Thursday, June 30, 2011

Of course you've all heard the great news out of New York. After many years of focus, dedication, and hard work, we've achieved a historic goal.

Though the temptation now may be to rest on our laurels, I firmly believe that we should use our powerful forward momentum to propel us towards the next hurdle:

Forcing children to marry animals.

While the temptation is clearly to congratulate ourselves and smugly smile at those who fought us, this is not the stance to take at this time. And I believe that all the tireless gay activists who worked toward the marriage milestone probably feel the same way I do:

Like a power-mad homosexual who wants to foist another item on his perverted agenda onto a helpless America.

Now that the rule has become law, I think we can admit that the Republicans were absolutely right in saying that gay marriage is the first step on a slippery slope. Sadly for them, they couldn't stop us from taking that step, and now society has slid down almost all the way to requiring every new parent to name their child after a character on The Golden Girls.

Clearly forcing children to marry animals is within our grasp.

I believe that with a few simple steps we could achieve our goal. First, we need to convince children that they want to marry their pets. We should sow the seeds early by preying on their thoughts of insecurity.

"Do you like little Fluffy?" our teacher/indoctrinators will ask their kindergarten wards. "Wouldn't you feel bad if Fluffy thought you didn't love her, and she ran away with the circus?"

By the 4th grade, we can appeal to the child's first forays into intelligent thought. At this age they probably prefer pets to the opposite sex, so we need to convince them that this feeling will never change.

You love your puppy, right?" the 4th grade teacher will ask. "If you marry him, it guarantees you'll love him forever. Unless you think marriage doesn't mean anything, and your daddy can suddenly decide he wants to go live with some whore down the street."

By the 7th grade, we should aim squarely at the materialistic child's needs. "Sure, maybe you don't want to marry a hamster," the teacher will say. "But how about if you got to wear a pretty dress and people gave you eighteen toasters?"

I'm convinced that anyone who can get marriage equality in New York can easily get a few harmless lessons added to the school curriculum, and by 2014 marriage announcements in the newspaper will look like a Future Farmer of America convention.

Next on the agenda, after this? Well, I'll give you a hint: when a young woman walks down that aisle with her father, he's not going to be giving her away.

Business Advice From British Airways

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Glenn Beck went to Bryant Park Monday night for a showing of Alfred Hitchcock's The 39 Steps. But that was not the only showing he saw.

"It was a hostile situation," Beck described of his family's movie night; his wife, Tanya, had wine "kicked intentionally on to her back," leaving her "completely wet," he said on his radio show Tuesday morning. He further said that his wife and daughter were greeted by a man pointing his fingers and yelling "We hate conservatives here!" when they got up to use the restroom.

Dear Mr. Beck:

I am sincerely sorry about the horrible incident Monday night. The behavior of a few assorted liberals was inexcusable.

I know Republicans value bullying as an important method to curb unwanted behavior, so the crowd should have gone much further than one measly little comment and a little bit of spilled Merlot.

I am sorry that everyone totally ignored your massive white heft, your nonexistent chin, and your little piggy eyes. I sit here unable to believe that when you appeared the entire crowd didn't oink.

Please forgive those pitiful liberals for not spreading mustard on your leg, pretending to mistake it for a ham hock. And it was surely an oversight that nobody pretended that your pasty chubbiness was a giant sausage and attempted to wrest you onto their barbecue grill.

At the very least, somebody could at least have pushed your face into some potato salad saying you're so cold and sour they thought you were a pickle. Had I been there, I'd definitely have pointed at your hair and asked for details about the next Lesbian Nun Convention. And I regret that nobody said you cry so much they thought the film was Three Men and a Baby.

But no. So many learning opportunities lost. Well, once again, my sincere apologies. And I hope to see you at next week's film.


There is no demographic group in the nation, among all the racial and ethnic affiliations, which ever features nudity, half-nudity and simulated sex acts in their parades. -- Catholic League President Bill Donahue on gay people

Dear Mr. Donahue:

Here's footage of Brooklyn's West Indian American Parade:

Next time you speak publicly, please generalize about all black people from it.

Thanks very much,

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Every day there's another anguished letter in the newspaper. "What am I supposed to tell my children when they find out Heather has two mommies?" "How do I explain to my kids that Mike next door is now Mitzi?"

What am I supposed to tell my children about all these people wondering what to tell their children? How do I break it to them that some parents are morons?

I mean, I don't care if parents are utterly clueness in their privacy of their own homes. But when they're clueless in public, well, it's time to draw the line. It causes problems within my own family, which clearly means they have to stop. It would be thoughtless and irresponsible of them to continue questioning parental wisdom where impressionable children may witness it.

Indeed, the damage has already been done to my little Holden. "What's up with all the mommys and daddys who don't know what to tell their kids?" he asked me as I tucked him in last night. "Are you not going to know what to tell me next?"

I swear, I had to wipe away a tear when I heard this. He's never doubted his father's infallibility before.

Later, as I drank scotch and watched porn, I pondered the matter. I didn't know if I should tell little Holden that parents get confused sometimes, or that these folks are obviously idiots to write to a newspaper for advice, because professional family counselors would clearly offer more insight than the folks who bring us Hagar the Horrible. But mostly I felt angry that I'd been forced to explain something to someone.

In the end, I think the solution is obvious. Any behavior that makes us wonder what to tell our children needs to be curbed immediately, even if that behavior is writing letters wondering what to tell our children. As for those questions, hell, "Why is Uncle Al wearing makeup?" was a walk in the park next to "Why do some daddys put their thingies in women?", but maybe some parents have a lot of explaining to do and absolutely no time to think.

Really? Really? What, does he transform into a corset before he goes to work?

Friday, June 24, 2011

Love is the opening door
Love is what we came here for
No one could offer you more
Do you know what I mean?
Have your eyes really seen?

I never really liked this song by Elton John, but it's my own fault. I have a hard time accepting the hard-won wisdom of a gay man in rhinestone clown glasses and hair transplants who was married to a chick and fucked anything that moved.

Sorry, I digress. Have my eyes really seen what, Elton? Your collection of bleached chinchilla chubbies?

For some reason, Marianne Faithfull offers us a new version of this song on her new record Horses and High Heels. I don't know why. This isn't 1979. Maybe the rights to Lay Down (Candles in the Rain) were taken. But its uselessness pretty much sums up my feelings about Ms. Faithfull's whole record, which just got a rave from the New York Daily News. Such a talent, and so completely over. You want to call your grandma and thank her for just baking cookies rather than recording a world-weary version of Brand New Key.

As for the backing band, why, I'd recognize that balding whiteness anywhere. I've enjoyed these guys ever since they played old Lynyrd Skynyrd songs in somebody's garage in that Cialis commercial. Great work, guys. Every note's a gem. Now put down your instruments and high-five: Looks like Brad's got an erection, and there's not a moment to waste.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

I am the world's biggest fan of The Killing, so it pisses me off that haters are talking smack about the season finale. Let's just say people thought we'd find out who killed Rosie, and it's not clear that we do. "Look, dudes," I want to say to them, "it's not about the destination. It's the journey. It's the journey that counts."

Sure, some of them say, "Well then, Roman, why do you drive ninety miles an hour on the way to Vegas?" but they're talking to the hand by then.

I got hooked from the first minute of the show's debut. We get to see lots of killing on TV, but this is the first show that really dwells on the question, "Hey, how do parents act when one of their kids is dead?" See, there are lots of questions I want to see answered. "What does Scott Caan look like naked?" is one. "Do blond guys' pubes look like Nilla wafers?" is another. But somehow The Killing's omniscient producers knew, "How hard do people cry when they're picking out their kids' coffins?" would be Number One on my list.

I watched breathlessly as the story unfolded in a dramatic arc. Check out the sheer artistry in TV Guide's summaries of the first five episodes:

WEEK ONE: Rosie Larsen is murdered.

WEEK TWO: Detectives learn that before she was murdered Rosie went to the prom.

WEEK THREE: Detectives learn that before she went to the prom Rosie met with friends.

WEEK FOUR: Detectives learn that before she met with friends Rosie got a McFlurry at McDonalds.

WEEK FIVE: Detectives learn that before she had her McFlurry Rosie suspected she had oily hair.

Is that incredible? I hear the show has so transfixed the nation that there's going to be a spinoff called Six Things A Seattle Teen Did Yesterday. Thank God TV crime shows don't actually give you clues any more, like they did when our parents were young. On something called Ellery Queen, according to my grandpa, the dude playing Ellery actually stopped the show and said, "Hey, kids, now we've given you all the clues. Can you solve the mystery?"

"Are you kidding?" I wonder. "Who's got the attention span?" Hell, I can barely pay attention through the latest spate of detective shows where folks look at stuff through microscopes until somebody confesses. It's why I loved the show Lost: those producers knew nobody gave a fuck about a story as long as, like, invisible toucans tore fat guys apart.

Anyway, we still don't know who killed Rosie, and I for one don't give a damn. I don't care that this carrot is on a half-mile-long stick: I know we're in for a long, fun ride, and fingers crossed our path will circle by another couple interesting questions:

Was Rosie any good at Sudoku?
How upset do parents get when they're forced to partner with their deceased offspring in a three-legged race?

The difference between red state and blue state Wal-Marts is actually a little hard to spot.

Friday, June 17, 2011

People keep asking me, "Roman, what's up with Dr. Phil's sons? Jay married a Playboy centerfold who, photographed next to her identical triplet sisters wearing just high heels, looked like an incestuous lesbian, and Jordan is apparently dating that Playmate who moved in with Hugh Hefner two weeks after she met him and nearly fucked her way to a fortune."

Speaking personally, I think these kids are to be admired, and though I'm not really a Dr. Phil fan I have to give him his props. Obviously it's his strong moral code that led him to raise sons who wisely have to see their cows naked before they even think about buying milk.

Obviously the young Christian apples don't fall far from the family-values tree. I mean, Dr. Phil is the guy whose wife sits and watches him while he's at work, patiently waiting for him to finish. She smiles blankly until finally he walks over, grasps her arm and helps her brittle female bones get home. That's chivalry for you! Heck, the only way Mrs. Phil could be more traditional is if she accused a nearby Latino of stealing her jewelry.

When it comes down to it, Playboy pretty much represents the average American man. It exists solely for sex, though it's interested in sports and dirty jokes too, and it had its first fling with a black chick in the 1970s. While Playmates might just seem like sex objects, they have a lot more to offer. Jay's wife Erica Dahm, for instance, is an actress who's appeared in a Pauly Shore film. I haven't seen it, but I'm guessing she looked just swell in her swimsuit. Jordan's girlfriend can look pretty naked and play the guitar, so fuck you, Paul Simon!

In the end, I applaud Dr. Phil's sons for clinging steadfastly to their family values and coupling with Playboy Playmates. Let's face it: Playboy Playmates are America. They wouldn't even think about screwing people if there just weren't so much goddamn cash involved.

Well, I am just furious. This is ridiculous, like America has turned into a dictatorship. The California Coastal Commission won't let self-described environmentalist and U2 guitarist The Edge bulldoze a bunch of mountains in Malibu to build a gated compound picturesquely named Leaves In The Wind.

I mean, I understand it when they don't let Chevron drill in unspoiled Alaskan wilderness. I get it when they don't let Dow Chemicals dump a bunch of crap into the Mississippi River. But this is an AVOWED ENVIRONMENTALIST who wants to flatten these mountaintops. Surely they can cut him some slack! Why, after he's built his five mansions, each ranging up to 13,000 square feet in size, I'll pretty sure he'll recycle. Maybe he'll paint all the mansions with eco-friendly paint. Maybe he'll even plant native shrubbery around the Olympic-sized infinity pool.

Hell, even the Santa Monica Mountain Conservancy says this project is -- well, they don't say anything, actually, because they stopped saying negative stuff after The Edge promised to give them a million dollars. But if they could speak, I'll bet they'd say it's an architectural tour de force, or at least that the fence around it might not be electrified.

Rather than turning down this proposal, the Coastal Commission should jump at it. I mean, they say flattening a bunch of mountains would destroy the natural habitat of all sorts of animals, including deer, raccoons, and coyotes. But where do they get that information? I'll bet those critters are probably exhausted from always walking on a slant. I'll bet they'll love being able to walk on level ground for a change. I think after construction is completed they'll see tons of happy mountain lions relaxing on the grounds as if to say, "Thank you! Shit, my legs were fuckin' killing me."

Aside from providing much-needed housing for a dude with only eight other estates, think of what a great teaching opportunity this could be. When the people of Malibu look up at this fabulous development where the mountaintops used to be, maybe they'll see The Edge in one of his 4,000-square-foot kitchens rinsing and reusing Ziploc bags, and they'll say, "Wow, that The Edge really is a great role model for us all." And then maybe some of them will be inspired to flatten their own mountaintops and build eighty-seven bathroom palaces with Dr. Bronner's soap at every sink.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Simon Doonan's forthcoming diet book Gay Men Don't Get Fat provides Gawker with the opportunity to ruminate on the sad facts of gay life. While the rest of the world exercises and watches their diet to remain healthy and attractive, they note, gay men have to stay fit because otherwise nobody will fuck them.

Yes, it's hope that keeps straights in shape, but fear that keeps us lifting. We don't want to die alone! Heterosexual dudes don't even have to exercise: they can score with chicks if they have good jobs or lots of cash. Homos don't have that option, though. We're not putting up with flabby guys for nothing. That's why David Geffen just can't get a date.

Adding insult to injury, we not only have to be in shape, we have to look like a certain type. Since like attracts like, we have to turn ourselves into what turns us on. "If you want to bed muscles you have to have muscles," Gawker notes. "[I]f you want to land a twink, you better be a twink (or at least some other type that is easily cast in any gay porn movie)."

Have truer words ever been spoken? Gay fascism is truly ridiculous, and it's impacted my life to an incredible degree. Luckily after years of pain and heartache I finally managed to physically transform myself into an air conditioner repairman.

Seemingly contradicting every word that's come before, Gawker then runs off onto a tangent with a discussion of bears. They're "gay men who are hairier and chubbier than average," a phrase that instantly turns every previous word into utter nonsense. Bears are assholes, nonetheless, so it'd be remiss to leave them out of an attack on gays. Because the truth is they're fascists too, but instead of workouts they demand you eat barbecue and drink beer. And if you aren't either smooth and in shape or hairy and chubby they won't even look at you! Even they are sentenced to gym memberships out of fear of loneliness, but presumably they bring food because otherwise I can't explain all that chubbiness.

In the end, Gawker paints a sad picture about how gay men are doomed by fate to stay fit and hot. As for Mr. Doonan's book, well, it's not going to do anybody any favors. If heterosexuals read it and follow his advice, they too will be doomed to be hairy or smooth or skinny or chubby or counting calories or guzzling beer. And once that starts they'll have to turn into porn movie clichés too, which means it's lucky they already look like pizza delivery guys to me.

Who says America is second rate? Not me! Why, we've got our own princess now, and she's pretty much indistinguishable from all them foreign types. "The People's Princess" Lady Di vs. "America's Princess" (and Hugh Hefner's ex-fiancé) Crystal Harris: let's compare and contrast various facts about the royal pair.

LADY DI: Received the title of Lady after her father inherited an Earldom.
CRYSTAL HARRIS: Received the title of America's Princess from the cover of Playboy.

LADY DI: Important memorials held at her wedding site include the funerals of Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington and Sir Winston Churchill.
CRYSTAL HARRIS: Hot tubs at wedding site apparently gave 200 partygoers "flu-like symptoms" in February.

LADY DI: Served as president of Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children.
CRYSTAL HARRIS: Posed without panties in her fiancé's boating cap.

LADY DI: Met her fiancé while he was courting her older sister.
CRYSTAL HARRIS: Met her fiancé while dressed as a French maid.

LADY DI: Grew piqued when her husband's social secretary didn't keep her informed about invitations.
CRYSTAL HARRIS: Pet peeve: “Muscle heads with too much hair product."

LADY DI: Bridesmaid dresses were ivory lace layered over white satin hand-finished with English Cluny lace and pale gold sashes.
CRYSTAL HARRIS: Decided bridesmaid dresses should have sleeves since one of her bridesmaids was from Idaho.

LADY DI: Five foot tall wedding cake containing nuts, raisins, dried fruit and brandy was decorated with a royal coat of arms made from marzipan.
CRYSTAL HARRIS: Considered a wedding cake shaped like giant boobs.

Oh, what's the hurry? Let him slowly deflate and then slide out on his own.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Let's be frank: the gay community couldn't be more powerful. We hold high-ranking roles in society. We donate to politicians. We have all sorts of allies, and friends in extremely high places. We're a vitally important voting bloc, and we're an audience that no entertainer can afford to lose.

Organized into an immovable force, we're ready to turn on a dime when somebody crosses us. Don't believe me? Just look at the cold-hearted consequences a celeb will suffer when they turn on us.

First offense: You're okay. Maybe you were having a bad day.

Second offense: You're alright. If we complain about every bigot in the world we'll just look like pitiful victims.

Third offense: You're in hot water! One reasonably popular blogger will say you really aren't cool.

Fourth offense: You're in trouble! Next time you walk through West Hollywood, angry glares will be exchanged.

Fifth offense: Okay, now we're piqued. Gawker will probably get involved, and somebody will write a letter to Out.

Sixth offense: Absolutely intolerable. Now you have to apologize, and then Cheyenne Jackson will announce that everything is great.

Seventh offense: Unforgivable! This time you'll have to feign sincerity when you apologize, then give Richard Simmons a ride to the grocery store.

Eighth offense: That's it! That's the straw that broke the camel's back. Now you have to appear in a public service message directly contradicting everything you've said over the last fourteen years. Hug Cynthia Nixon while dabbing at the tears streaming down your face, then buy her a fudgsicle from the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck.

Got that? Sure, it's harsh, but I think it's more than fair. Celebs have to learn the cold, heard truth: fuck with us more than twelve or fifteen times and three percent of the population will turn on you.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Okay, Weiner. That's it. I was defending you because you're incredibly smart and liberal and stand up to all those Congressional idiots. I stood behind you as picture after picture came out and it became obvious you had a major lapse in judgment.

I started to have second thoughts when I heard you were entering some kind of rehab. Oh, c'mon, dude. There's rehab for horniness? That's a good idea. That could really work, as long as they don't have to staff it with anything that moves.

This photo, though, is the last straw. Dude, what the hell were you thinking? That's not a shirt: it's the blouse Tonya Harding wears to Red Lobster. Here's a general rule: if it doesn't cover your armpits or your nipples, it isn't actually a shirt. I'll try to break this to you gently, but according to Webster's you've been going to the gym in a camisole. Really, Rep. Weiner, do you need somebody to tell you that spaghetti straps should only be worn when you're drinking a mint julep and waiting on the porch for a gentleman caller?

Dude, you're in an air-conditioned gym in Washington, not wrestling crocodiles in Louisiana. If you don't like the temperature, get one of your aides to speak with the manager. Don't keep taking off clothes until you're comfortable. This isn't a Bally Total Fitness after all.

Honestly, there's something wrong with people who wear skimpy tops in a gym where other people work out. Were you afraid fabric would muffle your man-stench? Did you put on a regular t-shirt and then think to yourself, "What if Birch Bayh wants to see my nipples?" Did you think Strom Thurmond would threaten to filibuster if he couldn't see your armpits? Yes, there's probably a few people who think you're sexy, but I'm guessing they're not eighty year old white guys who used to be in the Klan.

I don't mind knowing that American politicians exercise, but I'd rather that sex was kept out of it. I'd rather be spared the picture of Abraham Lincoln spotting George Washington at the bench press and "accidentally" hitting him in the wig with low-hanging ball.

Sadly, this photo convinces me that everybody in the universe is right. There's something seriously wrong with your judgment. The gym is no place to get naked and act sexy.

They've got vinyl chairs in the locker room for that.

Friday, June 10, 2011

I am totally addicted. The UK Guardian posted 24,000 pages of Sarah Palin's emails online along with a plea for readers to sift through them -- they have a "Show me one at random" button -- and report back if they found anything interesting.

I haven't found anything really hot -- like photos of somebody's wiener, or who Trig's real mom is -- but one email in particular gave me a warm feeling inside.

Sarah really is a achievement in humanity, completely personifying stupidity in just a few dozen words. First, there's the spelling: it took me a while to realize "decifered" meant "deciphered," and "soley" meant "solely." I love how she switches effortlessly to street with the word "whack," though that word is commonly spelled "wack." And she indulges in my own personal pet peeve, with an open parenthesis and no close.

But the main point truly wins me: she works so hard during her off time that it should really be considered work time, and besides, she just doesn't have time for silly paperwork.

Sigh. I love that. It didn't work for me when I was sixteen and took four-hour weed breaks during my shift at Del Taco, but evidently hope springs eternal in some parts.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

I live in a fashionable part of Williamsburg, New York, in a very fashionable building. Before they converted it into artsy lofts it was a pickle factory. All the other residents are young and hip and smart.

Naturally they hate me.

Honestly, it's not my fault. It's just that everybody has a dog, and I don't know anything about dogs. I've never had one, and basically they all look alike to me. I find myself striking up a random conversation with a dog owner, and at some point the inevitable occurs.

I have to guess whether their dog is male or female.

After a few of these instances, I came up with a litmus test. All the nice, quiet dogs are probably male, I decided. All the yappy dogs are probably female. So now when I'm walking in the neighborhood and I pass somebody who lives in my building, I submit their dog to my uncomplicated criteria before the friendly chatter begins.

"He's adorable," I say if the dog seems friendly. "What's his name?"

Now, I'm right probably seventy percent of the time, and it results in pleasant conversation. That other thirty percent of the time, though, somebody wants to hit me with a tire iron.

"It's a SHE," they note petulantly, firing eye daggers at me. "HER name is Bukowski." And then they stomp away like I asked them if they used to be the lead singer for the Shaggs.

I don't know what's wrong with these people. How do they think I'm supposed to know whether little Chomsky is a boy or girl? Obviously there's one unmistakable method, but I can't believe they want me to go there. Really, would people really rather I checked their dog for a vagina than mistakenly call him a her?

"That dog is adorable," I'll offer, and then I'll circle around to the dog's rear end and lower myself to the sidewalk. I'll mentally wrestle with the choices -- Is that an ass or a uterus? dick or oversized clitoris? -- before finally settling on a decision and returning to our conversation. "What kind of dog is she?"

But somehow I know this isn't going to solve the problem. "HE is an Australian sheep dingo," they'll snap at me frostily, "and HE is still sensitive about having HIS balls removed."

If I had any kind of workable memory, this would only happen once. Instead, all the dogs blend together, and I offend over and over again. It'd be positively simple to nip it in the bud. "That's an attractive dog," I could say. "Is it some sort of exotic breed?"

Sparks will fly with my sensitivity. Connections will be made. And at some point I'll have to decide what the owner's gender is, and there's only so far you can go when everyone's got wife beaters, tattoos, and lesbian hair.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Oh, god. I'm throwing up just like baby.
San Francisco's anti-circumcision measure will be decided by voters in November, but the measure's proponents have already released some supporting literature that many claim is anti-Semitic.

Some say, for instance, that the men in the background in traditional Jewish garb look sinister, but I think they're being overly sensitive. Like this superhero comes off real well, with his chest logo looking less like an uncut dick than a floral harbinger of spring.

Indeed, the supposed hero Foreskin Man doesn't seem to be playing with a full deck. Monster Mohel "has his goons with him," he says, "which can only mean one thing." The man has no retinas, and is foaming at the mouth. He has claws. If he's alone, though, he might not be dangerous? Like maybe he'd just want to drop off some cookies, or share his new Train cd?

To folks seeing anti-semiticism, I see the opposite. Circumcision is traditionally performed eight days after a boy's birth. That means the Jewish Sarah got back to looking like a tramp in record time. I stay in bed longer after Fresh Direct comes. Her husband Jethro, meanwhile, is quite handsome. It's only when he admits he's pro-circumcision that he turns into Wolverine.

Still, it's odd Jethro couldn't think of a better plan. I mean, if you need to get your wife out of the house, couldn't you just tell her Barneys is having a sale?

Who comes off badly on this page? Well, ask yourself one question: which dude apparently bought his outfit the year Flashdance came out?

Sadly, the last page just raises more questions. On the back wall, is that a print of Miro's Two People Fucking While One Holds a Cactus? On the ground in panel two, when did Sarah find time to put on a blouse? Do mohels charge extra to bring clean scissors?

Still, one thing is clear: this story isn't anti-Semitic, because Foreskin Man comes off stupider than everybody else. He flies off holding an eight-day old kid like it's a canned ham. And really, Glick will be better off with these hippies? What happens when he gets separated from them and has to tell a cop that he lives under the giant dick banner on the beach? And why did Foreskin Man have to bean the mohel with an eight-ball? What's in his utility belt?

As somebody who's been there and done that, I'm pretty sure the answer ain't soap.

Friday, June 3, 2011

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Thursday, June 2, 2011

I'm not particularly old, but I'm old enough to remember when the Japanese liked old people. It was creepy. Seriously, if Moby turned up at their apartment and asked them to go clubbing, they'd say they'd rather stay home and watch grandma's skin dry out.

Thankfully, they've joined the rest of the world in realizing old people are actually disgusting. What's their main complaint, according to a new Japanese product? You'll probably guess if you've ever been downwind of grandpa:

This body odor is likely caused by NONENAL, a natural by-product of oxidized fatty acids produced in the sebaceous glands. It's a common occurrence as our skin matures, and is referred to as "Aging Odor Incidence" or "AOI."

Scoff if you want, but you can't write something off that's got its own acronym. I'd have gone for Grandma's Awful Stinking Pores, but I guess folks who make up medical conditions don't have as much spare time as the ones who write letters to Dan Savage.

This drawing convinces me Adult Onset Stink is a real problem.

I don't know what any of the words mean, but I saw those gray squiggles in a Peanuts cartoon when a bird farted on Charlie Brown.

While relatively unknown in the U.S., the people of Japan have long understood and treated this phenomenon, which affects men and women alike. Many women experience Nonenal during menopause. Men may start to experience AOI when they begin to reach their early 40's. Conventional body washes and deodorants might eliminate other forms of body odor, but not AOI.

Color me converted. Now all the mysteries of the Orient are falling into place. This explains why in kung fu movies all the young guys want to hit the old ones.

How do they fix Adult Onset Stink? Well, seaweed is one of the main ingredients in Mirai, a new body wash. Which makes sense, because nothing smells quite as fresh as old stuff from the sea. Just read these unsolicited testimonials:

"I had doubt." "I can't live without." "I feel very cleaner." "I don't care for lathering originally." Just because these New York women sound like Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles doesn't mean somebody made up the quotes.

The staff page is what convinces me to recommend Mirai for anybody suffering from Adult Onset Stink. Just look at their Science Team:

The message in their eyes is unmistakable: "I'm hot!", "I'm hot!", "I'm hot!", and "I finally got rid of my stink!"

So suck that, Ronald Reagan Airport.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Last week was a bad week. Promoters invite me to stuff all the time, and I go with fingers crossed that I can say something nice about them. That massive silence? I went to a party for Camarena Tequila and a screening of Beginners, a new film starring Ewan Macgregor and Christopher Plummer.

I'll yank this band-aid off fast. One of the workers at the Camarena party said he used to drink Patron, but gave it up in favor or Camarena. After downing two shots and a couple sips of four different cocktails, I can say with confidence I wouldn't switch to Camarena if my regular agave consumption came from sucking the outsides of cactus.

As for Beginners, well, its charms are largely dependent on the Jack Russell terrier star. The human characters aim for their share of quirky-cute, but when two separate people do the finger-pistol thing, I want Jason Statham to appear and real-pistol whip them both.

Director Mike Mills told the screening audience that he made the movie extra-cute to universalize the message. What message? I wondered. Apparently it's either "Sometimes you just want to shake the stupid out of some people" or "Dying really sucks."

The second one? It can go fuck itself.