Friday, May 29, 2009

One day soon, the Rapture will whisk all the believers to heaven while nonbelievers will be stuck on a tumultuous earth. The Anti-Christ will rise to power, and seven years later Jesus will lead his righteous army back to earth to fight the sinners in the battle of Armageddon.

Naturally, the good guys will prevail. Jesus and his gang will live peaceably for a thousand years, after which they'll head back to heaven while the nonbelievers will be cast into a lake of fire for all eternity.

On Tuesday, Sarah Palin's hometown paper The Frontiersman stated unequivocally: the Antichrist will be gay.

Which actually, you know, proves kind of helpful. Because a few inches left and down there's this ad:

Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'm thinking y'all better meet Chris, Danny, and Drew at Starbucks, just to be safe.

(Via Joe.My.God)
Last Tuesday, Bonnie Sweeten phoned 911 and told dispatchers that two black men carjacked her and her 9-year-old daughter, and stuffed her in the trunk of a Cadillac. Police later discovered evidence that the woman had emptied several bank accounts and stolen a co-workers driver's license before taking her daughter to Disney World.

Not even a year ago, Ashley Todd, a volunteer for John McCain's presidential campaign, called police to report that while she was using a Philadelphia ATM, a black, 6'4" Obama-supporter saw the McCain bumper sticker on her car and attacked her, actually carving the letter B (for "Barack") in her cheek. Charged with filing a false police report, Ms. Todd was sentenced to probation, along with mental health counseling.

And who can forget Susan Smith, who reported to police that she had been carjacked by a black man who drove away with her sons still in the car? The car was found in a nearby lake with the two boys inside and Ms. Smith is now serving life in prison for murder.

I don't mean to stir up a tempest in a teapot, but even the most cursory examination of these stories leads to an inescapable conclusion. Our society is in the midst of an epidemic that political correctness has forced us to ignore, and I for one am furious. It's time we break the silence and face the matter.

We simply cannot continue to allow our innocent white women to be violated by nonexistent black men.

Now, I know: all you bleeding heart liberals are immediately going to launch into debates of whether it's nature or nurture that drives these imaginary black men to crimes against white society. I'll tell you flat out, I don't care! I'm not going to spend another night tossing and turning while wondering if another fine, upstanding white woman is beaten senseless by another imaginary black man!

I've thought long and hard about this, so I'm just going to throw my thoughts onto the table.

I think we should urge our police to use racial profiling. Whenever they see an imaginary black man on the street, they should quiz him about his intentions and frisk him for imaginary weapons. Yes, it's harsh . . . but how easy is it for our poor white women to live in fear? If that doesn't work, I recommend creating an imaginary world in which imaginary black people would live, with imaginary schools, stores, and roads. Only then would I be able to sleep easy, knowing our fair flowers are safe.

Sure, the imaginary black community will call these measures extremist, but what have they done to solve the problem? Instead of bellyaching, maybe they should take some responsibility. Instead of feuding, we should join together knowing we're both working toward the same goal.

It's only through addressing this matter, though, that a solution will be found. With all of us working together, I'm confident we will prevail. Call me a cockeyed-optimist, but I know one day soon we'll turn on the TV news and hear about a nonexistent black man doing something good.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Maybe I'm pessimistic, but my first instinct is not to trust real estate developers. I mean, their power is pretty much dependent on their ability to lie -- e.g., Donald Trump -- so I've always discounted pretty much every word they've ever said.

Thor Equities, on the other hand, has shown me to be a total fool. Sure, they set out from Day One to destroy a landmark. They wanted to bulldoze Coney Island, New York's historic seaside playground, and replace it with luxury condos and a mall. After finishing the bulldozing, though, they realized the city wasn't going to bow down to their zoning demands, so their grand plans came to an abrupt halt.

Realizing New Yorkers weren't entirely thrilled with vacant land where an amusement park used to be, they decided to build a replacement attraction. "This summer we're proud to present a hip new approach to the old school open air market! Festival by the Sea is a totally new and exhilarating experience -– an exciting and festive place to buy handmade crafts made by local artisans, eat great food, hang out and see and be seen. Heck, we'll even have a tent devoted exclusively to gourmets called the Foodies Festival. Come on down and see: Coney Island's looking even better than before!!"

A month ago the flyers went up, and I started to get excited.

"Wow!" I thought. "Four tents! Gay banners! How festive! How fun! I can't wait!" Somehow I held off until the second weekend, to give them time to find their footing, and last Saturday afternoon here's the fest I found.

Yup, that's the grassy circle at the bottom left of the poster. Whee! I know people would have been meandering around the area just above the circle except it's really, like, a road.

This photo was taken from one end of the green tent, looking through to the red one.

I didn't take a picture of the blue or yellow tent because I don't like climbing over cyclone fence.

Is that a festival or what?

Sure, it doesn't look exactly like the poster. I mean, those are just big aluminum frames instead of tents. But aren't those balloons festive? Two of those frames are empty, behind fencing, and two are nearly empty, housing a total of maybe fifteen booths. There isn't any handcrafted work, and no local artisans, but they're fun booths! One sells wacky t-shirts. One sells Tupperware. One sells toys you'd otherwise have to go to Chinatown to buy. And one sells a gasoline additive that's guaranteed to quadruple your mileage. Heck, at gas prices these days, that's even better than some chick who makes purses out of felt.

I know there are some naysayers who'll whine that a lady selling homemade Caribbean food on a card table and a dude selling pickles isn't exactly a Foodies Fest, but it looked like a fine lunch for folks who like to eat stuff that a stranger made and then transported in the trunk of her car.

Anyway, in closing, I would like to add my voice to the thousands who have visited the Festival of Fun over the past few weeks
and say, New York politicians, let Thor Equities build whatever they want at Coney Island! They don't draw up preposterous, impossible proposals and then actually deliver a giant pile of crap, like the unscrupulous developers we all know. No, with this marvelous new festival, Thor Equities has proven that their ability to deliver quality work is more than a match for their vision.

Paleontologists Discover Proof of First Gay Dinosaur

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Ladies and gentlemen, continuing in the I Love Lucy tradition of passing off burlap sacks as high fashion, I give you the Wearable Towel.

He's a confident young clubgoer. She's a fashion model. And they're both wearing the new trend that's taking America by storm, A Towel With Holes Cut In It.

Personally I prefer last season's Rubber Band Stretched Around Your Privates, but it's not scaring off the sharks like it used to.

Here's an American Idol scandal you can get angry about. Last week AT&T, the only mobile phone network you can use to text in AI votes, announced that 38% of the votes for the winner came from Kris Allen's home state, Arkansas.

And this week comes the announcement that AT&T held two parties in Arkansas specifically for Kris Allen fans in which they were given cellphones, taught how to "power text" -- send ten votes with one button press -- and allowed to text for free.

Stupid marketing, or conspiracy? Beats me. But throw this in with the gay-bashing judges on So You Think You Can Dance and you've got the gayest network on television acting pretty anti-gay.
The hardest part of a protest is trying to act pissed off. I mean, it's unbelievable how far gay rights have come in the last five years. We've got gay marriage in five states. Jay Leno advocates gay marriage. Arnold Schwarzenegger thinks Prop 8 will be overturned next year. We all know it's just a matter of time, and that time might just be a year or two.

Which means personally I find it hard to be angry. It's like being handed a sundae with 500 scoops of ice cream in it, but trying to frown and go, "Okay, but where's the cinnamon-rhubarb?"

You're walking down the middle of one of New York's busiest streets. Helpful policemen have stopped traffic for you. You're surrounded by handsome, politically-active gay men holding witty signs. (My favorite? "I'll go back in the closet if you go back to the bronze age.") In every building you pass, people spill out onto the streets to cheer you on.

Everyone is such fun it's honestly a delight to be there.

RABBLE-ROUSER WITH MEGAPHONE: EQUALITY! (Pause.) Hey, you messed that up.

Needless to say, acting irritated is a chore. What do we want? Maybe a frappuccino. When do we want it? Now.

I don't want to look stupid so I focus on the negatives. I can't believe Obama has betrayed us. I can't believe idiot voters in California passed Prop 8. I can't believe the country is letting tax-exempt institutions like the Mormon church get involved in politics.

Still, it doesn't really hit me until I go home and watch the news. "Hundreds" of protesters? How could "hundreds" of protesters stretch all the way from 5th to 6th Avenue? Why do they always focus on the dude with the feather boa? And who's that grinning, skinny idiot with the lousy posture?

Oh. Okay, now I'm mad.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The opposite of Twitter? 725 drunken, rambling stories about how people's lives have changed due to one sweeeet t-shirt. Spoiler: lots of trailer parks, lots of chest hair, lots of complaints that this bitchin' chick magnet deserves way more than five stars.
Well, I guess it was inevitable. Somebody named Tim Collins has written something called The Little Book Of Twitter which summarizes classic works in 140 characters or less.

Great Expectations: Orphan given £££ by secret follower. He thinks it's @misshavisham but it turns out to be @magwitch.

Ulysses: Man walks around Dublin. We follow every minute detail of his day. He's probably overtweeting.

Waiting for Godot: Vladimir and Estragon stand next to tree and wait for Godot. Their status is not updated.

I'll give you one off the top of my head. The Bible: Omniscient, all-powerful being decides to communicate via foliage.
A senior Chinese health official complained today that his country was being unfairly blamed for a flood of counterfeit drugs that have hit the world market.

He said his country is often misrepresented by the media, who ignore China's side of the story or intentionally seek to blacken their name.

"We're doing everything we can," the official told a news conference. "Now, everybody just chill out and take a Xanacks."

Oxford's First Female Professor of Poetry's Last Official Poem

I romp the boggy heath whilst the honeybees frolic
and the daisies' golden halos bewitch;
I'm hitting the road after just six days in office
because I'm a first-class mega-bitch.

A Man Does What a Man's Gotta Do To Avoid Becoming the Next Mr. Kate Gosselin

Bus Carrying 400 Abercrombie & Fitch Models Crashes in Spain

Friday, May 22, 2009

On the fence about attending one of the concerts in New York's upcoming Pride Music Series? Well, get a load of this, girlfriend: $1.50 of every $102 ticket to Sandra Bernhard is donated to the Heritage of Pride.

We're here, we're queer, we're throwing our spare change at charity.

Is grandma getting tired of penciling in those crazy eyebrows? Finding it too hard to get that perfect McDonalds arch? The eyebrow-transplant specialists at the Natural Hair Transplant Medical Center have the solution for you.

We'll slice a thin strip of hair from the back of your head and stitch it in above your eyes. Throw away that mascara! Throw away those eyebrow pencils! Finally medical experts have made a breakthrough you can use.

Unhappy with what God gave you? Come to us. St. Louis will die of jealousy after they see your arch!

We can even satisfy the craziest fan-chick. Carla will live long and prosper with the eyebrows of her favorite TV star!

God, I thought the day would never come: Bush is cleaning up shit instead of causing it for a change.
We win battles and we lose battles in the war for equality. There are now five states that allow gay marriage . . . but then all three judges on So You Think You Can Dance nearly puke up their tacos when two dudes ballroom-dance together.

Michael Jensen writes about it beautifully here. I'll just reinforce the part that made me scream ASSHOLE! at my TV set.

The judges waiver on whether the pair are good enough to continue in the competition, so they send them to the choreographer to see how fast they learn. Judge Nigel Lithgoe says they'll have to dance with girls now, though, and he adds "You never know, you might enjoy that, too."

That's pretty damned homophobic, but it's particularly offensive when you realize one of the two dudes is straight.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

There's one fatal flaw to democracy. Since it takes time to research the issues, compare and contrast claims, hop in the car and drive to the polls, the vast majority of voting will be done by people who have absolutely nothing better to do.

College graduates? Busy. Corporate executives? Busy. Your grandma? Heck, she'll be at the polling place at 7 AM serving Ovaltine to her friends in line.

It's a sad fact that people whose daily plans include denture-clicking and shaking their bony fists at local youngsters have so much control over the world. This is why more politicians come out against gay rights than Medicare: because gay people are too busy making a living and building a social life to complain, while Grandma's had zero on her calendar since Mickey Rooney died. Mr. Politician isn't standing on principle: he just doesn't want to spend eight hours on the phone with a woman whose vocabulary consists solely of the words "Ya whippersnapper!" and "Whazzat you say?"

When American Idol offered one finalist from California and another from Arkansas, then, we could have predicted the result. California has six hundred Michelin-starred restaurants, twenty-six art museums, three Disney parks, and four Six Flags. Arkansas has a drive-thru Quiznos and the world's largest rubber-band ball.

Take a wild guess: the residents of which state had four hours to spend on the phone?

AT&T tells us this is exactly what happened. Almost a hundred million votes were cast last night, with 38 million coming from Arkansas alone.

More than a third of all the votes. From one state.

I hate to go out on a limb here, but I'll guess exactly zero of these folks thought, "I really enjoyed the gender-bending, envelope-pushing Adam's soulful interpretation of Tears for Fears' Mad World." Nope, we had half a million people think, "Hey, Kris! Kris Allen. The Krisster. Tha's ma boy! Hoo-WEE!" and hit the redial button with their PBR can.

If all this seems familiar, think back to election time. There's a suave, cool city dude in one corner, and a swaggering doof in the other. Kris knows he's got nothing going for him: heck, he only went to the audition to support his brother Dan. Like George W., you can see the fear in his eyes when his mouth moves faster than his brain. It looks like he has to concentrate to get both his eyes pointed in the same direction. He just sits back and lets himself get carried to the finish line by down-home folks who love the Lord and have nothing else to do.

So yup, it's no big win for democracy. We didn't get the qualified guy. We didn't get the talented guy. We got the regular guy. We got the church-going guy. Today they're putting up a "Mission Accomplished" banner in Kris' hometown. They're arranging a parade past the Dollar Tree, past where the Curves used to be. Of course, it'll be no vindication when Kris drops his first record and it lands with a thud. Because nobody cares about his singing. All that mattered was that he won.

The good news is, those of us with brains can commiserate. We can remind ourself talent endures while pretenders fade. We can thank our lucky stars that the Constitution only lets idiots vote once, or right now VP Sarah Palin would be urging Congress to dub tomorrow "Kick a Jew for Jesus!" day. Heck, even the American Idol producers seem to be on our side. Seconds before the show went black, they cut to Justin Guarini, a first-season finalist from Georgia. "Yo, bro!" Justin's thinking. "Hooray for the South! See you onstage in my dad's basement in about two weeks."

Right now Melania Trump is wondering, "What, is there a show called I'm Married to a Big-Haired Asshole -- Get Me Out of Here!?"
There's a big article in the New York Times today about readily-available plants that can kill.

The expert they quote recommends the nut from the suicide tree. "You can grind it up and put it in a pulpy kind of dessert — they use it in India — or conceal it in a curry." But if you don't cook, just dump it into coffee and it'll work fine.

And this morning the line at the garden center is six million people long.

Yeah, sure. The hair hat does wonders for him. But it's that "I know you wanna screw me" look that really gets me hot.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Glee is here! The long-awaited, much-hyped Glee finally made its debut on Fox last night, and I've got to say it's funny and hip and diverse and ironic and postmodern and unlike anything you've ever seen.

See, this straight white teacher wants to help the misfits in the glee club, though his straight white wife wishes he were in a more profitable profession. To make the club more hip, he blackmails the straight white football star into joining, and instantly the club's straight white Vanessa Hudgens-wannabe is smitten, though the hunk already has a straight white girlfriend. Surrounded by the hilarious ensemble of a gay, a black, an Asian, and a geek in a wheelchair, much hijinks ensue.

Oh. Wait. Maybe it's like everything we've seen before.

Fox has torn pages straight out of the Republican playbook to create this delusional crap. Since when did "diversity" mean adding minorities for comic relief? It was insulting in Gone With the Wind and it's insulting now. Since when did "equality" mean throwing on a queer kid who constantly worries about dirtying his Marc Jacobs sweater? It didn't work for Mel Gibson, and it's not working now.

New and hip? Ironic and postmodern? Sorry, no. This is the same old bullshit. In fact, maybe it's a step backward, blithely offering up the same old bullshit while pretending it's something new. Once again the diversity sits squarely behind the white stars. There's no lead singing or romance for that effeminate gay kid, or the fat n' sassy black girl, or the quiet Asian (who, something tells me, is going to have to decide whether to continue singing or devote all her energy to pre-med like her controlling, heavily-accented parents want.) The helpless geek in the wheelchair doesn't take center stage. Heck, he can't even find his brakes.

I'll concede one thing: the show tries to be postmodern. When the lead whites sing their first number -- "You're the One that I Want," which surely would have been spoiled by people of color -- FNSBG (Fat N' Sassy Black Girl) protests. She breaks up the number, declaring, "Hey, I ain't having it! You got Beyoncé here! I ain't no Kelly Rowland!"

But then for the finale's whites-only number, she's all "Doo wop. Bee bop. Doo wop. Bee boop."

Evidently between the first half of the show and the second, she learned something.

Heterosexual whites in the front. Everybody else in back, please, waiting for the white man to call.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

My friend Ramona is an amazing gardener, and for years she tried to goad me into it. "It's so easy!" she declared. "Just throw dirt and seeds into a pot, and two months later you've got eight thousand zucchini!"

I resisted. It couldn't be that easy, could it? Besides, who needs eight thousand zucchini? But one day I saw a neighbor's garden and it hit me. I was wasting all this sunny cement in front of my house. Even if I didn't need that many zucchini, I could use a dozen or two, and in New York they're like three bucks each.

I went to the local nursery where the clerk convinced me to get ambitious. I bought seeds for zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, carrots, beets and lettuce. The clerk told me that contrary to Ramona's promise, dirt alone wouldn't do the trick, and he added organic humus and peat moss to the pile. I got excited. I was going to help the environment! I was going to save the earth! And then he led me to the planter department where I picked out two hundred dollars worth of orange plastic pots.

I needed a taxi to haul everything home, and tried not to think about the bill. Three hundred twenty dollars. Sure, I'd never spent more than twelve bucks on vegetables in my life, but somehow it'd pay off. I went to bed that night with dirt under my fingernails and a smile on my face. And the next morning I went outside and found cat diarrhea in every pot.

The dirt/humus/peat moss mix filled up eight Hefty bags. Sure, maybe the cat excrement was confined to the dirt's surface, but there was no way I could be sure. And though I had very few standards in life, I knew I couldn't eat a salad that had been watered by cat piss.

Before trying again, I checked online for ways to keep cats out of plants. One website offered a tip: cover the dirt with crinkled foil. Cats had a thing about foil. I went back to the nursery for new dirt and seeds, then to the market. I replanted everything, topped it with foil, and went to bed that night with hope in my heart.

And the next morning I found cat diarrhea streaked like graffiti across the foil.

Everything went into the trash again, and once more I went online. There was no way my $400 was dying in vain. "Cats hate tulle," somebody wrote. "Cover the pots with tulle and the cats will stay far away." So after buying the usual at the nursery I had the taxi driver take me to a fabric store, where I learned that (1) tulle is the fluffy netting used in dancer's outfits, and (2) it only comes in white or pink.

Once again I covered the dirt with crumpled foil before wrapping the pots in tulle. And the next morning I went outside and it looked like six ballerinas had pooped their tutus. I was emptying the pots into garbage bags when a neighbor girl rode up on a Barbie bicycle. "Why did you decorate your plants like that?" she asked.

"To keep the cats out," I said.

"Oh. My daddy said it's because you're gay."

I didn't know how to reply to that, so I went back inside and online. Someone swore that motion keeps cats away, so along with the usual at the nursery I got everything they had that moved. Hummingbirds with spinning wings, whirling plastic sunflowers, bumblebee whirlagigs. I put it all together and stood there assessing the damage. Tulle, foil, fake flowers, birds and bees. I was embarrassed to look at it, and I'd been to Barbra Streisand's farewell tour. If I'd painted the house pink and had Cher blasting on the stereo it wouldn't have been any worse. Still, in my heart I knew it wouldn't keep a New York cat away, and the next day I discovered I was right.

As I upended the pots into Hefty bags the little girl came back. "What are you doing?" she screamed. "It was the most fantastic garden I'd ever seen!"

"Well, I didn't like it much," I said. "And how about your dad? What did he say?"

"He didn't say nothing. He's too busy looking for somewhere else to live."

That night I tried to erase the whole thing from my memory, but first I called Ramona to tell her she'd made my life a living hell. "Why didn't you call me in the first place?" she asked. "Just sprinkle cayenne pepper all over the dirt. It'll keep the cats away."

I sighed. I hated her. I hated the situation she'd put me in. I hated trying to be productive but ending up wasting time and money and feeling like a useless fool. I'd give it exactly one more try before I gave up for good.

I pulled the planters out of the trash bags and bought another round of dirt and seeds. I planted everything again, this time liberally sprinkling the pots with the orange powder.

And it worked. Forty-eight hours went by, and the pots were untouched by cats.

I'd done it. I'd won. I stood there admiring my handiwork, mentally patting myself on the back and congratulating myself for beating a crew of sick felines. And once again, the little girl rode up. "It was waaay better before," she said. "It's not even pretty now."

"I'll bet your dad likes it, though, doesn't he?"

She nodded. "He doesn't talk about moving any more. He really hopes the pixie dust works."

Monday, May 18, 2009

What? Rumer Willis got a job through nepotism? Next you're going to tell me you gotta be a Spielberg to intern at New York mag.

When I first read this I thought it was about astronauts named Bolt and Battery.

But still I'm thinking, I'll bet I could sell the screenplay.
So, this Chinese entrepreneur named Lu Xiaoqing has a brilliant idea. "There's eighty billion people in China," he tells himself. "So sex must be popular, right? Then what could be more popular sex-themed amusement park?"

Makes perfect sense to me. I mean, Dolly Parton's got her own amusement park, and nobody's ever raced to the altar just to hear Island in the Stream.

Mr. Lu follows his dream and starts building Love Land, but then he decides the place could use a little publicity. This isn't such a brilliant idea. Word filters out about what he's doing and then the shit hits the fan. Less than 48 hours later, local officials declare the park an "evil influence on society" and the place is bulldozed.

Sigh. We can only guess the brilliance of what might have been with the few photos that exist.

Here are the sinks in the women's bathroom. There aren't any fixtures: smacking them on the ass turns them on.

Goddammit. I was really looking forward to riding the Wild Taint.

Now all that's left are ruins and an unspoken epitaph:

He tried to build it, so they could come.

(Via Jezebel )

Friday, May 15, 2009

One day someone will make a gay Da Vinci Code and the answer to this puzzle will be 2 7 11 2 10.

(From Awkward Boners)
Wow, the L. A. Times is a little petty today, spelling out what everybody already knows. Thirty-one -- count'em, thirty-one -- photos of "celebrities attacked by wind," with bitchy headlines like "Carrie, this is what hair looks like on a windy day!" and "How come the wind ain't blowin' these shirts off, ya dope?"

Worst photo? #6. I wish the wind had blown Ashton Kutcher's beard off and shirt closed.

Best caption? #19.

Somewhere on the patio at Citronella there's an editor drinking white wine and telling her boss, "Don't worry -- my intern's writing it."

Their biggest regret? Grandma Kardashian.

Harold was so disappointed when the time finally came to bump trunks.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Protesting Donald Trump's decision to let a topless model keep the Miss California USA crown, Shanna Moakler resigned her position as the Miss California Pageant Director.

Hopefully uttering the words we've been longing to hear since the moneygrubbing Apprentice first made it hit American TV:

I quit, asshole.

Meanwhile, rumor has it there are some Carrie Prejean photos that are even racier than the ones where the wind supposedly blew her blouse open. Trump himself lended credence to this story by calling a press conference this afternoon and asking, "You know how you can eat a couple burritos and then fart your underwear off?"

Highlights from Pastor Jeff's Blog

Danny Gokey has barely left the stage and already the diva is creeping out:

Pastor Steve Munsey told [radio personality] Mancow that Danny wouldn’t go on the show unless he mentioned Faith Builders & Jeff Pruitt at least two times in the interview.

Yeah, that's how it starts. Today you have to mention his church and his pastor, tomorrow you have to provide three bisexual Asians and a case of Jägermeister.

Meanwhile, a commenter kisses ass congratulates Pastor Jeff:

You saw his talent, you sent him out to sing and now he is deployed to be salt and light. . . .

Yes, that's true. Definitely true. Sadly, the world declared last night that they'd rather have fresh-ground pepper and a little parmesan.

They finally cut all the stupid parts out of the Bible.

Ironically, he got a stuffed chalupa that night.

Polly wants to get laid.

A Song From My High School Guidance Counselor

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

THEN: Sure, some of the plot twists are a little puzzling, but don't worry -- there's a rational explanation. Years from now, when we wrap things up, it'll all make perfect sense.

NOW: See, the island has free will, and there's this company that makes giant polar bears, and all these people jump back and forth in time. . . .

She says she isn't cheating on him. He says he isn't cheating on her.

Well, clearly something is up with that family. Six of the eight were seen dancing with R. Kelly last week.

You know what? I'm lowering the bar for America's role models. As long as Michael Phelps doesn't tearfully claim the wind blew his pants down until we could see the five o'clock shadow of his pubic hair, he's totally cool with me.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Well, I just got a nice note from Carrie Prejean, the disgraced Miss California USA. She realizes she's made some mistakes, but she thinks if the gay community really knew her then they wouldn't be quite as mad. So, as a one-shot deal, I'm turning the website over to her.

Hi guys! My name is Carrie Michelle Prejean and I'd like to be your friend. Why don't I show you some pictures from my photo album so you can learn a little more about me?

Last year I volunteered at the Olympics. I was soooo surprised when they came to my hometown! Here I am trying to give these cute swimmers some moral support. I've got my tiniest suit on but they won't even look at me! Honestly, I think there's something wrong with them.

Here I am with a few members of my church. We're trying to explain to Perez Hilton that we're just following the Word of God, is all. Left to right that's me, Hortensia and Bathsheba. Hortensia never smiles, even though her husband Ezekiel is a nice-looking guy.

I keep trying to convince them to get implants but I can't even get Bathsheba to pluck that unibrow.

By the way, I usually wear a bit more than this to church, but my halter top was at the dry cleaners.

Last but not least, here's my congregation building a house for a poor heterosexual family. I know Jesus wants me in the kitchen with the womenfolk, but I'm not happy unless I'm with the guys.

I'd be working a little harder but my star keeps slipping off.

C'mon, Hosea! Keep on pounding. C'mon, Theophilus! Slap up that drywall. Hey, Ezekiel -- let me grab that little screwdriver you got in your pocket!

Oops. Sorry.

I guess that's why Hortensia never smiles.

Anyway, thanks Roman! This is Carrie Michelle out. Sorry I called you an abomination, but that's Jesus talking, not me.

Actually, they could have said "From the people who brought you The Da Vinci Code, but they're already pretty sure you don't want to see it.

Doctor, those aren't cantaloupes.