It's very, very difficult to write good porn, but Kristian Herzog is giving it a try. Herzog, you may recall, started as the bodyguard to Mel Gibson's ex Oksana Grigorieva, and apparently protected her all the way into bed. In his forthcoming book Storm Surge, he's going to spill the beans about their affair.

Will the book be worth reading or not? Let's examine a couple of excerpts he leaked to RadarOnline.com.

1. Grigorieva "played my instrument like a cheap instrument," Herzog gushed. "Her soft warm inviting mouth and sorceress tongue controlled me."

Let's make this perfectly clear: no dude should ever refer to his dick as an "instrument." According to the dictionary, an "instrument" is a "precision tool," and I don't know anybody who gauges their penile penetrations to within .005" degrees of tolerance. Personally, I've heard the phrase "Close enough for government work!" more than once or twice.

Besides, that first sentence doesn't make sense. Herzog seems to be implying that true experts can really show their expertise with cut-rate props. Like John Wayne was a great horseman, but you really should have seen him ride a sway-backed glue pot.

Me, I'd write, "She played my dick like a Stradivarius." Why a Stradivarius? They're high-quality, and they don't have spit valves.

The second sentence doesn't fare any better. I don't exactly get rigid thinking about some chick's "sorceress" tongue. What, is it forked? Can it pull a "rabbit" out of my "hat"? And don't call somebody's mouth "inviting" unless you want people picturing soggy white envelopes in their mailbox.

My score? Two out of ten. Guy doesn't come off well. He's already being controlled and Grigorieva hasn't even unbuttoned her blouse.

2. "The Bodyguard becomes the Lover, making love to Oksana," Herzog said. "If lips were ships, her lips were the S.S. Titanic, dragging men down deep."

Okay, it's oral sex again. What, don't people fuck any more? Was her vagina previously engaged? Yeah, yeah, I get it: it's not really sex if there's just dicks and mouths involved.

And whaddaya know, another repetition: Lover, making love. It's totally redundant, because that's what lovers do. A lover isn't exactly going to do your ironing, or change your lightbulbs to the new swirly kind.

Then there's that immortal question: What if lips were ships? Well, I'd get a lot more barnacles on my hull. But the Titanic? That's even weaker than all that "instrument" crap, though I'll bet Grigorieva has destroyed her share of patio furniture. As I remember from the history books, you couldn't stop the Titanic from going down by pulling on her sexy, sorceress hair.

I used to wonder: how is it that I have healthy relationships with respected businessmen, while others seem to trade cash and jewelry for sexual favors with rich, oblivious boyfriends? "Maybe they're just in the right place at the right time," I guessed.

Now, though, I'm thinking maybe there's more to it than that. Barry Bonds dated Kimberly Bell through his two marriages, and she's currently testifying in his trial for perjury. In his first trial she testified that, apparently as a result of steroids, his testicles shrank by half, but now she's saying it wasn't quite that drastic. They shrank and changed shape, but they didn't reduce by half. So far she's talked about his balls for twelve hours.

Which, you know, kind of boggles my mind. I've had my testicles nearly all my life, and the only word I can think of to describe them is "dangly." And "widely ignored." Well, and maybe "manicured," if it's near the 15th of the month. But this chick's hitting the thesaurus: thickening, shrinking, changing texture, getting lumpy. This isn't a testicular status report: it's a recipe for caramel corn.

Naturally I thought she was crazy, or a pervert. Does a regular person know that much about their partner's testicles? Not to my mind. It's like going to a concert: Really, if Tina Turner is doing her job, are you going to notice that one of the Ikettes has lost weight?

This got me thinking, though: maybe that's how Kimberly got herself an athlete. She's open to every member of his genital community while I'm the guy with the velvet rope around his mouth going, "You, c'mon in. You two? Get lost!"

I don't like being Puritanical, but it's the way I was brought up. My parents were Christian, which means I'm not supposed to be doing any of this. Forget those drunken weekends: God's already pissed off by what I do with Chuck Norris photos. It's like an earthquake has leveled Los Angeles, and the whole city is on fire. Everybody else is dragging big-screen TVs out of Target while I'm standing in the candy section saying, "Well, maybe it wouldn't be horrible if I took a box of Choxie." Which is stupid, because something tells me heaven doesn't have an express line for people who stole eight items or less.

Anyway, as always, all this pondering and ruminating has taught me a lesson. If I want to date those high-class guys, I need to learn to let myself go. Maybe I'd attract those high-powered dudes if I learned to appreciate animal passions, learned to abandon myself to the pleasures of debauchery, learned to love the smell of a man in heat.

Until then, who wants caramel corn?

My friend George wrote a fabulous piece on Todd Hayne's Mildred Pierce, now airing on HBO. I'd kill to have written this paragraph:

Haynes' production does not disappoint. It is faithful not only to Cain's dialogue and to the original film version of the novel but most importantly to the great myths presented therein: that everything comes with a terrible price, especially good sex; that children are a horror because they reflect a part of who you really are; that the American dream is inextricably tied up with real estate and scoundrels and good pie.

Unfortunately, I'm not quite as enamored of the melodrama. It opens during a violent argument between a middle-class married couple:

BERT: Maybe I'm sleepin' with her, and maybe I ain't! You really wanna push this, babe? You wanna?

MILDRED: Yeah, I wanna! You been sleepin' with sluts every night of the week, and I'm sick of it! I ain't takin' any more, ya hear? Get outta here, ya lousy bum! GET OUT!

BERT exits. Twelve-year-old VEDA enters.

VEDA: Tra la la and fiddle dee dee, has there been some tumult within?

MILDRED: Veda, it . . . it's your papa. He's left. He's left us and he ain't never comin' back.

VEDA (hyperventilating): My swan, mother: hie me to the fainting chair. The vapors return forthwith!

Mildred is, of course, sympathetic. She tries to shield her daughter from their inevitable plunge into poverty, fearing the sting of her shame. We viewers, on the other hand, suspect that something else is up.

When the neighborhood kids come over to play with her younger sister, they're a ragtag gang in dirty sweatshirts and torn jeans. When there's a knock at the door for little Veda, though, it's a tiny Marlon Brando hollering her name.

I realize most kids are ashamed of their parents, but it's totally unwarranted here. I don't see Bert building model airplanes, and Mildred doesn't wash out used Ziploc bags. No, at some point in her short life Veda was left alone with A Ballad of Reading Gaol and two ounces of opium. I'm not saying kids have to be outside playing stickball all day long, but clearly something is wrong when they spend Christmas on the couch comparing their debasement to a three-legged unicorn.

Instead of Mildred trying to shelter her daughter, then, she should be calling an exorcist. That's what I'd do, and I know how loose those dudes can be with their hands. Because what other explanation can there be when Mom and Dad are out of 50s TV and daughter's spouting Tennessee Williams?

Of course, I realize these little melodramas aren't made for logical dudes. Halfway through Camille, nobody appreciates it if you suggest she might appreciate the dry heat of Arizona. We rest easy when Tara burns down knowing Scarlett must have put the insurance papers in her safe deposit box. Here I think there's a similar solution.

So adios, Mildred: I'm abandoning your sad slide into victimhood in favor of my own empowered ending:

VEDA stands at the door holding eight pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage.

VEDA: That's right, mother, I'm ashamed! Ashamed of you, and your sad white uniform. And if that's sinful, then let me be damned for it!

MILDRED slams the door in her face and smiles.

MILDRED: Butcha are, my dear; ya are.

What's that, Bradley? You'd defend yourself, but you're sitting naked in a federal jail cell right now, like you have been for twenty-three hours of every single day for the last ten fuckin' months, while the government tries to come up with something to charge you with? Okay, thanks!

I'm not particularly politically active, but once in a while I hear something that really tans my hide. Today the Americans for Truth, a grassroots organization dedicated to fighting the homosexual agenda, provided startling evidence that gays are infiltrating our public schools to recruit new players for their team. One of their members spotted this display at a local high school:


Now, I don't know about you, but I think this is pretty damning evidence that the homos are ruling the roost. I mean, our high schoolers are in those formative years when they haven't yet decided what college to go to, which career path to take, or whether they'd enjoy being orally serviced by clouds that look like shaved testicles. What are we telling them here?

As the parent of a teen myself, I know how kids today desperately want to be "with it" and "hip," and I know that when there's "new wind blowing" they want to be part of it, whether it's learning a groovy new dance step or having anal sex with a dude named Steffon. What hope do their Christian values have in the face of a colorful flag?

Taunted by this blatant propaganda, I can no longer remain silent: damn those homosexual activists and their fancy metaphors, driving our children to unnatural acts with their Sharpy markers and skill with cardboard. I pray that our children remain strong, but even I feel my resolve buckling under the demands of that lumpy cloud. The mailman's walking up my path now, and it's going to take all my gumption to hold my flannel robe closed while I ask him if it's hot enough for him today.

Louis Garrett never thought his little hobby would come to much. He collected female mannequins, and naturally he needed underwear for them. At some point he realized he had far more underwear than mannequins -- these things happen in Missouri, you know -- and he pondered long and hard. "What can I do with all these panties?" he asked himself.

Then one day it hit him: He'd make a quilt. Out of panties. He'd make a panty quilt!


The burly biker wasn't much of a seamstress when he started, but he soon picked up the skill. And almost before he tied off that last knot, his little art project was all over the media. In some circles, perhaps, his feat was celebrated, but most news outlets seemed to snigger between the lines, prompting some questions:

• Do Americans really need to see a biker's collection of women's panties at their breakfast tables?
  
  
• Should newspapers be prompting amateur forensic analysis over our morning coffee?
  
  
• Couldn't they have blown up the photos so we wouldn't have to search our apartments for anything that would magnify?
  

Am I saying that this tawdry tale is a sure sign that responsible journalism is dead? No! Because while reporters everywhere were leaping into the feeding frenzy, one newspaper paused to ponder the bigger issues. The Hannibal Courier-Post wrote:

To not upset too many people, the photo of the colorful quilt was run inside the newspaper in black and white.

Bravo, Hannibal Courier-Post! This story is far less creepy if you think the underwear comes from Amish chicks.

Throw In The Occasional Chicken Burrito And You've Totally Got My Life

Yawn. Sure, grandpa -- tell me again about how, when you were a kid, there was this really scary movie about a runaway silicone implant.

If there's one thing I do really well, it's identify and categorize the screams that I hear coming from outside my apartment. Long ago I realized that this was a very important field to master, because it comes in handy at least a few dozen times a day. As everyone knows, if you hear somebody being attacked and you don't do anything about it, YOU ARE PARTLY RESPONSIBLE, and all the newspapers will publish editorials calling you thoughtless and wondering what kind of a cowardly monster you are. Honestly, here in New York we read about these uncaring assholes more than we read about overpriced fusion cuisine.

Unfortunately, like rocket science, brain surgery, and masturbation, it's not quite as simple as it seems. You have to learn how to filter out all the non-emergency screams that you'll hear in your typical Brooklyn apartment.

Say you're sitting on your couch, for instance, and you hear the shriek of a banshee from beyond the grave. Ask yourself: Is somebody being repeatedly stabbed, or did a Vassar grad just run into one of her sorority sisters? If your experience is limited, use your intuition. Did some poor soul just get flattened by a semi, or did a hipster learn that the neighborhood bodega is out of Brooklyn Lager? Try to guess the motivation: if you screamed like that, would it be because a pit bull latched onto your leg, or because you're a fledgling fashionista and you spotted a girl wearing the kickiest culottes?

As I said, it isn't easy, but here in Brooklyn you need to be able to identify all these screams or you'll be running back and forth to your window more than an ex-gay when the Pride Parade passes by. If it means the Post prints one less condescending editorial accusing New Yorkers of --

Oops, gotta go. Either it's a crisis of unimaginable proportions or my neighbor is walking the World's Cutest Labradoodle again.

I just read this great blog post about gender identity stereotyping in the Happy Meals at McDonalds. Apparently when you buy a Happy Meal they ask if it's for a boy or a girl. In the case of the photo above, the boy would get a cool little car and the girl would get a fuckin' pony.

Got that? This is what your clerk is really saying:

CLERK: Hi, and welcome to McDonalds! Today we're going to inextricably link your gender identity to your choice of cheap plastic toy. Do you want a cool little car that you can drive all up and down your legs while going "Vroom vroom vroom!", or do you want to repeatedly run a comb through the mane of an effeminate horse?

I don't know about you, but if I had a daughter who picked the effeminate horse, I'd cry myself to sleep that night.

I don't get this. Why do they think children don't deserve a choice? It's sad, and it's degrading to all involved. If little Bobby doesn't like that Kurt Rambis bobblehead doll, it's like he's bursting out of the closet with a Cher record in his hand. And if little Katie doesn't like that iCarly makeup kit, she's seconds away from buying a Subaru.

If McDonalds is so good at generalizing, why don't they serve adults based on their outward gender expression? Burgers for the guys, salads for the chicks. Hell, I'll bet some adults would be too chicken to argue, but me, I'd tell that clerk what's what. And they can go ahead and question my sexuality if they want, but they'll sure shut their small-minded mouths when I ask for extra dressing.

The National Organization for Marriage is totally freaking out about a recent study that says families are moving out of San Francisco. They're insinuating that the gays are responsible for it, like we're scaring them away. Ha! What hypocrites. They didn't say a word when we were all scared out of Iowa by fat people wearing suspenders.

Black Guy Locked Out of House Doesn't Get Shot By Cops

Grammatical Declaration of the Year: An apostrophe means Here comes an S!

No. Do you have an Asshole costume? It goes through Tribeca.

Sigh; he must be sooo proud. Five years after beloved TV therapist Dr. Phil's oldest son Jay married a Playboy model, another apple is dropping next to the same tree. According to CeleBitchy, Jordan McGraw is canoodling with Crystal Harris, the figure model also known as Hugh Hefner's fiancée.

I know the Dr. Phil compound must be buzzing with excitement this morning. Me, I'm over the moon. I just know those two kids are going to make the most wonderful family . . . after, you know, her sugar daddy dies. And maybe in a few years there'll even be a blessed event. I can already picture the baby shower, and Crystal opening a gift of crotchless diapers.

Anyway, call me Mr. Romantic. I just can't stop singing that old homespun ditty about a young man's fancy in springtime:

I want a girl
just like the girl
that most American males masturbate to.

Back in 1917, George Wesley Bellows' sketch of The Shower Bath was a huge hit with mainstream America. Time magazine can't quite explain the appeal.

The Shower Bath is full of a lot of naked businessmen who have just been trying to exercise. A scrawny little man is standing by the pool snickering at a brawny tub-of-guts who looks like Bully Boy Brewster. A bony oaf on the springboard is telling a dirty joke to a bald-headed codger with a pot belly. Goggle-eyed boosters paddle about in the pool or rub their misshapen haunches with towels. Near the showers is a scales for them to weight themselves on.

A clue to its popularity comes in a note accompanying its recent exhibition:

Jonathan Katz, in an extraordinarily clear and interesting catalog essay, reveals that the print sold out in three editions, suggesting more than a niche appeal. He also discusses the sexual mores of the period, and the fact that hetero-identifying men might maintain that identity and have liaisons with other men, as long as they maintained the male role.

We look again at the picture, and now we get it. Now we know why this was 1917's version of Big Mouth Billy Bass.

WOMAN #1: Look in the middle there. There's a banker, just like my Wally, out for some exercise but entranced by the wanton cavorting of some skinny queen. Look! His face shows sheer befuddlement, but that erection says "You go, boy!" Isn't it hysterical?

WOMAN #2: Ha. Men!

Sigh. I never met her, but I'm a little sad today about Liz Taylor passing away. So far that's the only symptom of aging that I've run into: great people keep leaving, and the people who replace them aren't quite up to snuff. Liz goes, Megan Fox comes. Richard Pryor goes, Lisa Lampanelli comes. Teddy Pendergrass goes, John Legend comes.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in a Broadway show. When it opens, I'm surrounded by Vanessa Redgrave and Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith, and a couple years later I come out onstage and see James Belushi standing there.

"Into The Night" by Benny Mardones

She's just sixteen years old.
Leave her alone, they say.
Separated by fools
who don't know what love is yet.

But I want you to know:
If I could fly, I'd pick you up
and take you into the night, and show you a love
like you've never seen. Ever seen.

You know, I keep trying to ignore this song. "Nobody's ever heard of it," I tell myself. "It's crap by a one-hit wonder." But it's such a masterpiece -- such a massive chunk of addictive, indelible crap -- that I can't get it out of my head. I'm hoping if I let my feelings out, I'll exorcise this overwrought demon once and for all.

The first few lines are exemplary writing, establishing the mood really well. I think everyone is in agreement: the singer is a total creep. People are telling him to stay away from a sixteen-year-old girl, meaning he has to be forty at least, or twenty-five if he's unemployed. But it's love, he insists, like some of the forty-year-old men who creep on sixteen-year-olds go, "You caught me! I just wanted to bang her! Okay, I'll go away now." But the singer is insistent, and hopes to convince his beloved of his good intentions.

"If I could fly," he croons, "I'd pick you up."

Okay, so dude is kind of stumbling out of the gate. If you want to win somebody over, in my humble opinion, the first thing you want to offer them is probably not a ride. Apparently he's differentiating himself from all of those guys who want you to meet them at the mall.

Still, we've got our fingers crossed. He still has a shot if he's planning on taking the young lady somewhere really cool. He can still salvage this if he's got airline tickets to Paris, or he booked a hot-air balloon. We don't have much hope, since he could have left out the whole "pick you up" part, because none of us are assuming he was going to drag her there by rope. But he's faring better than my German boyfriend who would have included lines about packing a lunch and visiting the toilet beforehand.

But our hopes are dashed and the song crashes and burns. This Casanova would pick you up "[a]nd take you into the night. And show you a love."

Got that? I mean, I'm not a real high-maintenance guy -- you don't have to make restaurant reservations for our date, or buy opera tickets, or hire a pony -- but I require a little more than the promise that our excursion will include seeing dark. My little heart doesn't race when a guy pulls me close and says, "See that, baby? You're not always stuck in sunlight when you're with me.

I'm not sure why dude is aiming so low. Doesn't he have something a little better to offer? Maybe he's has been burned before: maybe he's flashing back on that time he promised a young lady that they absolutely, positively wouldn't have dinner at 7-Eleven. And then he wouldn't get arrested, and then he wouldn't poop his pants. "Show you a love"? He can do anything from giving her flowers to whipping out his dick and she can't say he didn't warn her.

You know your dad wouldn't fall for that shit:

DAD: You're going to take her where?

BENNY: Uh, into the night.

DAD: Oh, wow. I used to go there a lot with her mom. Okay, you two kids have fun!

There aren't a lot of promises that are worse than "We'll go see Cats but dude has definitely found one.

The song never says what happens, but I bet the guy's lack of ambition destroyed the relationship. It makes me makes me wonder what he would do if he were granted superpowers. If he had x-ray vision, would he peer into dumpsters to find the bottles with high redemption value? If he could swim super-fast, would he use it to confuse people as to exactly who peed in the pool? You imagine a sequel where he sings, "If I could turn invisible, I'd sneak into Paul Rudd's house and put my testicles on his hair."

Still, even that wouldn't haunt me like the original, unless there was a video.

I'm still pissed off about that UCLA idiot -- let's call her "Brandii" -- who ranted against Asians using cellphones in the library on YouTube.

I'm trying to look on the bright side. At least she proves the theory that when people say they aren't politically correct, they're about five seconds away from asking the nearest black guy to shine their penny loafers.

Otherwise, it's a pretty ridiculous little monologue, and I'm thinking one little apology isn't good enough to address a whole boatload of insults.

1. Brandii repeatedly makes the distinction between Asian people and Americans. She assumes that Asians all came from somewhere. Now, clearly these folks aren't from WHITEVILLE, I'll give her that. But there are a few small geographical regions where, though scientists have yet to fully explain it, Asian people can successfully complete the sex act, and as a result even create a new Asian baby on American soil.

Yes, you read it here first.

2. According to Brandii, white people travel in groups or bunches but Asian people travel in hordes. You know, like the Mongols, or locusts. On Google, if you type in "hordes of," it offers to complete the phrase with "the orcs," "chaos," and "the underdark key." None of these is good. You can't buy a horde of donuts at Krispy Kreme. J. C. Penneys doesn't sell underwear in a Thrifty Horde Pack. Which is why after Brandii says UCLA admits "hordes" of Asian students every year, she qualifies that with "which is fine."

The phrase "which is fine" is used to give your approval to something that might horrify and/or disgust your reader. Like:

• He pushed his fingernail clippings and half a pound of margarine up my ass. Which is fine. But then the dog started to watch.
  

3. Brandii asks that Asian cellphoners "use American manners." C'mon, that's crazy: when has something been more American than being loud and obnoxious? Those ARE American manners. Hell, that's why we broke away from England: we were sick of using handkerchiefs and all that snooty silverware. Besides, you think using a cellphone in a library is worse than posting a video on YouTube where you profess the belief that when Asian people speak, they actually just repeat the words, "Ching chong ding dong"? If Asians had American manners, there'd be eight million YouTube impressions of them sipping Sex on the Beaches, eating cupcakes, and repeating, "Like really like you know like anyway like Oh. My. God."

4. Brandii confirms her sad debasement of Asians with a little sketch of their home life. The Asian students are frequently visited, she says, by "everybody they know that they brought along from Asia with them." Great phrase, huh? You can picture them leaving their little one-room hut. You can hear Uncle Tsao saying goodbye to the chickens. You can imagine Li Hua chastizing little Ming. "Daughter, that's way too much luggage! You know we're going to be hanging from the landing gear, right?"

Brandii says the families have to come help the Asian students because "they don't teach their kids to fend for themselves." I'm not sure how she knows they're related. I mean, I can't quite picture the conversation.

ASIAN STUDENT: Brandii, I'd like you to meet my grandmother, Xunyu Zhou.

BRANDII (extending her hand toward the old woman): Pleased meet you, Ching Chong Ding Dong.

Somehow, Brandii turns familial love and concern into something bad. Which I'm guessing she doesn't do for white folk. When she passes the Vanderbilt Family Reunion down at the Olive Garden, I'm pretty sure she doesn't shake her head and mutter, "God, it's like you need a million old white people just to burn your lips on breadsticks."

To make a long story short, that little video gives me a crystal-clear picture of where America is headed. As a political science major, Brandii is ready and waiting to steer our country the same way white chicks steer their Volvos: while they're tossing their hair, clicking through to the cool songs on their iPods, and texting their sorority sisters.

Which is, like, you know, fine.

That's ridiculous. Some gays have had kids who weren't stupid.

Los Angeles police detectives are trying to identify a suspected burglar caught in the nude on security video at a Boyle Heights preschool.

School security video recorded March 6 shows a naked man inside an entryway at the facility.

Investigators said he was seen parading around for several minutes while engaging in strange behavior of a sexual nature.

Regardless how crazy or creepy somebody is, it doesn't give a newspaper the right to print such scurrilous trash. Here all pretense of responsible journalism is dashed on the rocks of titillation.

First, what exactly is "strange behavior of a sexual nature"? When you're naked and being sexual in public, is there any behavior that wouldn't be strange? If you and your girlfriend are doing it doggy style, will the cops just high-five you and walk away? Will they write you up a warning if you put your girlfriend's purple thong on your head? If, in the throes of passion, your penis heads toward another opening, are tasers going to appear? Responsible news stories should resolve ambiguity. This one leaves Mormons thinking this dude was beating off, while us New Yorkers assume he was jamming his penis into a pencil sharpener with a can of baked beans up his ass.

Second, the word "parading" is judgmental stuff straight out of Fox News. Saying somebody was "parading" is like saying they were "skulking" or "shambling." No judge would allow talk like that in court.

According to the dictionary, to "parade" is to "promenade in a public place, especially in order to show off." Really, does naked + walking = parading? Can women only parade if they're naked from the waist up? I mean, there's pretty much no way to show off a pussy, even if you've got tiny banners and a book light.

Can't you amble naked? What if you have a tiny penis? Just going by this definition, the Los Angeles Times appears to be saying that this guy has got something worth showing off. And the next time they write about a naked man walking, moseying, or sauntering, it means dude's got a pencil dick.

Clearly, nudity in itself is insufficient to qualify for "parading." "Parading" requires much more ostentation than just an exposed penis, regardless of its pizzazz. "Parading" requires marching bands, or elephants, or clowns on unicycles, and the Times should refrain from making such slanted judgments lest they tar us all with the same brush. For we responsible, upstanding citizens do not parade around the dressing rooms at J. C. Penneys. We do not parade through the bathroom stalls at Arby's. And we do not "parade" from the bathroom to our beds each night, even if we have bleachers set up.

Germany Today

Scientists finally answer the questions "What happens when there are no outer gravitational accelerations in the catapult capsule of a drop tower vacuum tube?" and "What goes good with sauerkraut?"

New York Times film critic Manohla Dargis recently wrote about how sad it is that American movies are packed with explicit violence but apparently ashamed of sex.

Lenny Bruce used to ask why it was obscene to show sex in American movies but not violence. Fifty years later, our screens remain washed in red, with severed if not necessarily naked body parts. More than half of the mostly American titles that received R ratings last year contained some kind of violence (as in strong, bloody and “grisly bloody violence and torture”) while only a third had sexual content. No NC-17 ratings were handed out, which bar youngsters, the viewers the studios most lust after.

She talks about watching Blue Valentine:

I wasn’t shocked by the sex — after all, it’s about two lovely young people who can’t keep their hands off each other — but I was startled. American characters — heterosexuals! — were having sex in a movie.

I've got to say, I completely disagree. Watching somebody have sex is like watching somebody win a reality TV program. At first you think, "Hey, great for them!", but eight seconds later it's, "Wow, it sure sucks being me."

Basically, though, when it comes right down to it, sex isn't all that meaningful, while violence is permanent. Sure, it's great to sleep with somebody, but a week or two later do you remember? See if that happens when somebody breaks your leg.

Violence results from strong feelings, but sex can stem from ambivalence. You won't see a scene in a violent film where a guy says, "Well, I'm bored and a little drunk, and I'm not really crazy about him. Might as well snap both his arms."

Violence explodes out of the gate immediately. A mobster doesn't punch some guy in the nose, then go home and write, "Dear Diary: I had such a lovely time hitting that fink. Maybe tomorrow I'll poke his eyes out!" He's not going to spend the rest of the night standing in front of a mirror pretending he's walloping the guy with a broom.

Violence isn't thoughtful, or introspective. Jason Statham doesn't sit at home for the first ninety minutes of his movies wondering why nobody will pound him with a saucepan. He doesn't take somebody out to dinner eight times before he breaks their arm. While he's beating them to a pulp, they don't require his reassurances that he really, really hates them. And afterward, when they're lying in pain on the pavement, they don't ask him to spoon for an hour while they discuss coming to terms with these newfound feelings.

When a couple fall in love, though, who knows how long it's going to last? Sure, they're professing their undying love, but words are just a little different than knife wounds. Show me the movie where some dude jumps off a building, then two months later decides he's made a horrible mistake. Similarly, violence is more important because it's a one-shot deal. At no point is that mobster going to say, "Hey, that was great! Let's chop off his fingers again!"

In the end, sex just isn't as memorable as violence. Imagine, for instance, you've just killed a family. Even if you're a hardened murderer, that image will stay in your head forever. Now try remembering what your third boyfriend's dick looked like. And I'll see you at the next Steven Seagal film fest!

Dear fellow UCLA students,

Well, I tried to be patient, but I finally snapped. I think after you hear my story you'll agree that I've been putting up with Asians for far too long.

I'm a UCLA student, and sometimes I study in the library. I settle in and I get comfortable, and maybe I glance around to see if there's anybody I know, and always, without fail, I see some Asian person staring at me.

Really, it's almost creepy, and I can never figure out why they're staring. Are they jealous? Maybe, you know, blondes are worshipped like gods in their native land. Are they hungry? Well, you know, maybe they should have brought a six-pack of frappuccinos and a bag of rice cakes to study with too.

If the staring isn't scary enough, it's like without fail, every five or fifteen minutes, one of them will get on their cellphone and before you know it they're all "Ching chong bing bong."

It's unbelievable. Without fail. I try and be patient, and I say, like, "Dude, I'm downloading the newest Girl Talk cd. Can't you go somewhere else to find out if your aunt is still alive?" And they just stare at me! If I didn't have studying to do, I swear I'd pack up my iPod and PlayStation and go.

On weekends, at least, you'd think they'd give that Asian stuff a rest. No! Instead, all the people they brought over to America with them show up in the dorms to, like, talk and visit. It just freaks me out how much they fawn over each other. I feel like telling them, "Hey, this is America! We very nicely let you into this country, so you should, you know, adopt the native way of life. When your kid leaves home, say good riddance! Do a little dance, smoke some bud, and put a stripper pole in their bedroom for your swingers' parties."

Anyway, I feel better now that I got that off my chest. And now I really do have to get back to studying, because otherwise I'm never going to get that PhD in poly sci.

Your classmate,
RomanHans

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A True Story and a Parable For Our Time

Orit Fox, Israel's answer to Khloe Kardashian, was halfway through a photo shoot when the photographer suggested she pose with a giant snake.

"There's absolutely no way," declared the bottle blonde. "He's probably poisonous, and he'd bite me!"

"He's not poisonous," said the photographer. "And he won't bite you, anyway."

Orit shook her head. "I don't believe you. There's no way I'm touching that snake. No way!"

The photographer sighed. "Well, if you don't pose with the snake, no magazine is going to print these crummy pictures."

Orit was simulating fellatio with the snake when it bit her in the boob. "OHMIGOD!" she screamed. Frantic, she pounded the snake with both fists until it released its grip and fell onto the ground.

But it was too late. Death had already reared its uninvited head. "How could you do this to me?" the snake moaned as it lay dying of silicone poisoning.

"Stupid reptile," spat Orit. "What, like you thought these world-class gazangas could be real?"

Conservative website World Net Daily congratulates some American corporations for refusing to recognize equal rights for gays and lesbians. They applaud Harley-Davidson, Goodyear, and Advance Auto Parts, but single out one corporation in particular. "When it comes to automotive service in America," they trumpet, "Pep Boys may be among the best-known brands, but the company is doing absolutely nothing to promote the homosexual agenda."

"We sincerely appreciate the kind words," replied Manny, Moe, and Nearsighted Hitler.

Mitchell Tice, of Florida, was arrested Sunday for breaking into his boss' storage unit and stealing two laptop computers, a wig, and a bag full of dildos.

Is that incredible? That dude is employed.

Tice was linked to the theft after his girlfriend told detectives that her beau “had placed a bag of dildo’s [sic] under their bed.”

"I realize there ain't no emergency, 911 lady, but if somebody don't take these dildos there sure as hell gonna be."

The dildos were later shown to the restaurant owners, who “positively identified the items as theirs.”

"You're absolutely certain these are your belongings?" the detective asked.

"Well, if you turn around a second," the boss replied, "I'll make for goddamn sure."

"On the plus side," Lonnie's dad thought to himself, "at least he ain't playing with dolls."

Dear Idiot:

• "People That Talk To Pets More Than God" should be "People Who. . . . "
  
  
• "People that watch TV more than Study the Bible" should be "People Who. . . . "
  
  
• "The Jews That Are From The Synagogue Of Satan" should be "The Jews Who. . . . "
  
  
• I'm not sure why you used the adjective "child molesting," like just plain "child molester" wasn't specific enough. You're thinking the straight ones are cool?
  
  
• Unless you're referring to actual diaper-wearing murderers, you should probably change "Baby Killers" to "People Who Kill The Unborn."
  
  
• When you say "Ankle Biters" do you mean "children"? Because it's odd that you'd hate both children and the people who kill them. Do you mean "Pillow Biters"?
  
  
• "Sex Perverts" is redundant, like "Fundamentalist Christian Idiots."
  

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

P. S. Tell Sport his nuts are okay in my book.

Pull Over, America!

My fellow Americans, it's time. Time to stop our country's breakneck ride to hell!

Sarah Palin, America's brightest political analist, has said that the Obama Adminustration’s actions are driving us down the “Road to Ruin." Activist politicians have pushed the pedal to the floor, and now there's no way we can stop, like when little Jayden dropped that tube of Cajun Pringles and it got wedged under the accelerator.

Well, the time has come to stop that runaway car.

Yes, we've tried: God knows we've tried. We've signed petitions, and we've gotten hundreds of thousands of people to picket Washington, many of them holding signs that were correctly spelled. So far, though, all our efforts have failed due to entrenched political machinary and a corrupt lamestream media.

So how do we make our voices known? How do we send a clear message that cannot be twisted by the lamestream media? We have come up with a brand new way.

It won’t cost you any money. It will only take an hour. And it won't require you to ride on the devil's favorite transportation: an aeroplane.

We're going to hit the brakes!

Here is the plan. On Sunday, March 13th, 2011, we want everyone to get into their cars, trucks, RVs, and semis, and drive to your nearest highway. At exactly two o'clock, pull over onto the shoulder and park. Turn on your lights, turn on your flashers, and honk your horn until three o'clock.

Is that a great idea? We'll send the lamestream media a message they'll never forget. Do the math. If one-third of all Americans do this, and a car is 24 feet long, and we leave 10 feet between each car, and there's 7,000 feet in a mile, and a freeway is -- oh, how the hell are we supposed to know? We ain't Chinese. But imagine the traffic reports! On the evening news everybody will ask, “What the heck is going on?”

Of course, we don't want you to get in trouble. In most states, though, it's legal to pull over in case of emergancy, and going to hell in a handbasket must qualify! Hold a pack of Winstons to your ear and pretend you're making an important phone call, like some guy with a fancy job. Besides, they say we shouldn't pee at the side of the road and that's never stopped us before!

So, at two o'clock on Sunday, pull over, America. Park and wave banners and greet your neighbors and tell them, "Brother, we too are no longer driving down this road!" And when the inevitable occurs and somebody driving by gets a flat, the shoulder will already be crowded, so they'll be stuck right there, in the middle of the road. And when the hundreds of speeding cars behind them can't stop in time, there'll be a conflaguration even bigger than that Thanksgiving you tried to deep-fry a Butterball, and we'll all stand by our cars and waive our flags and say, "See? We told you this road wasn't safe. We told you it ain't smart to drive on it. And all of us good Americans are going to stay off it, even after they tow away all your ruined Volvos and put out the fire that spread to the nature preserve."

Newt Gingrich says his passionate hard work for his country contributed to his marital infidelity. "There's no question at times of my life, partially driven by how passionately I felt about this country, that I worked far too hard and things happened in my life that were not appropriate," Gingrich told the Christian Broadcasting Network.

Really, when you think about it, the American capitalist system is just too fucked up. All of us working dudes, either because we love our work or we're just trying to get ahead, find ourselves at the office at some godawful hour, and by then our penises are swollen so badly we can't get in the car to drive home and screw our girlfriends or wives.

I'm thinking even women can sympathize here. It's like when you're really hungry, and you wander around looking for an Asian-fusion macrobiotic vegan place that looks remotely clean. You know there's got to be one around somewhere, so you keep searching, but half an hour later you find your hands pale and shaking and cramming a Big Mac down your gob.

If we left work at six or seven we could make it, but any later and the deadline has passed. We can barely ride the elevator from floor to floor looking for some willing piece of ass without causing irreparable harm to our insides.

Luckily, in Newt Gingrich's case it worked out well. I can picture how that first hot, seductive scene played out, and how his current wife Calista would have been won over by those words. "Because I love my country too much, I've mistakenly stayed here too late," Newt must have explained, "and my penis will explode like a Mexican firecracker if I don't screw something before I get home to my legal wife."

"Then use me, dedicated patriot!" she must have replied as she pulled up her James Galanos shealth dress and exposed her ladybits. "I'll do anything to serve my country, and to save your Cadillac from requiring reupholstery."

"But what's in it for you?" Newt asks, exhaling the scent of coffee and peanut butter cups in her face.

"I feel that same sexual desperation, though -- to be honest -- I'm driven less by love of country than that goddamned overtime pay."

Frankly, since men own all the major corporations, I don't understand why they don't provide for our needs. Hell, at Google they've got a coffee shop, and a burrito bar. At Microsoft they've got masseuses, and basketball courts. But has some small part of a man ever exploded because he couldn't play a quick game of HORSE? I think not! All these perks pale in comparison to what we really need. We need a workplace where sultry fuckslaves lie around waiting to sexually service us, and we can't all work at American Apparel.

Needless to say, I'm supporting Newt in his run for the presidency. It's partly because I think that, as a victim of his urges, he'll bring these necessary changes to the American workplace, but mostly for the good of his third marriage. Obviously the man either needs his wife nearby at all times, or he needs a job where his presence isn't required. Which means either he has to work from home, or he needs a government job.

CARL: Well, when I said I was gonna give you a fast ride on my big log, what did you think I meant?

SHEILA: Oooh, Margie, isn't he a dishy one?

MARGIE: I like the way he holds a piece of cardboard in front of him so it looks like he's on a boat.

I just had lunch, and a big chunk of something went down the wrong way. I have no idea what that means, but I know it's what people say in this circumstance. It's one of those things that struck me as bizarre as a child but no adult ever clarified -- like the Shriners, or testicles. Over the years I've come up with my own explanation, but it's so nonsensical even I can't believe it's true.

See, we've got one pipe leading into our bodies, but somewhere along the way it splits into two: one heading for the lungs, and one heading for the stomach. Obviously there must be some kind of switching system, like on a train track, and I'm picturing a fleshy little flap.

Now, this is actually pretty cool, because that fleshy little flap moves into the right position without requiring any conscious thought. You don't have to concentrate to get it into position, or clap your hands like you're trying to get Tinkerbell off the ground. It just does it all by itself.

That is, when it works. When it doesn't, a big chunk of something edible goes into your lungs.

Which is one of the top two things that scared me as a child, next to thinking that getting hit in the balls meant my future children would be born with broken arms. See, I knew that lungs weren't equipped for food disposal. There's no stomach acid there. It's all puffy pink tissue, with delicate folds and bends so it can pull oxygen out of the air.

Then a giant piece of squash plops down into it, and -- seemingly a logical conclusion -- you are completely screwed. The food is stuck there as it slowly rots, while you exhale the air that circulates around it. "Nice to see you!" you say to somebody. "Is that rotting squash?" they ask.

With a bit of thought, this led me to the inevitable: really, there can't be a God.

I mean, God allegedly designed us, right? Could an infallible -- hell, even a competent -- designer have created a system like this? He wasn't on a budget. He didn't have a boss who nagged him about the schedule. He had all the time in the world, and he came up with a system that kills you if you try to eat too much steak.

Really, would it have killed him to give us two separate inputs? It's not like extra flesh costs extra. Then if the food pipe got clogged, it'd be no big deal. "That's a bother," we'd think as we continued to breathe normally. "Guess I'll have to get to a plumber some time soon."

Instead, it can be fatal. Which makes me wonder: every time somebody chokes to death, does God damn himself? He's responsible, just like the dudes who put the Pinto's gas tank under the driver's seat. If a car designer merged the radiator with the radio, even Kia would fire him. And this isn't God's only instance of bad design. Have you seen pigeons? "They'll look so majestic floating on air!" God said to himself. "And when they're on the ground, well, they can just jerk their heads back and forth to counterbalance their feet." When you look in a pigeon's eyes, though, you can guess his thoughts on the matter: "Holy shit," he's thinking, "I just dislodged my fuckin' brain."

Anyway, now I'm stuck with it. I can feel it in my lungs: my big hunk of squash is starting its slow descent into sludge. If you run into me in the next couple of months, be kind. Don't ask about the rotting smell, and whatever you do, watch out for my testicles.

They say with age comes wisdom, but Rosina Kovar is living proof that maxim isn't true. When the Senate Judiciary Committee in Colorado held open hearings before voting on whether to grant gays civil unions, the 76-year-old Denver grandmother exercised her civic right to stand before them and tell them everything she knows about assholes.

Which, sadly, betrayed a second-grade education. "The anus is an exit," she declared. "It is not an entrance. Unlike the vagina, nature put a tight sphincter at the entrance to the anus. It's there for a reason. Keep out!"

Dear Ms. Kovar:

I realize you don't know me and I don't know you, but you said something weird the other day and I just wanted to clarify.

You know you can loosen your butthole, right?

Just curious,
RomanHans

I mean, look at this subjectively: the anus is far better than the vagina for sex, because, for one, it's controllable. Anuses are like little round doors: we can open them, and we can close them. And yes, maybe a closed door says "Keep out!", but like our anuses we can easily swing them open in a welcoming manner whenever, say, the UPS man wanders by.

Meanwhile, nothing says "Howdy, neighbor!" like flinging a shitload of blood on innocent bystanders fourteen days a month.

"The anal lining is only one-cell thick," the simple-minded senior continued before the patient politicians. "There's no lubrication."

I'm not sure what grandma's point is here. Does she mean we're all fragile downstairs? Like the rest of us is made of bone and muscle but for some bizarre reason God stuck Royal Doulton up our butts? Yeah, babe, I've got a veritable glass menagerie down there. It's like crossing the Andes with a truckload of dynamite every time I take a nacho dump.

Really, there's nobody quite as stupid as the religious. First they tell us that God made us, and then they say he did a shitty job.

Meanwhile, the out-to-lunch old-timer doesn't mention that a lot of heavily-trafficked areas of the body are one-cell thick -- like parts of the throat. Yet somehow circus performers can jam two-foot metal swords down their gobs for three shows a day and somehow emerge unscathed. Which, you know, means a few jabs by six inches of hunky foreigner isn't going to require paramedics standing by.

Anyway, all of this just confuses the matter. Anal sex has absolutely nothing to do with civil unions, and it's patently offensive to bring it up. Gullible grannies shouldn't be allowed to spread their stupidity any more than I should be allowed to stand up at bingo night and tell them God is dead and, if their sad little anuses are as fragile as all that, after tomorrow morning's oatmeal they will be too.

Answering Somebody Else's Question

In the New York Times Real Estate Q&A column:

Q. We recently moved into a co-op in Scarsdale with our toddler. Are co-ops in Westchester County required to install window guards? If not, and our bylaws state that the building is responsible for the windows, can we compel the co-op to install the guards?

Oh, absolutely. Whoever owns your building has to ensure that it's safe for your little white offspring, Ms. Stay-At-Home-Mom, so you should demand that they kiddie-proof your home. Tell them you can't foot the bill: after paying your feng shui consultant and the Olive Oil of the Month club, hubby's hard-earned money is gone.

Meanwhile, if there's a rec room in the building, insist that there's an unwritten contract that they have to provide entertainment for all the residents, and your little beige addition is getting bored. Refuse to capitulate until you see bouncy castles and hourly puppet shows.

Next, you need to phone the dealership where you bought your car and tell them about your pale new issue. Your family is no longer safe in the car, and they need to do something about it stat. They need to buy you a safety seat, and maybe a DVD player, because if something doesn't amuse the kid, he'll start playing with the cigarette lighter. And call whoever sold you your dining room set and demand a booster seat, because your spineless little tadpole probably slides right out of the chairs, and if he gets one freakin' splinter in his chalky ass you're calling Johnny Cochran. Then let the mayor know that you need a stroller, because you can't just drag your limpid hellspawn down city sidewalks.

Of course, you've got exactly zero chance of getting any of this, but I just wanted to make sure more people knew about all the stupid entitled rich white folks around here.

Stripping Grammar Naked, Part Two

As you perhaps know, I learned how to write well by reading bad writing: specifically, online porn. After years and years of frequenting websites specializing in dirty fiction, I’ve encountered literally every mistake a young writer can make, and I’ve catalogued them so I don’t fall in the same trap.

If you’d like to improve your own writing, see if you can spot the errors in the examples below.

1. Mark really liked Stan, and he was determined to make him a boyfriend.

Unless Mark has been raiding graveyards, this statement is too ambiguous.

2. Ray was so glad Heinrich was the one out of the millions of people in the world who had taken his virginity.

I hope this is just a misplaced modifier, because, you know, probably the hundred thousandth person would have realized Ray had done it before.

3. It was just as I suspected! Phillip was burying the bone under my very own nose!

Avoid clashing colloquialisms. Here, for instance, it sounds like the writer is going to get a condition even Proactiv can’t cure.

4. Edwin put batteries in the massager and then rubbed the man with the tiny blue tool.

This is another misplaced modifier, unless my second husband is dating again.

5. Otto sucked greedily on his partner’s lips while his cock did the same thing down below.

I really don't have anything to say about this, other than Otto must be handy to have around when your Oreck breaks.

6. Carter was shameless! He blew me, the guy with the half-inch dick, and then Wolfgang.

Watch out when you're making lists, because from the way I read this, the author is only describing two guys.

7. When the security guard approached, Steve dropped his shorts and shot off due north.

Either the writer needs to use more concise verbs or somebody else uses a compass when they masturbate. Obviously the correct sentence is, "When the security guard approached, Steve dropped his shorts and evacuated."

8. The second time he asked me for a hand job I had to break it off.

What? What? You know, if you want to turn people off, just tell them his dick was so hard it could have knocked out a Nazi.

9. Wayne and Mike used to walk their dogs wearing tiny shorts that showed all their equipment.

Either this is a dangling modifier or my Snowflake ought to be grateful I’ve only bought him a little hat.

10. That night, Walter proposed, and soon he and Tadzio were planning their wedding reception. “We’re going to need some hors doeuvres,” Walter said. “After I take a dump, will you help me pick them out?”

I’m hoping the addition of an unrelated phrase horribly distorted somebody’s meaning. Otherwise, you know, if you want people to regret coming to your wedding, find a DJ who likes the Beach Boys.

Anyway, I hope you found this lesson fruitful. As I said, I recommend reading porn, if only for the writing lessons. It’s all those 12” dicks and gallons of cum that I find a little hard to swallow.

"Just put your arms out and think happy thoughts!" Peter says.

Wendy looks at him: at his bulging eyes, at his veiny legs, at his too-short tunic. "Actually, you know, I've got an early class tomorrow," so Peter says okay and flies home.

This looks like some weird Photoshopped joke, but I swear it's straight off of Google, and there's a thousand more images just like it. I saw it in an ad on Towleroad where it was being touted as the perfect side dish, and I thought, wait: I realize Americans are fat, but are we really considering butter a course these days? My sister eats it with a fork, but I thought it meant she was weird.

I've been staring at it for much of the morning, but I'm still mystified. I'm leaning toward the idea that these are microwave bags of mashed potatoes, except maybe they've added so much butter that they're legally obligated to call them "butter." But then what about the phrase "Made with 100% real mashed potatoes"? Obviously this is a bullshit line, like Taco Bell saying their tacos are made with 100% real beef. After you joke that yes, it's probably best they don't make tacos with imaginary beef, you realize it doesn't mean anything, because aside from that 100% real beef they could have added 100% real sawdust for all you know.

Essentially, it's saying it's made with mashed potatoes. Which must mean it's not mashed potatoes, because when you buy soup, it doesn't say "Made with 100% real soup!" on it. But this can't be butter because of the phrase "Tastes as good as homemade!" as the top. Surely they're aware that my sister is one of the few chicks around with her own churn. And if this is butter, what's the phrase "With butter" doing on there?

Just when I think I've decided, I slide my eyes down to the bottom.

To make this "Homestyle Creamy Butter" "With butter," you've got to add butter.

I decide to pick up a box for my sister's Christmas present, and think about something else.

A New Hampshire man has been accused of sexually assaulting his neighbor’s horse.

Police said they were sent out on a call concerning a man putting his hand and arm inside a horse’s vagina. They found Marian Wegiel, 63, in the corral and arrested him. He has been charged with cruelty to animals, fourth-degree sexual assault, third-degree criminal trespass and second-degree breach of peace.

Wegiel's attorney says he's a “decent human being" who has been “churchgoing all his life.” Wegiel denies abusing the horse, and says he was "comforting" it after it had been scared.

Ohmigod, this is ridiculous. It seems like every day there's another God-fearing saint in yet another preposterously bizarre sex scandal. Frankly, it frightens me to hear about stuff like --

Dude. No. NO!!!

Well, Okay, Then. I Guess It's Cool.

Mazda today announced the recall of 52,000 vehicles due to possible spider infestation. The Yellow Sac spider, whose bite is considered dangerous, has been discovered weaving webs in the car's fuel system, causing blockages which could eventually cause the gas tank to crack.

Asked why the spider was only infesting Mazdas, Communications Director Jeremy Barnes replied, "Apparently, the spider likes to go zoom zoom."

So, every few years the government does these sex studies to find out who's boffing who. I'm not sure why it took three years to release the report covering 2006-2008, but it's out, and it's interesting. Just judging from the data, though, it seems that maybe the government wasn't quite as interested in us gays as the heteros. For instance, take a look at one table detailing exactly who does what.


Let's reconstruct the instructions to the interviewer using the data presented here.

1. Ask "Are you male or female?" Record answer.

2. Ask "Are you sexually attracted (a) only to the opposite sex, (b) mostly to the opposite sex, or (c) other?" Record answer.

3. Ask "Do you identify as (a) heterosexual, or (b) homosexual/bisexual?" Record answer.

4. If interviewee replied "heterosexual" to 3, ask "Have you had sex with anyone?" Record answer. If yes, ask "Was it the kind of sex where a man puts his penis in a woman's vagina?" Record answer. Ask "Was it the kind of sex where somebody's genitals are stimulated by somebody's mouth?" Record answer. Ask "Was it the kind of sex where a man puts his penis in a woman's bottom?" Record answer. Say, "Those are all my questions for today. Thanks! You've been very helpful."

5. If interviewee replied "homosexual" to 3, ask "Have you had sex with anyone?" Record answer. Say, "Thank you, but I've heard more than enough."

Two dope-dealing Staten Island brothers have been busted for growing a groovy garden of illegal foliage so intense that cops who raided the place got stoned.

The marijuana farm run by Keith Harrigan, 47, and 49-year-old brother Craig took in $1 million a year. "You almost got a contact high by just going into the house," said a law-enforcement source.

Police handcuffed the two men and took them to Laserium.

Dear Sarah,


Hope this helps,
RomanHans

The good news is, John Galliano hasn't alienated all of his high-society clientele with his anti-Semitic outbursts.

The bad news: