big Fuck You. We had high hopes for our new president, and it was perhaps inevitable that we'd be disappointed. But I'd like to say it's okay to be disappointed without jumping on the bandwagon of negativity that's overwhelming our country today.

Me, I still have hope. Yes, sometimes it's difficult, but I resolve to keep the faith, and keep my eye focused on the future. And I know that one day soon we'll all be able to stand up to all those small-minded naysayers and proudly proclaim, in one voice: "Yes. Yes way, Jose."

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Exactly one year ago tomorrow, Sarah Palin didn't become the first female vice president of the United States. Instead, she's become one of our most controversial politicians.

The Daily Beast got an advance copy of Sarah from Alaska, a new Palin biography, and it includes the speeches Palin loyalist and speechwriter Matt Scully scripted for her on election night: one to accept victory, and one to acknowledge defeat.

Knowing what a rogue she is, McCain didn't let her give the latter speech, but let's look at highlights from both speeches and discuss.


VICTORY
Thank you all so much. . . . [M]y luck began long [ago], in having parents like Chuck and Sally Heath . . . and then blending into an accepting, loyal, fun, and diverse family.

"Diverse": forty-three upper-middle class whites plus one handicapped kid.

Had it gone the other way tonight, we would not have returned in sorrow to the great State of Alaska.

We'd have happily scampered back to quit our jobs and go on a book tour.

I will remember all the young girls who came up to me to our rallies, sometimes taking off from school, just to see only the second women [sic] ever nominated by a major party in a national election. They know that in America there should be no ceilings on achievement, glass or otherwise.

God knows even Rosie O'Donnell couldn't break through a stucco one.

How could I ever forget a boy like Charlie, a fine young man we met at a rally in Florida who has Down Syndrome? Charlie and I swapped email addresses, and the last time he replied he said, "By the way, please don't call me 'darlin' -- it's not tough enough." So, tonight, a special shout-out to you, Chuck . . . darlin'.

CHARLIE: You bitch!


DEFEAT
Thank you all so much. It's been just 68 days since that afternoon in Dayton, Ohio, when Senator McCain introduced me as his running mate. . . . [I]t was not our time, not our moment. But it is our country: the winner will be our president.

We double-checked with the Supreme Court, and really there's no way around it.

[W]hen a black citizen prepares to fill the office of Washington and Lincoln, that is a shining moment in our history that can be lost on no one.

Wait: somebody's seen that birth certificate, right?

God bless you and your beautiful family, President-Elect Obama.

All black? NOT DIVERSE.

As for my own family, well, it's been quite a journey these past 69 days.

Yes, a day has elapsed since this speech started.

There are a lot of men in this world could [sic] learn a few things from Todd Palin.

Lesson #1: If your wife's got bucks, quit your job and race dogs.

Now, at least, he can clear his schedule, and get ready for championship title number five in the Iron Dog snow machine race!

Well, or come in sixth.

[I]f I could help point the way for . . . young women, or inspire them to use their own gifts and find their own opportunities, it was a privilege.

And if I could teach this speechwriter English, it was my pleasure.

It would be a happier night if elections were a test of valor and merit alone. . . .

Instead of competitive eating and freestyle rap.

Now it is time for us go our way, neither bitter nor vanquished, but instead confident in the knowledge that there will be another day, and we may gather once more, and find new strength, and rise to fight again. Thank you all. May God protect, guide, and bless America!

Mark my words: you'll see us again, and not just Full Monty in Playgirl. Until then, thank you for taking us all into your hearts: Bristol, Todd, Tag, Tugger, Tiltdown, and especially brave little Thigger, my grandson -- son -- grandson -- son.

A Slightly Less Stupid Ending to Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol

Chapter 762
The heat from the helicopter wings melted away another layer of wax off the Masonic pyramid, revealing yet another code.

Yet another crazy message, symboligan Robert Langdon cursed. And this one looked like somebody'd whipped it up in Adobe Illustrator using Birbiglia font in 24 point type:


The message made no sense at all to his Harvard-educated mind. Could it be the ancient Masons were crazy? No, like I said four thousand times, they were fine, honest men who worked in stone with tools. Robert stared at the message and suddenly it hit him. The words were homonyms! Homonyms, Robert knew, were words that were pronounced like other words but spelled differently.

The colonel of fowl secrets. Suddenly the allegorical thin, gauze-like fabric that had been obscuring Robert's vision for so many hours seemed yanked quickly away from his face.


Chapter 763
"Back in 1926," Robert said to baffled but beautiful Noëtic Science expert Katherine Solomon, "Colonel Harland Sanders invented a method of cooking chicken with eleven herbs and spices. Eleven! The number has long been thought to hold mystical properties, though if you just stand there and chant Eleven! nothing whatsoever will happen. Many distinguished men with degrees say that the placement of the two uprights a small distance apart -- one stroke, then a space, then another stroke -- by early Piltdown man has predicted everything from highway design to football."

Katherine reeled, trying to take it all in.

"It's no coincidence, then," Robert continued, "that with eleven herbs and spices, the Colonel changed the world in a most profound way, as our eighty-seventh clue hinted, because before this point most people ate hamburgers."

Hamburgers, Robert knew, were disk-shaped pieces of meat encased between two puffy buns.

"Wait," Katherine said. "So those bizarre scratchings on the bottom of the pyramid: it's not a map -- it's a -- ?"

"It's a recipe!" Robert declared.



Chapter 764
Robert and Katherine had to agree the chicken was an exact duplicate of the secret KFC recipe, and was absolutely delicious. "I'd never have guessed it had that much salt," Katherine declared, staring out at the sparkling dome of the Capitol building from the balcony of Robert's apartment and forgetting all about the night's events, especially the snaggle-toothed midget. "Now if we can only find the Boston Market recipe for mashed potatoes."

Just then the phone rang. Robert spoke in hushed tones before returning to Katherine. "Be careful what you wish for," he said. "This next adventure could take us all the way from Boise to Pocatello while revealing the hidden secrets of Idaho farmers."

"Wow," Katherine said. "That would be rad."

She licked Robert's fingers, and he licked hers, and looking at the Washington Monument they once again stopped to think about how cool Masons are.

THE END