Mattel Outraged Over Lesbian Barbie Calendar

A couple of Brazilian artists put together a perfectly tasteful Lesbian Barbie calendar, and Mattel completely freaks out.


It's an outrage! It's unbelievable!


Dr. Stephanie Wegener, Mattel's European spokeswoman, said, "We don't want Barbie portrayed in this way."


"We will be taking legal action against the creators," she declared.


I say go screw yourselves, Mattel!  Instead of suing, you should be celebrating the love between these two Sapphic sisters, because life is short and love is fleeting, and just judging from the chicks I know, January 2012 is going to look something like this.

Construction worker Joe Cooper was left in agony after a bikini waxing by mates in a pub went wrong.

Joe, 24, agreed to the stunt to raise cash for a local hospital. Onlookers placed bids to pull the strips off but one of the strips stuck and an over-energetic tug ripped off most of Joe's skin.

"I lay down and closed my eyes," the hapless man said, "and the next thing I know I'm in horrendous pain and bleeding."

Doctors repaired the damage, but told Joe he had come within half an inch of losing a testicle.

Half an inch? Well, I don't mean to brag, but I would have lost the testicle.

In one of the strangest World AIDS Day campaigns ever seen, Kim Kardashian, Lady Gaga and Ryan Seacrest are declaring their "digital deaths" and refusing to use Twitter or Facebook until they've raised a million dollars.

So let me join the voices of millions of Americans in saying, DON'T GIVE MONEY TO FIGHT AIDS.

Pick Your Own Ending News

28-year-old prostitute and aspiring "television showgirl" was driving in Milan one night when she stopped for a red light. A good-looking man pulled up alongside, and they started talking. "He said I could earn €5,000 ($6,600) by meeting important people," she told journalists.

She gave the man her phone number, and he promised to pass it along. Then one night someone called.

"He said, 'I am the dream of Italians.' I said, 'Who is this?'"

Now you get to pick the ending!

a. "I am Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi," he said.
b. "Just some guy with too much hair gel and a cannoli," he said.

If you're planning to see the New York City Ballet's performance of The Nutcracker, be warned: According to the New York Times review, one character wasn't completely believable.

Though Alastair Macaulay enjoyed the performance in general, he laments that he was forced to look at a less-than-svelte dancers, writing "This didn't feel, however, like an opening night. Jenifer Ringer, as the Sugar Plum Fairy, looked as if she'd eaten one sugar plum too many. . . .

In this instance, at least, the word "Nutcracker" was less a role than a premonition.

In response, the head of the postal workers union announced a work slowdown, and made it retroactive to 1924.

A controversial roadkill calendar featuring flattened squirrels and dead badgers has become a surprise bestseller.

Creator Kevin Beresford, 58, travelled around the country to take his photos of carcasses, some of which are so squashed they cannot be identified.

I'm thinking it's the perfect gift. There's plenty of bush and beaver and it's still suitable for work.

According to diplomatic documents leaked on Friday, the Moscow Embassy described Russian President Dmitry Medvedev and Prime Minister Vladimir Putin's relationship in cartoon terms. Medvedev "plays Robin to Putin's Batman," they said.

George W. Bush? Rachel Dawes.

Well, thank God. Because speaking as somebody who's seen more than his share of rodents, I can tell you categorically that it's their wrinkles that totally freak you out.

Honestly, I'd like to congratulate the scientists here, because this is a real load off my mind. I can sleep better knowing that the next time I find a dirty little pest in my apartment, he won't be watching "Matlock." Hooray for progress! When stray disease-carrying creatures wander into my kitchen, they'll just eat my cookies and cakes and won't touch the Cream of Wheat. Oh, bravo. I am absolutely thrilled that the world's smartest people have decided that stopping mice from aging is important, because now when I see a giant raggedy one sprinting at me on the subway platform I'll know it's not going to squeeze my cheek.

Jeremy Piven Buys Green Version of Charlie's Angelmobile

Well, I think it's uncalled for, but plan your holiday accordingly.

Art

It's surprisingly easy.

• Take a photo of your genitals and make a slide of it.
• Buy a battery-operated slide projector.
• Find a church with a copy of Velazquez's "Crucifixion."
• Project your genitals onto Jesus.

Thus turning this:


into this:


I guess there's a point to it. When I looked at the photo, I thought "Whoa! That's one holy sceptre!" which may be the artist's intent. I mean, if Jesus were consistently pictured naked, we probably wouldn't notice it. I've seen Michelangelo's David so many times I can hardly remember which ball is droopier.

Maybe the artist wants to portray the scene with more historical accuracy, because the whole towel thing is kind of odd. Think about what kind of day Jesus had, carrying the cross up the hill, getting whipped and all that. And the towel never fell off? I could wrap myself eight layers deep and the second I answer the door mine goes floorward, which is probably why nobody's tried to sell me cookies in twenty years.

"Practicing" homosexuals? It's a penis, not a clarinet. Really, there's not that much to learn. Though I might have put a bit more work into it if I'd known there was a recital coming up.

I think a better adjective would be "observant." That's the word that divides people who say they're a certain religion from the ones who actually follow through. Lots of folks say they're Catholic, for instance, but only the observant ones actually get down on their knees.

You see the Home Shopping Network, I see bored women spending their husbands' paychecks. You see Bristol Palin dancing, I see my dentist doing an impression of Stevie Nicks.

You see Shep Smith, TV anchor at the right-wing, homophobic Fox News, and I see a guy trying to decide between the mauve and the tangerine shorty kaftans at International Male.

Well, it's better than their last tagline: "Just try keeping their paws off your basket."

Mayor Bloomberg is always asking the questions nobody else would ask. I mean, we've had some great mayors in the past, but none ever posed the question, "How about if we turn all the major streets into pedestrian plazas so New Yorkers will never be more than three feet from a panini?"

Still, recently he surpassed himself, wondering "Are all unemployed New Yorkers just brain-damaged, comic-book-reading layabouts?" Evidently the answer is yes, because this year the billionaire financier's primary attempt to lower the unemployment rate is a five-page lecture in a Spiderman comic book.

On the first page, Peter Parker talks to his aunt about being flat broke and unemployed. She tries to cheer him up. He's a photojournalist, right? This is a fine opportunity for him to either branch solely into journalism or morph into a photograph. Peter offers a pregnant woman his seat, but before she takes it she notices it's covered with ink. Because Peter's favorite pen has leaked! Then he literally runs into Mayor Bloomberg, who apparently travels with the only 5'6" bodyguards in town.




Turns out cash is falling from the sky because some evildoer robbed a bank. Peter fights him and wins, then he flies back to Mayor Bloomberg.


Thanks to the mayor's advice, now Peter knows he can find work, even though nobody's hiring. He offers Bloomberg his thanks and a tie to replace the one he ruined. And we close with happy feelings all around, though maybe it just seems that way because the mayor's gone.

So, did you get the lesson, New Yorkers? Yes, you should stay positive when you're looking for work, even though "no available jobs" kind of means this is pointless, and you'll be like the loser at Musical Chairs circling the room in search of an overlooked settee. But definitely wander the streets, because eventually you'll stumble on a bank robbery, and as the old superhero adage goes, "If it's dropped by a crook, consider it took."

Chapter One: Chocolate chip.

Chapter Two: Dino's Clown Room.

I totally agree. If somebody doesn't touch my penis before I get on a plane, I say the terrorists have won.

Vincent Gallo was apparently an actor. He's below the list of recognizable names in my head, though, since I set the absolute bottom at Christina Ricci. You can't remember everybody, you know.

Evidently Mr. Gallo didn't find acting to his liking, and he's become a gigolo. If he was as good an actor as he is gigolo, I know why I've never heard of him. Judging from his gigolo website, dude has got a screw loose.



First, there's something wrong with a guy who wants $50,000 for a couple hours but won't work afternoons. Are they that important to him? Hell, my sister is addicted to General Hospital but even she occasionally wanders away from the TV set, and Pop Tarts don't pay you $50,000 to eat them.

Second, what's with the sailor suit? I've seen both Sex and the City movies and I have yet to see the following scene:

SAMANTHA: Oh, Carrie, that man is fabulous.

CARRIE: He can sure fill out a pair of swim trunks.

SAMANTHA: And think how hot he'd be dressed as a gay porn star!

No, straight women aren't crazy about gay porn stars, and you can't really blame them. At some point during the evening, in my experience at least, they always run to the kitchen and come back with a carrot, and after that your services are no longer required.

Third, there's something definitely wrong with his price list. One woman is $50,000, and two women are . . . $100,000.

Are you freakin' kidding me?

I mean, c'mon, every work of Western art in the last hundred years has touched on how straight dudes want to screw two chicks. If they'd used half the time they spent fantasizing about three-ways on something like genetic engineering, we'd all be riding giant chickens to work. In fact, I'll bet the Pope himself has written a letter that started out, "Dear Kourtney and Khloe."

And just being logical, it's not like another woman would be twice the work. He's already in the bedroom and already in the sailor suit. The second woman deserves a discount, because she's not going to get the quality service the first woman gets. I've had sex with two people before and I know exactly what's going to happen. The first person gets all the passion and, er, physical evidence of excitement, and the second person gets a few half-hearted "Oh! Oh! Oh!"'s before somebody suddenly remembers they've got to feed the fish.

The section where he offers his sperm for sale, though, is where Mr. Gallo gets truly nuts. "Mr. Gallo maintains the right to refuse sale of his sperm to those of extremely dark complexions. Though a fan of Franco Harris, Derek Jeter, Lenny Kravitz and Lena Horne, Mr. Gallo does not want to be part of that type of integration." Racism in crazy people really bothers me. It's extra offensive when somebody says they don't want their kid to be off-white and then they name the thing, like, Bean Bag.

Since we're talking about his potential offspring here, Mr. Gallo gets down to brass tacks. If you have "naturally blonde hair and blue eyes," you get a discount. If you can prove you're related to a "German [soldier] of the mid-century," you get a discount. And if you're a Jewish woman, you get a discount, because if your child becomes an actor, "the Jewish faith would guarantee [the] offspring a better chance at good reviews."

Still, I'm not gonna rain on Crazy's parade. If you've got more money than men, I say go for it. Sounds like heaven on a stick. Experience the wonderful sense of fulfillment you get with "an unusually thick and large" dick. And should lightning strike, well, look out world, here comes Meryl Goldfarb!

Miley Cyrus is celebrating her 18th birthday with a blow-out party this weekend. She actually has a "birthday month," she says. "I do the whole month of November. Thanksgiving, cake -- all about me on Thanksgiving!"

Actually, Thanksgiving's always been about a bland, dessicated bird, so it's not that huge of a jump.




Baseball star Leny Dykstra is so broke, a judge authorized a creditor to repossess his dog, a German Shepherd worth $10,000.

It's that nine thousand dollar subwoofer.

All the time people ask me: Roman, what kind of guys do you like? Well, I'll tell you. I found a picture of the perfect man the other day.


See, I think we can agree on something here: this man is being slowly driven insane by his penis. Most penises just say, "Must fuck pretty woman" or "Must fuck handsome man," but his is on another wavelength entirely. It's got more exotic demands, and obviously he's got to follow through. He has no choice. He just hopes that tomorrow it doesn't make him hang around a petting zoo with hay stuffed up his ass.

I've had enough of regular people. I'm sick of hearing stuff like, "Roman, I'd totally do you, but I'm looking for someone with more possibilities of career advancement." And when I actually get them in the sack, the requirements intensity. "Roman, that feels good, but I can't really come unless you tie me up and say 'Who's my wove swave?' in Ed Asner's voice."

I think this is the biggest difference between humans and the animal kingdom: animals don't complain during sex. Turtles don't whine about how you're touching their shell. Cows don't say they'll never orgasm unless you compliment their cuds.

I don't know when sex got so many requirements: I'm thinking Cosmopolitan might be responsible. When I was a kid, you just fucked, and the fuckees smiled and thanked you. Now, it's out of control. You've got to suck this while rubbing that while spinning a plate on a stick. You have to aim for certain spots, like you're controlling some penile SWAT Team. Whatever happened to just blindly satisfying myself? There shouldn't be requirements. Disneyland wouldn't be nearly as popular if you had to lube up Mickey Mouse before you could get in.

Frankly, about four minutes into coitus with most people, I realize I'd be under far less pressure if I'd just stayed at work. Sex is supposed to be fun, right? I shouldn't be sweating like Bruce Willis trying to stop a runaway train.

When I have sex with regular people, they're never happy. No one has ever bragged to their friends about how great I was in the sack. With this guy, though, it's a possibility, because what do you think his requirements are in a partner? I think "Don't run away screaming!" is probably it. Everything else is gravy.

These are the people I specialize in: men being driven insane by their penises. Just by showing up I meet their requirements.

So color me interested, pantylover. Fingers crossed, I might actually be able to satisfy a dude. And hey, maybe I'll even surprise him. Once in a while I might moan something like "Don't taunt me with your treasures, sweet vixen" or "I don't know Victoria's Secret, but I can sure guess yours!" and I'll bet dude will be so grateful he'll do me until the cows come home.

On "The Late Show With David Letterman," Paul Shaffer frequently introduces guests with musical jokes. For instance, when Simon Baker of "The Mentalist" walked out, the band played "If You Could Read My Mind."

Last night I watched a few minutes of Jay Leno, and it appears his bandleader, Rickey Minor, is following suit. Cutting to a commercial from ex-pres George W. Bush, he played a familiar tune, and when I remembered the lyrics I realized this might be his idea of a joke:

When I came home last night
You wouldn't make love to me
You went fast asleep
You wouldn't even talk to me

You say I'm so crazy
Coming home intoxicated

Was it a comment? Beats me. In a bedroom far away, though, I'm thinking Laura probably choked on her Dubonnet.

A visitor to Greece soon realizes he's somewhere totally foreign. Even the alphabet is an odd jumble that has, for instance, the letter P replacing the R we know. Going to the mapina? It's that way. Need the Metpo? Over there.

It's odd. It's exotic. Still, I don't remember being more disappointed recently than when I went to my hotel's Poof Deck.

"I'm looking at the lay of the land now, and . . . trying to figure that out, if [running for president is] a good thing for the country, for the discourse, for my family, if it's a good thing," Sarah Palin told Barbara Walters.

Dear Sarah:

I'm a huge fan of yours, but after much concerted thought I think you'll have to agree the answer is no. If you became president, you'd have to move to Washington, and without your firm guidance your family would splinter. Willow might start drunkenly trashing neighborhood houses, Track might get addicted to "hillbilly heroin," and Bristol might sleep around or, God forbid, get pregnant, and make a fool of herself on national --

Oh. Really? Then give 'em hell, girlfriend!

RomanHans

They're "tech professionals" who live in a suburb of Minneapolis. They like sporty sunglasses and oversized shorts, and describe themselves as Libertarian. They discuss their blessed little bundle on their blog, posting health updates and ultrasounds.

And they've got a little widget so people can vote: Give birth, or have an abortion?

Dear Pete and Alisha:

Please add an option for "Climb over that low stone wall and throw yourselves into the river.

Thanks much,
RomanHans

[Annie Lennox's] A Christmas Cornucopia is a collection of new, inspired interpretations of 11 traditional festive songs. On Lullay Lullay, Lennox draws direct links between the Nativity and the plight of Africa's child soldiers. "Lullay Lullay alludes to the killing of first-born boy children by King Herod, and going back more deeply into the story of the song, I kept getting images of child soldiers in my head. The violation of children is endemic in many so places."

Okay, who wants egg nog?

I am so totally proud of the Teabaggers, who are keeping the amazingly uncoordinated Bristol Palin on Dancing With the Stars. They showed us! With some grass-roots organizing and hard work, they can propel a totally unqualified candidate into the top spot. Bravo!

Turkish salespeople are much more aggressive than those in the U. S. When you walk past a Starbucks in America, for instance, the clerks won't run outside and try to drag you in. They won't pelt you with questions like, "Have you ever had a frappuccino?" "Do you like frappuccinos?" or "Why don't you get a frappuccino now?"

In Turkey, though, whenever you pass a store, someone will run out and try to drag you in. While Raoul found it industrious, for me it quickly went from odd to incredibly annoying.

Here's what the first four hundred Turkish salespeople said to me.

Hello. Do you want to buy a rug? No? Are you cheap? Are you too tall to reach the money in your pants? You cannot enjoy money unless you spend it. Come into my store and spend your money there. Where are you from? New York! I have a cousin in New York! Do you need a gift for your secretary, or horse? Wait! Come back! It is very rude to walk away.

Here's what the next four hundred Turkish salespeople said to me.

Hello. Do you want to buy a rug? You already bought eighty of them, enough to cover the floor of your home five feet deep? Then how about some for the walls? Really? You don't have any walls? How can that -- you are kidding me. You are making a joke! Where are you from? Getlost! I have a cousin in Getlost. Do you need a -- what? Your secretary ate your horse? Wait! Come back! It is very rude to walk away.

Naturally, Raoul sided with the shopkeepers. "How can you just ignore people talking to you?" he accused. "That's so disrespectful." Of course, it took him forty-five minutes to cross the street.

Me, I figure if I'm rude back home, I have the right to be rude in foreign countries. In the U. S., I don't put up with BS from bums. I won't silently endure long monologues before I say no. It's wasting their time and my time. I know all too well how it goes: "I've been sick, I haven't been able to find work, I got in a car wreck, and now I don't have money for food." Yes, I know, blah blah blah. Call me crazy, but I don't need to listen to the whole drawn-out story before I say, "Look, times are tough for everybody, Mom."

So, a prominent art historian has just come out and said some scenes Michelangelo painted in the Sistene Chapel were inspired by what he saw in gay bathhouses. Needless to say, the backlash has been deafening. You'd think somebody lit one of the Pope's farts on fire.

Anyway, just a cursory glance at these images tells us this art expert is exactly right. In fact, anybody who's spent more than half a minute in a bathhouse can hear exactly what's going on.


"Yeah, lady, I'm sure you know lots of gay men, but you'll still need three forms of picture ID."



"I realize it's crowded and there are trolls watching, but what's the alternative -- Starbucks?"



"Oh, Christ -- it's my ex."



"WAIT! Don't put it away yet. I think I've got some batteries in my car."



"I swear to God, Maxine, sometimes I think every man in the universe is a bottom."

I'm not exactly entranced by Bryan Ferry's new record Olympia. Dude is 65, and I'm thinking he needs to grow up. Every time he sings "girl," I picture Betty White.

So, Raoul and I walk into the restaurant at the Ottoman Imperial hotel in Istanbul for the complimentary breakfast. The maitre d' approaches me with a checklist. "Room number?" he asks, and I say 601. He finds it on the checklist and crosses it off.

Then he turns to Raoul and seems to await a response. When nothing comes, he asks, "Are you two together?"

Let's see. We're two middle aged white Americans of approximately the same age, with similar builds and beards. We walked in together. We were talking.

Do we need to wear matching tank tops for you dudes to put it together?

As we head to our table, I add another item to my bucket list. I want to open my own restaurant. I'll welcome the men with open arms, then turn to their wives and say, with a distasteful glare, "Oh. Are you with her?"

A Walking Tour of Oxford, England

Oxford, England, is home to the University of Oxford, the oldest university in the English-speaking world. The University is composed of over a hundred individual colleges, some dating back to the thirteenth century and all with their own campus consisting of manicured grounds and stately medieval buildings. If you'd like to visit a college, simply follow the directions in your guidebook, or go to the largest building in front.

There you'll find a sign saying that's not the entrance. That's where the students go in. You're not that important, you know, with your Dockers shorts and your Cheetos bag. Here's a map to where the real entrance is. I hope those are hiking boots.

Go to this other entrance just to confirm it's locked. We're not here for your entertainment, you know. If you visit in the morning, we're open in the afternoon. If you visit in the afternoon, we're open in the morning. If you visit more than once, then sorry, but we aren't open to the public because we find the whole tourism thing tedious. Gosh, what a bother you are. I nearly solved Fermat's last theorem but you distracted me.

This small town was perhaps responsible for more scientific breakthroughs than any other area in the history of the world. So, needless to say, any tour of the city will start with the disclosure that HARRY POTTER WAS FILMED HERE. REALLY!!! Like, lots of it. This is the dining room where Harry ate lunch. Bite that, London! And you know that scene where Harry saw his parents in the mirror? That was filmed there! I know! Is that amazing? It's just unbelievable.

Oh, and I think Ptolemy was born nearby.

Now you have to leave because the city has just closed.

Actually, I was pretty proud of myself. Raoul, Linda and I were on a tour of Colchester Castle, and the guide had interrupted her narration with a question. Now, I'm no expert historian, but with a little concentrated effort I came up with what I thought was an educated guess.

"The Romans were fearless fighters," the guide declared, "using any means necessary to intimidate their enemy. When they travelled up the river from Rome, then, they brought with them what big gray animal?

"AN ELEPHANT!" I all but screamed. I don't get that many opportunities to impress.

"That's right!" the guide announced. I beamed while the only stranger on the tour, a sweet-looking old woman, muttered something like, "That's interesting." Linda, meanwhile, rolled her eyes.

"That was certainly impressive," she whispered to me. "I mean, there were so many possibilities. Like . . . " She pretended to think for a moment. "No, I guess that was it."

Instantly I went beet red. Linda was right: instead of looking smart, I looked like an idiot. This tour was designed for five-year-olds, and not especially bright ones at that. Even though there were no kids in our group, the guide still lobbed softball questions designed to keep them involved, with every one loaded with hints so that even the slowest child would get them right.

That's it, I thought. Nobody patronizes me. I swallowed my humiliation and bided my time until the next question came up. "In 54 AD, the warrior Bodecia attacked the Roman settlement," the guide said. "Two thousand years before feminism, what was different about Bodecia?"

"He was a professional dancer," I solemnly intoned, but the guide said no.

"He was in a wheelchair," Linda offered. The guide shook her head.

Raoul stared at both of us like we were idiots. "Bodecia was a woman," he declared.

"That's right," the guide said. We waited until Raoul shot us a smug look and together we rolled our eyes.

By the time the next question came, all three of us were on board. "Bodecia's army was vastly outnumbered by the Romans," the guard announced, "but they were far more adept at warfare. Long before it became common, they donned what protective apparel?"

"Aprons," I confidently stated.

"Football helmets?" Linda offered tentatively.

"Condoms," Raoul said with Walter Cronkite's gravitas. Linda and I choked down laughs as the guide shook her head.

"Suits of armor," the guide said frostily, and the three of us mimed sudden illumination. In unison we said, "Oh."

The guide prattled on a bit before hitting her next question. "Though Bodecia's attack was largely rebuffed," she said, "it nearly destroyed the Roman government. Food was scarce, so the inhabitants survived on what native game?"

Linda's hand flew up in the air. "Grand Theft Auto," she announced.

Raoul and I nearly choked. "Um, no," the guide replied. "By 'game,' I mean -- "

"Chutes and Ladders," Raoul yelled. The guide took a deep breath.

"Idiot, she said NATIVE GAME," I snapped, as the guide shot me a look of gratitude. "It's Quidditch, right?"

All of time stood still as the guide froze us in a furious glare. She was onto us, that much was certain. Without a word of explanation she leapt ahead ten centuries, and when she posed her next second-grade question we didn't exactly jump. "In 1076, construction of the current castle was ordered by what Norman nicknamed 'The Conqueror'?" she asked.

Three pairs of eyes lit up, but without pausing a nanosecond the guide answered herself. "ROCKWELL! That's it: Norman Rockwell, the acclaimed painter of all those Saturday Evening Post covers, also built this castle. Isn't that incredible?"

The sweet old woman eyed the crumbling structure. "He should have stuck to painting," she announced.

The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees announced it was mounting a strike against "The Biggest Loser" reality TV show, saying producers fought efforts to unionize their employees. The crew walked off the job Monday, and the producers plan to bring in replacement workers to resume production next week.

So, if you were watching the show to get diet tips, here's a new one: think about fat people and scabs.

Modern Art in Turkey

I'm a connoisseur of modern art, and the modern art scene in Turkey is, to put it mildly, light years behind the U. S. All the new works there seem anchored to some political ideology, addressing some obscure uprising that happened years ago. Needless to say, this work doesn't ring with the same emotional clarity as, say, a Festiva covered in Post-It Notes.

Sigh. I knew my vacation was going to be expensive, but I didn't realize just how expensive. Now I've got to buy a whole new wardrobe, because clothes never really regain their shape after they've been pounded clean on rocks down by the river. But hell, the hotel was going to charge me thirty-five bucks, so what choice did I have?

My Vacation Haiku

Everywhere, plinky music.
Hey, I didn't go halfway around the world
to listen to NPR.