I watch Cops, the TV show, every week, and last week one scene in particular startled me. Some horny old dude in a park walked up to a woman and said, "Hey, how about blowing me?"

Needless to say, the woman freaked out. She called the cops, and they turned up within seconds, throwing him against their car and handcuffing him. They intimidated and harassed him and asked him what the hell he was thinking, telling him civilized men just don't act that way.

And I thought, Huh? What country are they in? Civilized men act that way all the time. The thing is, usually they take the woman out to dinner a few times, flatter her, tell her they love her. Eventually they get her naked. And that's when the question comes up.

So I was wondering exactly why the police turned up. Are they enforcing semantics? Are there laws about context now? Will the SWAT team break into your apartment and force you onto the ground if you ask some chick for a Dirty Sanchez before you tell her she's hot?

I think the cops knew the guy hadn't broken any law. Instead, they were trying to enforce morality. Which, unfortunately, seemed to flatten the poor guy's right to free speech. So while the cops thought they were doing the right thing, in reality they couldn't have been more wrong.

See, Americans are all about being direct. When I walk down the street, for instance, probably five times a day somebody comes up to me and says, "Dude, you are just freaky tall."

There's no beating around the bush. No pleasantries. They just get right down to it. It's what makes us American. When I went to Japan, on the other hand, it was craziness. They were bizarre. They were far too uptight to just blurt it out. Instead, ten or twelve times a day, some Japanese person would approach me, followed by a crowd. "Hello," they'd say, bowing. "My name is Michiko. This is my grandmother Narumi. This is my aunt Miyako. This is my uncle Hideki. Is this your first visit to Japan? Yes? I hope you are enjoying it. (Pause.) Dude, you are just freaky tall."

Here in America, we have the freedom to ask whatever we want, and the people we ask have the freedom to reply any way they want. Want to intern for Vogue magazine for absolutely no pay? Sure! Want to clean the toilets at 7-Eleven for six bucks an hour? No, thanks. Wanna give me a blowjob? Oh, I dunno. What does your dick look like?

In the end, the policemen let the guy go. Which, of course, was the right thing. Straightforward speech is the American way. Ask, and cross your fingers that you'll get lucky.

In closing, though, I'd be negligent not to note that some speech is criminal, such as soliciting prostitution. So make sure the woman knows you don't think she's a whore. Make this perfectly clear, because aside from being illegal the insinuation is offensive. Say something like, "Hey, I'd sure like you to give me a blow job, but there's no way in hell I'm gonna pay you." Our founding fathers would be proud.

I've been checking my stats on Sitemeter, and it's disconcerting. Literally every other visitor came here by Googling "underage gymnast" or "sex doll" or "porn stills."

I'm sitting here shaking my head. Is that why I work so hard on this website? For that? I try to put my head in the sand, but it's impossible. Finally I've got to face the truth and ask myself the hard question:

Does nobody care about Jamie Foxx's dick any more?

Oh, Come On.

That's disgusting. And what a double standard: Something tells me the police would come running if I had that same suit holding up my balls.

bellaandedward.com. Was crystal meth, not alcohol.

Thanks but no thanks.
RomanHans

Dear Polish People:

I just read about this new controversy. To advertise an art show, somebody has put up this poster right in the center of town.

Immediately the complaints started flying. You're furious! You're offended! It's absolutely disgusting to depict a naked Minnie Mouse cavorting in front of a Nazi flag. And right next to a synagogue!

I've thought about this long and hard, and I have decided that you're wrong.

Sure, the swastika is offensive. Yes, artistically the whole thing is a pile of crap.

But that there is Mickey Mouse.

Minnie's got a bow on her head.

Don't know why they gave Mickey a huge pair of boobs, but hope this helps nonetheless.

Your pal,
RomanHans

I collect pitchers. I must have like a thousand of them, in all kinda shapes and sizes. I've got glass pitchers, plastic pitchers, tall pitchers, squat pitchers, antique Viennese pitchers with hand-cut etching, and sleek Beaux-Arts pitchers that probably served absinthe-spiked punch at Oscar Wilde's salon.

Why do I have so many pitchers? you ask. Because I'm trying to find ONE FUCKIN' PITCHER that DOESN'T DRIBBLE WHEN IT POURS.

I can't get my head around it. Is it that fuckin' difficult? You got a big glass container, and a little glass spout. Is it that hard to squeeze up the spout so it don't dribble on the counter when you're pouring out a fuckin' glass of green tea?

I pour thin stuff, I pour thick stuff. I pour fast, and I pour slow. I pour slow as a motherfucker. And still it dribbles all over the countertop.

Now, I've only got a Bachelor's degree, but I'm thinking it's gotta be possible. Surely there's, like, some dudes with PhDs who have no-dribble technology in their heads. If not, I don't know why we don't put our top scientists on this. When I'm chilling at home, I don't care if a man's been to the moon. I don't care if we can split an atom into eight zillion parts. But I do want to be able to pour myself a fuckin' GLASS OF HIBISCUS LEMONADE without getting HALF THE FUCKIN' PITCHER on my clean Corian.

Hell, I been shopping nearly everywhere. I been to Bed Bath & Beyond. I dragged my ass down to Williams-Sonoma. Nothing! Ya know, if I gotta design and produce that motherfucker myself, I'll do it. If it means a smooth stream of pomegranate limeade to my guest's cup, it'll be worth it. It'll probably save like eight million disposable napkins a year, and that's just at my crib alone.

An ad on TV just promoted tonight's news with the line, "At this year's G20 summit, rioting taints talk." I'm gonna make sure to watch it. I didn't even know taints were there.

I have a social life for one and only one reason: for some inexplicable reason, there are businesspeople who think bloggers aren't completely useless.

On Saturday Intel (computer hardware) and Vice (fauxhemian lifestyle accoutrement) teamed up to present a seminar/party called the Creators Project. It's already been dubbed the party of the decade, and I'm not going to disagree. I went from thinking I'm reasonably creative to realizing I couldn't hold Spike Jonze's jockstrap.

I got there promptly at 2, when it opened, and ran straight for the Mira Calix installation "My Secret Heart." It's an abstract, indescribable 48-minute film on a huge, 360-degree screen, progressing from isolated dots to dancing ribbons to exploding silhouettes. For the soundtrack, she hired people at homeless shelters to sing her interpretation of some 17th-century choral shit. Absolutely brilliant.

Most of the other art pieces were interactive. Radical Friends scanned your face and projected it on endless loop above a pyramid. United Visual Artists had a wall of lights activated by movement. When you walked into Muti Randolph's twelve-foot cube of computer-controlled lights, it felt like you shrank to the size of a neutron and atoms were dancing around you.

Mark Ronson's seminar proposed to write a pop song in 59 minutes, then upload it to the internet to share. After he spent half an hour attempting to answer preposterously stupid questions from the audience, though, I ducked out to see the Rapture, who are apparently destined to be one-hit wonders. I consoled myself with a couple of portobello mushroom burgers, courtesy of Pop Burger, and Arte de Gelato ice cream. All, of course, complimentary.

"Hi," I said to the ice cream man. "Could I try the olive oil and the banana, please?"

"Sorry," came the reply. "We can only give you one flavor."

"Okay," I said. "Olive oil."

He scooped something white into a paper cup and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said. I stood there and counted to ten. Then I said, "Hi, could I try the banana ice
cream?"

He smiled and gave it to me.

With time to spare before the big musical guests, I wandered from room to room. I had the first of a string of Camparis, trying to pace myself. I saw Spike Jonze's new robot love story, "I'm Here." Brilliant. No wonder dude got to marry a Coppola, though I'd have gone for Nick myself.

I have to say, the event was run pretty brilliantly, considering there were 3,000 guests. Unfortunately, though, around six the place started to get packed, so entire floors were randomly closed to new visitors. Elevators stopped going to certain floors. In one smallish gallery M. I. A. was showcasing artists from her record label, so I decided to stick close. Sleigh Bells came up first. I like their record, but in concert they're little more than karaoke. A great guitarist, an energetic singer, and a backing track with drums, synthesizer, and hand claps. Still, the crowd went crazy -- screaming and moshing and crowdsurfing -- though I'm thinking maybe the open bar had something to do with it.

Die Antwoord was up next. I'm still confused about them. The dude sings about being a ninja, and constantly says "yo yo yo." The chick is short, has a vocal range north of helium, and talks about how preposterously funky the beat is. Basically, it's Vanilla Ice with a dwarf. Googling them I discover fans are split on whether they're a joke or not. Again, the moshing and crowdsurfing are fun. Reprising the ninja song, not.

Then, of course, came "surprise guest" M. I. A. Her first two records were classic, so all I'll say is this: she's a good enough producer to know she needs gimmicks and guests onstage. Her posse rapped, poured drinks for the crowd, and tossed out all sorts of stuff. When controversy eventually fails her, she'll need to find more talented help.

By now it was 12:30, and I'd been packed like sardines in overheated rooms for six hours. My ears were ringing, and I could hardly have stayed upright even if the floors weren't a slip-and-slide of spilled alcohol. Heading to the exit, I ran into Mark Ronson DJing, so I detoured there. Ninety-nine percent of the crowd was smashed and dancing on every vertical surface. I decided to join them. I headed to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic. "Nope," the bartender told me. "Can't make them."

I pointed to the vodka and the tonic. "Rules," he said. "Have you tried the signature Skyy vodka cocktail?"

"No," I said. "It better be good."

"If it isn't," he said, "you can spank me."

Sadly, it was.

Fourteen New York Homosexuals: "We Blog, And We're Not Ashamed!"

Ike Turner even got a few votes.

Okay, that's it.

Most of my life I've thought intelligence was overrated. I mean, if you've ever met an intelligent person, you know there's always a hell of a lot of bitter with the sweet. Sure, occasionally you hear the story of how Benjamin Franklin invented the electric dildo, but just as often you're lectured about how persimmons got to the New World. It's not like intelligence helps you in life. And it certainly doesn't get you past the idiots blocking the sidewalk, busily texting other idiots.

And now I discover that some animals are just smart enough to be irritating.

See, I've always taken refuge in animals, purely because they're moronic. They have simple thoughts, like "Where's the food?" and "Gosh, it's hot in here!" Uncomplicated thoughts are totally foreign to us cognizant humans, which makes them adorable. It's why we love Rachel Ray.

For instance, when a dog sees itself in a mirror, it thinks, "Hey, there's another dog! And he looks just like me!" We smile, and run for the camera.

Dolphins, on the other hand, are nearly up there at human intelligence. Which I've always thought was terrific -- but now maybe not so much. See, apparently they're smart enough to have a couple of our most irritating human traits: self-consciousness and vanity.

Dolphins have passed the famed mirror self-recognition test, which bespeaks possession of an inner life and a concomitant concern with its packaging. When presented with a mirror, dolphins take the opportunity to check their teeth and body parts they can’t normally see, like their anal slit.

Got that? The reason thinking humans dive for the remote whenever someone invokes the words "Sarah Jessica Parker" has now been found in the animal kingdom.

So, cross them off the likable list. Toss those giant nets back into the water, fishermen, because I don't care any more. The world isn't big enough for another species that stares at itself in the mirror and asks, "Hey, does my ass look fat?"

On the plus side, my new Roomba won't stop for anything.

I'm still trying to process this little news item somebody sent.


This is the Marina Bay Sands Skypark in Singapore. Basically, it's like a cruise ship perched atop three hotels.

Sure, it looks cool, but already twenty-six people on the ground have been killed by shuffleboard pucks.

All the slang words for drunkenness apply equally to how one feels the morning after. Smashed, wrecked, blasted. Today I am all of those and more. Last night NYC Pride -- the folks who organize the gay parade, rally, etc. -- held a party celebrating Pride Week. It was held at Puma City, a temporary melange of repurposed cargo containers and rented space down at the South Street Seaport -- which was an unconventional choice for homosexuals, being otherwise a bastion of athleticism. Outside, one could play soccer or basketball. Inside, one could enjoy pingpong, foosball, and darts, or just gorge on complementary cocktails and platters of fabulous hors d'oeuvres.

Naturally I spent all my time indoors.

Where it was an absolute riot. Oddly, after a couple drinks, people just get better at foosball. We played teams so nobody'd have to put their cocktail down. As for darts, well, offering three hundred drunken homosexuals pointy things to throw plays out exactly the way you'd think. In a nod to the gay crowd, the big-screen TVs showed not sporting events but Betty White, Purple Rain, and Jersey Shore.

One cute young waitress always seemed to find me just as the last snack -- chicken satay, goat cheese tartlets, molé taquitos, wild mushroom canapés -- disappeared from her hors d'oeuvres tray. We started laughing about it, so the next time around she came to me first. Unfortunately, she was bearing the one dodgy snack I had all night. I'm pretty sure it was beef, and I don't think it died naturally.

Anyway, thanks to everyone involved, from NYC Pride to Puma to Skyy vodka. I had such a great time I won't even bring up the irony of a group named Pride having a photographer who won't snap anyone over twenty-five. Let's just say my anonymity is safe.

Take that, environmentally aware!

The New York Times Does Its Best To Get A Cute Young White Girl A Book Deal

Because the world needs more oversharing by overprivileged 25-year-olds. Please God, shoot me now.

She says she's "just a girl." Which means she wants to be played by Kate Hudson, right?

And then Bobby Flay said, "Fuck it! They're not paying us for pretty plates."

So, back in 2006 a massage therapist filed a police report against Al Gore accusing him of "unwanted sexual contact" at an upscale Portland hotel. The massage therapist's story (as relayed by Gawker) is awfully dry, so we reconstructed the scene as best we could from the police report so you could experience the horror firsthand.

GORE (hugging her): Hi! You're the massage therapist? Thanks for coming!

MASSEUSE: Hi! I'm excited to meet you! (To herself): Hm. That hug lasted just a little too long.

GORE: Well, let's get to it. You know what? I get really tense here on my inner thigh.

MASSEUSE: Okay. I'll see what I can do.

GORE: Here too, on my abs.

MASSEUSE: Okay.

GORE: A little lower.

MASSEUSE: How's that?

GORE (growling): LOWER!

MASSEUSE: There?

GORE (still growling): LOWER!

MASSEUSE: Look, why don't you show me?

GORE (grabbing her hand and placing it on his "pubic crest" region): There!!

MASSEUSE: Ohmigod!

GORE: Grrrr!

MASSEUSE: No! That is not considered safe territory for a legitimate massage.

GORE: C'mon, it's therapeutic. It's one of my chakras. I got a lot of tension there.

MASSEUSE: No! I'm sorry, sir, but you have crossed a boundary, and I am leaving now. I am going to pack my things.

GORE (hugging her): Don't go!

MASSEUSE: I'm definitely going. Stop that! Don't caress my back! Stop caressing my buttocks! And stop caressing my breasts, which seem impossible since you're currently hugging me.

GORE: C'mon, baby! Relax!

MASSEUSE (spotting a box of chocolates nearby): Why don't you eat some candy instead?

GORE: Oh, okay. Mm, these are tasty. How about eating one out of my hand?

MASSEUSE: No, thanks.

GORE: Well, then, how about some Grand Marnier from the minibar? Wait there while I open the fridge, get the bottle out, untwist the little cap and pour it into a glass. There. Have some.

MASSEUSE: No thanks.

GORE: HAVE SOME!!!

MASSEUSE: OKAY!!!

GORE: Now kiss me, baby.

MASSEUSE: No!

GORE: We're kissing whether you like it or not! Ha ha ha!

MASSEUSE: Stop this! Stop groping me! Stop flailing about! Forget this horrible seduction and just let me go!

GORE: C'mon, baby!

MASSEUSE: Stop pressing your body against mine! (To herself:) Ohmigod! Is that his erection I feel? I've really got to get out of here!

GORE (throwing her onto the bed and pinning her down): Make love to me!

MASSEUSE: Get off me, you big lummox!

GORE: Kiss me!

MASSEUSE: Let me go!

GORE: At the very least, look at my iPod! LOOK AT IT!

MASSEUSE (examining iPod): You like Pink? "Dear Mr. President"?

GORE: Yes, it's a great song. She almost mentions me in it.

MASSEUSE: Wow, that's cool. Well, now I've really got to go. This has been horribly insulting, bordering on sexual abuse. Goodbye and good riddance!

GORE: No, wait! Please!

MASSEUSE: Do not grab me! I'm right here at the door, and I'm going to open it! No, don't hug me! THTOP TONGUE KITHING ME! Now, stop massaging me! Stop rubbing your crotch against me. Hey, get your hands off my buttocks! Stop groping my breasts! Hey, that nipple squeezing is painful. And all of this while you're hugging me, again!

(She throws open the door and finally gets outside.) Ohmigod. That's incredible! Nobody will EVER believe me! I'm going straight to the police in a month or two, but I have no proof. OHMIGOD! There are stains on my pants that could be Al Gore's bodily fluids! I'd better wash them at once.

The Reviews Are In!

Knight and Day, starring Tom Cruise:

"[L]oud, seemingly interminable, and altogether incoherent. . . . [S]lapped together with the meticulous care of a high school yearbook staff wielding Photoshop on deadline. -- The New York Times

"[T]his hyperactive, joyless thriller keeps going, and going, and going. . . . [Cruise's character is] just so irritating, . . . each subpar quip delivered with a cocksure grin that makes you wish the bad guys were better at hitting back." -- The Village Voice

"[S]oul-shattering emptiness. . . . [T]his smug and callous action-comedy is about nothing but teeth." -- Time Out New York

"A genial romantic thriller. . . . [T]he most entertaining made-for-adults studio movie of the summer!" -- The Los Angeles Times

Thigh. What a McChrystal Meth.

Who gets to share Matthew Morrison's "sexy bedroom"? Beats me. Judging from the bedspread, Engineer Bill?

Oh. Okay. Hey, how's not using steroids going?

And some people need psychiatrists more than fiancées.

By tradition, a bachelor or bachelorette party is a night of Dionysian excess. How that unfolds is a matter of taste.

For some, it entails a liberating number of drinks and a close encounter with the taut, spray-tanned skin of an exotic dancer. But for one recently married man and his friends, it meant bottles from a good winemaker to accompany the crispy, golden skin of a roast suckling pig.

Oh, now I got it. "Honey," the groom says, "I swear: that stain is just bacon fat."

Recently, a group of men took over the Krug Room, a private room at Restaurant Guy Savoy in Caesars Palace, and paired a seven-course dinner with seven vintages of Krug. The wine brought the bill to more than $1,000 a person.

“The groom specifically requested the black truffle and artichoke soup,” said Franck Savoy, the restaurant’s general manager. “They were extremely sophisticated and knew what they wanted. It was the opposite of ‘The Hangover.’ ”

Yeah. "The Hangover" was fun.

Andrew Loewenstern, 37, . . . celebrated his bachelor party two weeks ago at Alinea in Chicago. His friends converged on the city, flying from San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York. (Bonus: Phish was playing in town, too.)

Of course, if locusts had attacked, it would really have hit it out of the park.

The five men had the 25-course “tour,” a tasting menu that lasted late into the night and included a king crab presentation that Mr. Loewenstern is still talking about.

“You eat the crab morsel” in a small depression in the center of a plate, he said. “Then they remove the cover and there is another, more elaborate and even more beautiful crab preparation inside. Then you think they’re taking the dish away, but they remove the center piece and there is actually a third crab preparation,” what he called “the best crab au gratin you could imagine.”

Really? How about if, after you eat its brain, the crab grabs a salad fork and stabs your waiter? Somebody got no imagination.

[T]he Brooklyn Kitchen, a cookware shop in Williamsburg with classes on subjects like home brewing and canning, has hosted six bachelorette parties in the last year. Most are multicourse dinners made from scratch, with plenty of wine and snacking while the meal is prepared. A pickling party is scheduled for next month.

And, sad upscale couple with more money than sense, that's why I sent you a cucumber as a wedding gift. I swear.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

Coming soon to your local bookseller. In the spirit of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters comes the latest thriller from Synergistic Publishing House:

The Diary of Anne Frankenstein.

This touching, fascinating, ultimately heartwarming achievement merges the unwavering optimism of a young Jewish girl in Nazi-occupied Amsterdam with the unfeeling fury of a monstrous, pea-brained hulk. Sit spellbound as you witness Anne's recollection of her birth.

Dear reader, I can hardly ask you to believe my tale, as I can scarcely believe it myself. All I know is, one dark winter morning, I opened my eyes to discover that my immortal soul was imprisoned in a grotesque, oversized body that lay fallow on a cement slab. My flesh was pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle of waxy carrion sliced from bodies of every color, shape, and size, haphazardly slashed together by ropy cords of animal tendon.

While every nerve cell in my body screamed, I struggled to my feet and staggered on unfeeling, tree trunk legs to the window. Rather than examine life outside, I stared at my own reflection in the rippled glass. Reader, I cannot convey the pain I felt. Though deep inside I was just like every other little girl, wanting nothing more than to drink lemonade and play with my dolls, on the outside I had iron bolts protruding from my forehead and a jagged flap of skin securing my rotting brain in place.

I screamed with the torment of the undead. "I'm HIDEOUS!" I yelled.

My creator, a white-bearded man wearing the traditional garb of the Orthodox, shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, "maybe you're smart?"

Cheer to this pastoral adventure:

Walking about yesterday I saw a young girl, perhaps aged four or five, tossing edelweiss into a stream. Though she wore a Nazi armband, I felt such delight at this sight that I decided to join her. I too picked a flower and flung it into the water, and the young girl and I both laughed. Then I couldn't find any more flowers so I explained to her my feelings about the corruption of innocence and then I threw her in.

Feel your heart pound as a desperate Anne eludes pursuers in the English countryside:

I couldn't believe this angry mob was chasing me. Though I was a head taller than any of the trees, and my creator's lack of surgical training had left me with deep-set eyes that pointed opposite directions and a gash of a mouth that continually poured rivulets of saliva, though I was burdened by the blind stagger of an absinthe-swilling drunk rather than the measured gait of a lady and my skin, rather than being scented by Parisian scents or rose-water, stank both of the grave and smoked ham, I still felt like a little girl. And yet I found myself the object of such narrow-minded hatred solely because I had a different name for my Creator than they did!

Well, or maybe because they saw me steal a sheep from a local farm and unhinge my jaw to devour it while it bleated for help.

Last, have your heart torn out of your chest, just like our heroine's friends, by the unvanquished spirit in the new, updated end.

Dear reader, I know not what will become of me, as nowadays even the most minor exertion has me dropping more fractured parts than a Fiat. Still, I believe that, despite it all, flowers are pretty, rabbits are fluffy, and that fire stuff is just crazy shit.

Okay, just for your own protection, here's something you need to know. "Does he bite?" is no longer the first question to ask somebody who's got a cute dog. "When he gets excited, does he lose control of his bladder and pee on a stranger's shoes?" has replaced it in the number-one spot. Much discussion preceded this decision by experts in the field, and eventually all agreed that they'd rather have an attractive scar on their shin than a spray of yellow splotches on their new Skechers.

Hope this helps.

I really wanted to get a tattoo, but I couldn't decide what to get. Somebody told me Japanese characters are really stylish but still masculine, so I went for that.

Now, I don't know. The tattoo artist did a great job, but I get some really weird looks.

Coming up next on the Dyslexia Channel: Hell's Chicken.

Still, all he has to do is say "I am innocent!" with an accent and all's forgiven in my heart.

Gosh. Sarah, you know, they were halfway through, but then they quit.

Constance McMillen has been invited to a White House reception tomorrow to celebrate LGBT Pride Month.

McMillen, you remember, wanted to bring another female as her date to the Itawamba County Agricultural High School prom. The school district didn't like that idea, so they cancelled the prom and told her about an "alternative prom" where she'd be welcome. It drew exactly seven people, because everybody else went to the alternative alternative prom, where out gays weren't allowed.

Tuesday’s reception will commemorate June as Pride month, and will give McMillen a chance to meet the president. If anybody else from Itawamba County wants to go, they're welcome. Some time after dark tomorrow night, just head down Highway 71 and make a left at the dump.

Butt Magazine has introduced a new line of beach towels featuring semi-clothed men. They're $45 each, and a portion of the sales goes to benefit the Ali Forney Center for homeless LGBT youth.

I know it's for a good cause, but I still think they're kind of creepy. I can't help thinking they're like a gay version of the Shroud of Turin.

Where was I between 12 and 6? Waiting for my Time Warner cable to come back up.

I didn't bother calling. Hey, if I deserved any respect at all, I'd have FiOS.

Oh. Okay. The good news: You can read what some random dude thinks are the "50 Worst Hip-Hop Fails of All Time!"

The bad news: He gives you one fail per page.

Estimated click-through time: eighteen hours. Let me know if you get to number 1. Hell, let me know if you get to 49.

I just bought one of these new knitting clocks, and I love it. It knits one stitch per minute, and you can tell what time it is by where the needles are. Mostly, though, it's proven handy for getting rid of people who have overstayed their welcome. "I'm not saying you've been here a long time," I tell them, "but I can walk you to the door in my new turtleneck."

Highlights from Saturday's Pride Fest

EMCEE: The gay community is so diverse, so creative, so fabulous. For some odd reason, then, our next act is a caterwauling horror who could get the baby Jesus to scream, "Would you please shut the fuck up?" Here she is: Paula Zands.

(TEN MINUTES LATER)

EMCEE: Wasn't that something? If she was flying an airplane and musical notes were buildings, she'd have just safely touched down in Newark. Please, if you're running for the exit, remember to pick up your trash. And now, two drag queens will re-enact a dysfunctional family drama with absolutely no camp or irony.

(TEN MINUTES LATER)

EMCEE: Well, we sure learned something new tonight. Drag queens aren't all fun and games, right? In case you missed their eighteen plugs, they're playing at Cheeto's tonight, shows at 8, 10, and 12. And now, the amazingly talented woman half of you have been waiting for, Meshell N'Degeocello.

(TEN MINUTES LATER)

EMCEE: Sorry we had to cut her off during that fantastic, funky rendition of Blondie's disco classic "Heart of Glass," but everybody gets ten minutes, whether they've sold ten million records or they're tweaked on Ecstacy and ad-libbing a ventriloquist act with a half-eaten banana as their dummy. And now, Lt. Dan Choi will lead us all in chants about self-respect like the reason we don't have equal rights is because we all hate ourselves.

The gay community's decision that shock jocks Rick & Bubba are complete assholes was reached using deduction and logic and by no means is intended to offend anybody else whose brain doesn't work right.

Today's Cookiepuss News

So Carvel Ice Cream gave Lindsay Lohan a card that entitled her to free ice cream for life. Which at a place like Carvel can add up to, like, hundreds of dollars worth of crap. Since Lindsay doesn't actually like food, though, she gave the card to her mom Dina, who wore the numbers off the plastic getting an ice cream cake every fifteen minutes. Finally, a Carvel clerk snapped, and confiscated the card.

Dina was shocked. That couldn't be legal, could it? She phoned the police, and the officer who responded ordered the Carvel employee to return the card.

Then he charged her with Assault and Buttery.

I don't get anything about this story, starting with the fact that this ice cream store's business model includes buying one freakin' ice cream mold and using it to make Fudgie the Whale in one direction and Hootie the Owl when it's upside down. Because, you know, $14 doesn't grow on trees. Plus, you'd think they'd be happy to get a customer in the joint who gets excited about a Cookiepuss.

Anyway, here's a picture of a protester at a BP hearing, because it's pretty much how I'm imagining this thing played out.

You know, they're pretty much asking for it, putting a headline in the URL.

Okay, Okay! You're Pleasantly Plump!

Counterfeit condoms have become a booming business in China in recent years. According to a report in The Times of London last year, the Chinese authorities reported that they had raided a workshop in Hunan Province where more than two million condoms had been made in unsterile conditions, lubricated with vegetable oil instead of the spermicide advertised on the label.

On the plus side, at least the baby should slide right out.

HAIR STYLIST: My boyfriend goes to Japan at least twice a year.

ME: Really? What does he do?

HAIR STYLIST: He's a shopaholic.

Low Self-Esteem Dog: "So, Do You Like Me Now?"

Who, me? I'm just a poor Russian woman pouring some old milk onto the ground. Please ignore me.


Hmm? This is a drawbridge? Oh. I did not notice. A tall boat must be going by.


What are you saying? My discarded milk has made some kind of picture? What an imagination you have!


You hear police sirens? I think so too. Excuse me: there is some place I must go.

When messenger to the dead John Edward gave a reading for Tori Spelling, she hoped her father Aaron would come through. Instead, one of her father's employees turned up. “Farrah Fawcett came through in my reading loud and clear,” Tori gushed. “She wanted me to give a message to her family about how she was doing and what was going on and I’m like, ‘Great! She really picked the wrong person.'"

Edward was reportedly terrified by the pale, skeletal apparation. And then Farrah appeared.

Two NYPD cops from Brooklyn driving on the wrong side of the street knocked over a bicyclist and then left the bloodied rider without filing a report.

Officers Louis Ramos, 42, and Paris Anderson, 33, were suspended without pay after the incident, at least part of which was captured on surveillance video. They said they thought the man just fell off his bicycle after being startled by the patrol car's lights and sirens.

Because if there's one thing a New York bicyclist isn't expecting it's a loud, bright car.

Robert Pattinson vastly prefers briefs to boxers. "When doing all his stunts, Robert likes to feel down below is all in place and not flopping around. It's one less thing that he has to worry about."

Says Mr. Cecil, his Penis Valet.

Blowing Stereotypes Out Of The Water

Another Park Slope resident, Rose-Marie Whitelaw, turned her entire 10-by-20-foot deck into a haven for her seven cats. Using pipes, chicken wire and deer fencing, she erected a seven-foot railing that the cats cannot climb, then spray-painted it black so it would be less obtrusive.

“I’m kind of handy with copper piping and a blowtorch,” said Ms. Whitelaw, 50.

Yesterday an FDA staff report recommended against approving a female version of Viagra because the benefits of the pill didn't outweigh its side effects, which included dizziness, nausea and fatigue.

Yeah, because it's really important that horny women should be able to stand up.

Sigh; I have sooo totally been there.

RANDOLPH SCOTT (on left): Gosh, this is swell! Shucks, I'm having a great time!

CARY GRANT (on right): Please let him sleep with me. Please let him sleep with me. Please let. . . .

Why Taxes Are High

"[Rescuing sailors is] not at all an efficient use of our military and civilian resources," [said Neil James, executive director of the Australian Defence Association]. "But the problem is, what happens if you don't do it? There's some real moral dilemmas involved in this. You can't just say, 'Well, you're a stupid idiot,' and let them drown. It would be pretty hard to justify that."