This "sassy" JC Penney's t-shirt may cause a few chuckles, but I'm horrified. What, no Boys XXL?

I want to get serious here for a moment. On Monday night, David Letterman tackled a very important subject on his show. Bettina Luescher, chief spokesperson of the World Food Programme, painted a bleak picture of current events in Africa. The situation is dire. Due to extreme heat and irregular rain, food is in short supply. In southern Somalia alone, 29,000 children have died of starvation in the last six months. The problem is so huge, Ms. Luescher said, that even the hundreds of millions of dollars they've received in donations are just a drop in the bucket.

My heart sank. It was just too sad to bear. I decided that as the writer of a semi-popular blog, I had to do something. I had to act. I had to implore people all over the world to fight this awful tragedy, which is why I'm sending out this plea:

Can't you all just come on each other's faces?

Really. I mean, let's look at this logically. If you don't have a mailbox, should you subscribe to Architectural Digest? If you don't know where your next meal is coming from, should you buy a Peekapoo? If you live in a small village where your constant companions are malaria and locusts, shouldn't you pull out and jerk off?

It seems like common sense, like bumper-sticker talk. Really, you know, if you're fucking, and you look around and all you see is the shadow of the sickle of the Grim Reaper, can't you just shoot in her hair?

I want to sincerely thank Ms. Luescher, and hope the World Food Programme will continue to speak out about this dire situation. Truly, it has become intolerable. When the death rate soars so unbearably high, we must declare, in one voice, that the time has come to tittyfuck.

I definitely will! I wanna get a good eddycashun.

Two employees of a private security firm have been fired after putting an ankle bracelet on an offender's prosthetic leg.

The scandal came to light after the man was stopped for a minor traffic infraction. Whenever the man wanted to skip out on his court-imposed curfew, he simply removed his plastic limb.

"That is sooo brilliant," declared Lindsay Lohan. "Next time I get arrested, I'm gonna have the bracelet put around my boobs."

You might want to wait a few days before you ask for a raise.

Here's a shot from Mongolia's annual Three Manly Games tournament.

I'm thinking this game is called "Make Fun Of The Guy Whose Shorts Don't Match His Teddy."

I had friends over for a hurricane party last night.

One of them said, "Hey, why's your bathtub full of water?"

"It's for the toilet," I said. "Who knows if the water is going to be shut off?"

"Oh," he said, like that settled it.

And then two hours later, when everybody went home, I saw a turd floating in it.

I do puzzles every day, just to keep the old gray cells pumping, and I highly recommend that everybody else does too. It's easy, and it's fun! Let's give one a try right now.


Scrabble Grams is one of my favorites. This puzzle was printed in Saturday's paper. Scrabble Grams is distributed by Tribune Media, which means it gets into thousands and thousands of newspapers. You can probably find it in your local paper!

Let's start with the first puzzle. Basically you rearrange the letters to find a 7-letter word. First, I quickly scan and see if any words pop out at me. Nope, nothing. Next I pick a likely starting letter, just by hunch. Let's try L. Of course that's probably followed by a vowel, like E. L-E. L-E-G? L-E-G-A-K-E? No. And not L-E-K. They gave us lots of vowels, so maybe it's L-E-A. Wait! L-E-A-K . . . A-G-E! That's it! LEAKAGE.

That was fun, right?

Now let's try the second puzzle. Quickly scan and see if any words pop out at you. What's that? Yes, there's SEX. This might be a little naughty! SEX is definitely in there. What else do you --

Okay. Yes, I see it. I see it. BUTT is definitely there. Yes, it appears the answer is BUTT SEX.

Wow. Yes, I'm a little flustered. I'm, er, surprised you got that so quickly. Tell you what: why don't you finish the puzzle? Frankly, I wasn't expecting to find a sex act in a family-oriented puzzle, just like I wouldn't expect Dolly and Jeffy to discuss fist-fucking in the latest Family Circus. But no, it doesn't bother me. Times are changing, and I'm no puritan. It's just that -- with BUTTSEX and then LEAKAGE -- the subtext is crystal clear, and I don't need to read about somebody's HSITYT DCIK.

Oh, SNAP!

From the New York Times review of Don't Be Afraid of the Dark:

[If you] need proof that a terrified Katie Holmes looks not that different from the everyday version -- this is the movie for you.

There's a new travel website called Oyster that promises to inject some honesty into a spurious field. Today they've got a feature comparing publicity photos of hotels and resorts to photos they took in real life. Needless to say, the differences are compelling.


Here's a photo from the Ritz Carlton Coconut Grove website. Isn't this a nice room? This would be a great place to spend some time.


Oh. Apparently whoever was staying here when the top picture was taken travels with a colorful bedspread and three palm trees.


The gym at the Runaway Bay Heart Hotel sure attracts a happy bunch. But why are they all leaning so far forward?


Because there isn't anything behind them.


This shot of South Beach's Aqua hotel looks pretty tempting. I wouldn't mind catching a wave with that dude.


On the plus side, looks like there's room for you ho-daddies to hang ten.


This gazebo on the beach at the Gran Bahia Principe Punta Cana looks like the perfect place to have a romantic wedding.


MARVA: Oooh! Ain't it lovely, Sid?

SID: I'll say. I'll bet that little pig does some squealing tonight!


You don't have to stand like a model to enjoy that buffet at the Grand Palladium Bavaro Resort and Spa. Hand-carved meats! Tasteful accoutrements!


ME: Hey! Ya got any more of that fake crab left? HEY!


You might assume from this photo that the pool at the Riu Negril Club is a great place to be alone with some sexy ladies.


Fact is, it's a sausagefest. Have a great weekend! I've got a plane to catch.

Religious Beliefs of the 2012 Republican Presidential Candidates

Dominique Strauss-Kahn's Wife Thrilled He's Not Convicted Rapist, Just Asshole

An Alaskan woman abused her adopted son to get on the Dr. Phil show, prosecutors allege.

Jessica Beagley, 36, poured hot sauce into 7-year-old Kristoff's mouth and told him not to spit it out for a minute. She recorded the punishment for a show segment titled "Mommy Confessions," and now faces misdemeanor child abuse charges.

According to prosecutors, this wasn't Beagley's first attempt to get on the Dr. Phil show. She contacted the show after watching a segment titled "Angry Moms," but heard nothing for eighteen months. Finally a staff member called to find out if she was still angry.

Beagley said yes, and submitted videos of her yelling at her children, but Dr. Phil's staff said they needed to see actual punishment. That's when Beagley got the video camera and the hot sauce.

Days later, she was on her way to Los Angeles to be on the show.

Well, maybe that explains a weird form letter I found on the ground in front of the Dr. Phil studios. Here's what it said:

Thank you for contacting our program. We're glad you enjoyed our recent show about

bisexual dwarves.

teen hookers.

losing a hundred pounds in four days.

As you know, however, we are the #1 rated daytime TV show, which means there is a lot of competition for our air time. While we are impressed with your claim that

your son is chubby,

your hubby is a metrosexual,

your beautiful young daughter was kidnapped,

we feel it doesn't really speak to our audience. Please let us know if, in the future,

your son can barely fit in the bed of a Ford F10.

your hubby circles rest stops wearing a miniskirt and halter top.

your daughter happens to be white.

In the meantime, our host,

whose staff bailed out a woman accused of assault so she could appear on the show,

who gave a woman a bottle of antibiotics after his dog bit her,

whose sons appear to be conducting studies on the fuckability of Playboy Playmates,

personally thanks you for watching, and assures you that one day soon you'll get that free trip to L. A. if you do something horrible enough.

Sincerely,
The Staff

The Utility Card is every possible greeting card in one. Hidden inside this word search puzzle is every sentiment anybody's ever wanted to express. No more running to the Hallmark Store for those upcoming occasions: now just circle a sentiment and send it off.

The Utility Card is truly a landmark in greeting cards, including a sentiment suitable for everyone from 8 to 80, including:

Be Mine
Come Home Soon
Feel Better
Howdy Friend
I Am Sorry
I Love You
I Messed Up
Its A Boy/Girl
Mazel Tov
Thinking Of You
Werq Queen

When the American Paleontological Society decided to hold their annual convention in New York last month, they thought they'd have a good time. They thought they'd see bright lights. They thought it'd be a change of pace.

Little did they know it would actually change the way we picture some dinosaurs.

"I remember a bunch of us were walking through Union Square one night," said society president Richard Vasquez, "just looking at all the New Yorkers, and I think Dr. Slakey first noticed it. 'Wow,' he said, 'I've spent the last forty years in mosquito-infested rainforests digging up fossilized dinosaur poop, but the people here actually give me the creeps.'

"At first I laughed, but then it made me think. We were all from smaller cities scattered across the U. S., and had never seen so many screwballs, weirdos, and pinheads all confined to one place. We'd literally never imagined that you could have such a massive cadre of misfits confined to such a tiny tract of land.

"Naturally our minds started working. 'Ten thousand years from now,' Dr. Eingang said, 'if some advanced civilization dug up homo sapiens fossils in New York, the inferences they'd draw from these pinheads and fast-food-eating fatties would lead to a totally warped view of mankind. Now, is it possible that our existing fossil record for dinosaurs has come from such an unrepresentative group? A Cretaceous period New York City, if you will?'

"I sat there stunned. 'You mean -- ' I said.

"'Ja,' he confirmed. 'What if all the bones we've found were from retards?'"

That night the scientists retreated to their offices with much work ahead of them, but finally this morning two preliminary sketches of revised dinosaurs have been released. More updates, they promise, will be coming soon.

T. Rex:


Apatosaurus:

Locals in the beach community of Montecito, California are gearing up for Saturday's star-studded wedding of Kim Kardashian to Kris Humphries. In letters distributed around the area, the couple's event planner reportedly asked nearby residents to cover their address numbers to help protect the couple's privacy.

"I hate the way the paparazzi relentlessly pursues that poor girl, so to ensure she has a memorable wedding I and all of my neighbors spent most of this morning taping over our house numbers," said absolutely no one.

Actually, I kind of wish it was the opposite. Think of how great it would be to drive through Montecito on Saturday and see signs reading "I AM 2845 SYCAMORE CANYON ROAD!" in front of every house.

He wants to spend more time creeping out his family.

Mexican Parents Taking Kids To See Dead Fairy

MPR Defends Perjurer. Controversy Ensues. MPR Deletes It.

Last month, Tom Minnery, a senior VP of Focus on the Family, testified during Senate hearings on the repeal of DOMA that a study showed children do better with opposite-sex parents. Sen. Al Franken disagreed.

Franken questioned Minnery about his citing a Department of Health and Human Services report that stated, in essence, that children do better in a two-parent household. Minnery had assumed the two parents had to be of opposite sexes, when in fact they did not.

Minnery replied, "I would think that the study, when it cites nuclear families, would mean a family headed by a husband and wife."

"It doesn't," said Franken, getting a laugh from the audience.

Sen. Franken then chastised Minnery's assumption of the definition of nuclear families, and stated, essentially, that if Minnery had so misinterpreted the information in the HHS report, then all of his testimony was subject to question.

Naturally NPR took a strong stand on this. Their opinion? Sen. Franken is rude.

Ms. Carrie Daklin wrote a stinging opinion piece for Minnesota Public Radio covering this exchange. She opens with no less than eight paragraphs discussing how hard it is to testify in court before attacking Sen. Franken over his cross-examination:

Franken questioned Minnery about his citing a Department of Health and Human Services report that stated, in essence, that children do better in a two-parent household. I think most people would agree with the basic premise that two parents can provide more income, and more emotional support, to their children -- since, we hope, the spouses are supporting each other in kind. As a single parent, I know what it is like to be at the helm alone.

Still, Franken didn't end there, . . .

If you weren't already wondering about Ms. Daklin impartiality, the answer is now obvious: SHE ISN'T. Knock out the last two sentences in that first paragraph and see what kind of sense it makes:

Franken questioned Minnery about his citing a Department of Health and Human Services report that stated, in essence, that children do better in a two-parent household.

Still, Franken didn't end there, . . .

Uh, what? The phrase "didn't end there" implies Mr. Franken was doing something obnoxious. He questioned a witness during a hearing, but no! He didn't stop there! HE KEPT GOING! He "baited Minnery" about the report, ruthlessly pointing out that, as was clearly stated, it studied two-parent households, not opposite-sex parent households.

Ms. Daklin then spends eight more paragraphs excusing Mr. Minnery's lie. Lots of people would assume studies about parents are about heteros! she says. Minnery's old, and old people make mistakes! she says. "Everyone has a right to their beliefs," she says.

Which, you know, I can't really argue with, though I'm not sure it covers lying to Congress.

Needless to say, a controversy erupted. Commenters on the MPR website said things like, "Wow. This post is embarrassing," "Minnery was caught lying to congress and you are worrying about Franken missing an opportunity to be kind?", and "Who is behind the gay bashing at Minnesota Public Radio?" The National Organization for Marriage repeated her words.

Three weeks later, Ms. Daklin wrote a followup. This time around she attacked the left for the "hate mail and really vicious comments" she received. Her words were "taken completely out of context," "vilifying" her. She wasn't a homophobe: no, her message was "better manners."

Once again, the National Organization for Marriage jumped in, repeating their role as victim. "[W]e hope that the experience may have served to confirm for [Ms. Daklin] how much we need brave voices to continue calling for civility in this debate," they said.

Needless to say, the comments to Ms. Daklin's new post didn't change much. "[I]t's too bad that you either didn't read, or completely missed the point of, several of the serious and heartfelt comments to your previous column," reads one. "If you do not know who the National Organization for Marriage is, then you have NO BUSINESS writing the column you did on Franken," reads another. "I don't buy what you are selling. You want to say that your first article was just a call for civility. How could Senator Franken beat up on that nice old man? That nice old man is a professional bigot who works for an organization that rakes in millions of dollars fighting against the rights of gay people," reads a third.

Well, clearly Minnesota Public Radio recognizes a controversy, and they aren't afraid to jump in feet first.

As of today, all the comments are gone.


Comment archive one.

Comment archive two.

Friday morning, I got up early and headed out, anxious to stake out a prime spot on the nude beach. One of the Pines' eight buildings is a realty office, so I stopped in and asked for a map. "A map of the island?" the guy said quizzically, making me wonder if people often stumbled in asking for maps of Korea. I told him I was going to Cherry Grove, since that's where the beach is, and he just pointed and said "Ten minutes that way." Fire Island might be twenty miles long but it's only eight feet wide, so I figured I probably couldn't get lost.

I followed the boardwalk until it ended, but then I was faced with a fork in the road. To the left was a sandy walkway, and to the right an unkempt path through a thicket of trees and marshland. Naturally I took the scenic route. The twisty path led to more twisty paths, and pretty soon I couldn't tell what direction I was headed. I spotted water through the trees and headed towards it, wandering into a muddy clearing about ten feet across.

Where I found two guys, facing each other, with their shorts down around their knees.

"Sorry," I said as I tried to duck by them. They adopted irritated looks, and I totally sympathized: this was a secluded area, and it's not like there are pinball machines outdoors. But then they got angry, and they lost me. They buttoned up hastily while staring at me like I was a Sex Nazi. "Hey," I wanted to say, "I'm just passing through. No need to put your shit away." I kept walking the way I was walking, and I'd have been out of sight in about three steps, but they made it clear they were throwing in the towel. I'd ruined the mood, the magic. They "Hmmph!"ed and "Well!"ed while glaring daggers at me, then headed out the way I came.

"Which way is Cherry Grove?" I called after them, but neither bothered to reply.

Now, I totally didn't get this. Obviously I was friend rather than foe, since Sex Nazis are rarely hunky and shirtless, plus I'd clearly said "Sorry!" rather than "You're both under arrest." I'd given them absolutely no reason to stop. I mean, this was Fire Island: the only women I'd seen were maids who spent their days cleaning greasy handprints off bedroom mirrors. The only problem the guys here had with sex was keeping the head count down so as not to violate fire codes. Hell, if they'd had a squirrel nailed to a cross I don't think anybody would have bothered them. They'd have tiptoed out after making sure it was consensual with the squirrel. But I'd apparently ruined their morning, and I felt guilty for it.

Eventually I found the nude beach. After tanning, relaxing, and discreetly admiring various appendages, I headed back to the Pines. I stopped in the realty office again and, dodging specifics, I mentioned that I'd gotten sidetracked in a shadowy little neighborhood.

"You should have kept to the left," the guy said. "You went through the Meat Rack."

In bed that night, it all seemed so quaint. Clandestine sex, on a gay island? I got the feeling you could knock on any door, say "Hey, wanna fuck in your foyer?" and pretty much start doing it provided brunch was over. Besides, "Meat Rack" was a pretty stupid term. "Meat" made sense, conveying sexual objectification, but "rack"? Had there actually been "meat racks" somewhere, at some time? Like, a big rack on which one kept their meat? If so, it'd long since been lost to the world.

I tried to think of a more appropriate term. The "meat" part was obviously good. "Meat Hook"? Nah; it made even less sense. "Meat Market" conveyed the shopping idea, and wasn't quite as dated. The phrase "Butcher Shop" entered my mind, but as I remembered the little girls squealing at the appearance of the big bad intruder, it scurried out the same way it came.

You hear the music before you get off the ferry. You're right there at the watery edge of downtown Fire Island Pines -- a total of maybe eight medium-sized buildings -- and one club's outdoor sound system provides the soundtrack to the entire enclave. Unfortunately, the Sip & Twirl's music collection stops dead at 1982.

Bananarama serenades me as I check into the Hotel Ciel. You can tell this is a hotel for gays even before you go to your room and see complimentary condoms and lube on every horizontal surface. It's not kept up as well as it should be, because who wants to play handyman with all these hunky, nearly-naked men running around? Still, it's cheap and cheerful, three stories of cement block bunker painted a glossy white with oceanic blue accents. I drop my luggage in my room and go explore.

You know, there's a reason why, aside from strobe lights, discos are completely dark. It's because we're totally embarrassed to be dancing to repetitive, third-grade crap. When you're totally drugged, it's fun. When you're admiring the huge white yachts at the harbor, or trying to order a slice of pizza, you realize that a life accompanied by the Pet Shop Boys is really no life at all.

Nobody else seems to notice. No one seems bothered by the fact that we can't escape some of the worst music ever recorded, or that songs exist that weren't first recorded on wax. Me, I've been around. I know the limits. There's a reason why dance clubs have eighty exits, and it's not to give you a quiet place to snort coke.

I hook up with friends, and friends of friends, and they lead me straight into the belly of the beast. I don't complain. They're gorgeous, and absolutely hysterical. They're chorus boys in a certain Broadway musical, and though they spend their nights dressed as women they have more muscles than me. We get drinks at the Sip & Twirl's bar, and then they hit the dance floor where, oddly, no one looks twice at hunky young men doing tour jetés. At midnight, the boys scurry off to the weekend homes of gracious businessmen, and I go back to the Ciel.

My neighbor is lounging on the third-floor deck. He's hot. We lock eyes. He has clothes on, which is oddly sexy after so much nudity. Despite the soundtrack, I like it here. It's a gay, gay, gay, gay world. I like my room, with six pillows of various firmness. I ignore the greasy handprints on the mirror over the bed. Like, you know, somebody was standing on the bed and needed to brace themselves. And I think I'll like it even more tomorrow, when I head to the nude beach. Ten minutes away, it has to be out of earshot.

I crank up the air conditioner and the sounds of the Sip & Twirl blissfully fade away. In fact, I can hardly hear the shrill sex squeals of my neighbor that last until three a.m. Which is all the more impressive when you know he's sitting on my stomach all that time.

You know how it works: you put up a link to somebody else's website on your website, and they pay you a few cents for every reader who clicks through. End result? You might clear a buck or two, but you've become a whore and a liar. The first because you're selling out, and the second because to coax people to click through, your headline is probably going to be a lie.

Earthlink is one of the biggest lying whores on the internet, and it's impossible to dodge them. If you've got Earthlink email, you've also got a "MyEarthlink" page, which you can customize any way you want except for removing any of the hundreds of square inches of shit.

I'm usually good at ignoring it, but when I checked my email I saw this:

Trash Into Treasure: 5 True Stories

Now, I love good news. I have a lot of friends who troll thrift shops for unrecognized gems, and I figured I could use these stories as ammo to urge them on. And then I read the first:

A guy found a door in somebody's trash. He excitedly dragged it home, cleaned it up, and discovered: IT MADE A REALLY GOOD DOOR.

Yes, it was stunning! It swung on its hinges. It opened and closed! High fives all around! It's a motherfuckin' TREASURE HUNT!

I sat there staring at the story with one small thought in my head: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FUCKIN' TREASURE? Experts didn't appraise his door at $10,000. Museum curators didn't tell him Abe Lincoln used to own the door. No, he found a door, and -- ta-dah! -- he used it as A DOOR. Ain't no treasure here, assholes.

The four other stories are similarly preposterous. The moral of #2 is this: Just Keeping Something Out Of The Dump Is Treasure Indeed. #3 makes us think if this idiot's antique plow was really a treasure, they wouldn't leave it in their goddamned yard. #4 has another door that some lucky soul is using, again, as a door. But #5 tops them all.

After reading the totally anticlimactic tale of a woman who found a miserable old cabinet in somebody's trash, I'd had it. I had to write back. No, not a complaint letter, but a personal note.

Dear Earthlink:

If you think something that stinks like shit and lost its drawers is a "treasure," you have to meet my Uncle Bob.

Regards,
RomanHans

Something strange has been nagging at me ever since high school history class. It's the names. It's not a German thing: it's totally confined to the Nazis. The names of all the prominent Nazis have a certain odd similarity.

DOCTOR: "Are you still having problems with your himmler?"

PATIENT: "Actually, doctor, it's better. Last night I stuck it with a speer, and it let out a hess."

DOCTOR: "And how has it been since the goering?"

PATIENT (after a pause): "Well, to be honest, it still goebbels."

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

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They turn a scarf into a bouquet of flowers and then don't immediately put them in water.

I love love love Joe.My.God, but sometimes I wonder about the usefulness of political posts. I mean, after we've established that somebody is a brain-dead idiot, do we really need daily updates?

Say your neighbor tells you that in the middle of the night a little yellow space alien walloped his butt with uncooked spaghetti. The next time you see him, are you going to ask for news? Will you email asking for any continuing developments?

No. You're going to write the dude off.

As the spokesperson for certified hate group Liberty Counsel, Matt Barber has been walloped with spaghetti more times than anyone can count. Yet today Joe quotes him attacking Ann Coulter for her ties to the right-wing gay group GOProud:

"There is nothing conservative about the radical homosexual activist agenda which seeks to impose, under penalty of law, sexual anarchy."

Got that? We're going to impose -- under penalty of law -- sexual anarchy. It's crazy. Certifiably crazy. But, you know, I like it. I'm glad I read about it. It cheers me up to think idiots actually believe gay people have that kind of clout. That kind of vision.

In fact, I want to hang on to this mental picture of our agenda. No longer will the police patrol our streets: no, they'll be stationed in our bedrooms.

"Let me see," Officer Rachel Tension will bark as she ticks off items on her check list. "Rubber sheets, Slim Jims, vanilla pudding. Looks like you're good to go!"

"I'm sorry," Sgt. Wilma Fingerdo will say to Mr. and Mrs. Demarest across the street as he gently maneuvers her into the missionary position, "but if you don't have a black dude or a chicken, I'm going to have to write you up."

"How cool!" you think. "A robot vending machine!" And then you put your fingers in the coin return slot and it moans.

Undercover Police Officer Blending In With The Rioters

Everyone United For A Better Future!

Come one, come all! This Sunday, August 14, Concerned Atheists of America are hosting a mega-jamboree entitled "Everyone United For A Better Future!" It'll be a fun and informative day out for the whole family.

Though this event is sponsored by the Concerned Atheists of America, everyone is welcome, regardless of religious beliefs, because we truly love everyone, and otherwise we couldn't be tax-exempt.

Get there early for our morning program. At 11, Dr. Martin Margolis will offer a thoughtful seminar entitled, "Do Catholics Actually Have Shit for Brains?" Then, noted psychologist Carol Gardiner will give us ten tips on how to dodge those annoying Methodists. (Tip #6: look for vinyl shoes!)

Bring the family! They'll enjoy hearing how sitcom star Scott Baio found peace after a psychologist confirmed that his devout Presbyterian parents were actually borderline retarded.

Bring the kids! They'll love recording sensation Christy McWhirter's catchy new single, "I Just Wish God Existed So Mormons Could Burn In Hell."

Later, acclaimed poet Marva Whitley will read her work, "the only time your gonna hear me scream jesus, pastor, is if your dick is poundin my ass."

Remember, this event is open to everyone, regardless of belief. All are welcome! And make sure not to miss Kelly Wanger's closing musings, "Chasing Baptists With Sticks and Fire: Too Much, Or Not Enough?"

See you there!

Verizon Coliseum
State Route 24 Exit 7H
Secaucus, New Jersey

Three LEGO figurines were blasted into space today, traveling to Jupiter in the space probe Juno. The small dolls represent the Italian astronomer Galileo, the Roman god Jupiter, and the Roman goddess Juno.

Juno is expected to arrive on Jupiter in July of 2016, where the solar-powered probe will collect information about the planet, its moons, and atmosphere over the course of one year.

I totally do not get this. In the past, our spacecrafts always included scientific data about human beings, just in case they were intercepted by aliens. The Pioneer spacecraft, for example, had a plaque with silhouettes of male and female forms, along with a drawing of the Milky Way galaxy and exactly where earth is located in it.



See? Informative, right? Now get a load of these things:


Really, NASA? You want LEGO to show foreign beings what we look like? I could make a sculpture closer to the human form using six rocks and some Pepsodent. They've got no noses. They have square legs. They have no sex organs. I wouldn't send Lego figures if it was a choice between these and Bratz. You really want aliens to generalize about humans from these things?

BISPLIXT THE ELDER: As for the creatures that live on earth, class, well, the male recognizes the female by her smile and her Farrah Fawcett hair. (PAUSE) Yes, obviously they're shapeless, but on the other hand they wouldn't slide off an enormous chess board!

Sigh; well, Juno already took off, so I guess we're stuck. In the future, though, even sending an inflatable sex doll would be better. They're lightweight, they're closer to the human form, and they'll show aliens we're not exactly doomed to jerking off.

Dedicated to the motto Ut Prosim (That I May Serve), Virginia Tech isn't your grandma's college. These aren't some namby-pamby, ivy-covered halls where books are read and theoretical ideas bandied about. No, Virginia Tech has adapted to fit our community. With a determined focus on contact sports and the military, it's no wonder violence and aggression figure so prominently in our hallowed halls.

It's no wonder we attract the best gunmen in the U. S.

Whether you have an extensive gun collection or just stare in the windows of pawn shops trying to figure out how to disable the alarms, Virginia Tech is for you. Our lush green landscape will blend perfectly with your camouflage. Every few yards there's another majestic yew tree to provide ample cover, and our rolling green hills are so inviting you might even drop and roll before somebody fires back.

Wander our campus and you'll understand why Virginia Tech gunmen are among the best prepared in the world. These aren't just yahoos that strolled out of Wal-Mart with a six-shooter. Our gunmen have the firepower to take down rhinos, the mental acuity to vanish into shrubbery, and the dexterity to quickly reload. Take a gander at our caliber: with a population of just 30,000 full-time students, Virginia Tech ranked number one in the nation in a survey of anonymous armed gunmen. Of those who aren't killed by police, nearly 100% go straight from our ivy-covered halls to jail.

It's no wonder America's most prominent newsmen fight for the 1,500-page manifestoes hidden beneath those bulletproof vests.

How does a humble school rack up such an impressive record? Virginia Tech benefits from state gun laws that are among the most liberal in the nation. Our local politicians spend more time denying equal rights to homosexuals than questioning whether a man's massive head wound or unmedicated schizophrenia should disqualify him from collecting semi-automatic weaponry.

So brandish that Browning. Wave that Winchester. Cock that Colt! Nobody's gonna stop you until you've squeezed off a few shots and we finally understand that your infrared goggles and laser scope aren't just for plinking stop signs.

Not you, Consuela. There are gravy boats that need polishing.

Artist's Renderings Vs. Reality

The ability to combine the old with the new and to become a statuesque figure in the community. Find all these traits in Northern Williamsburg’s stunning new building, Ikon, located at 50 Bayard St. Ikon is a marvel in modern architecture that unites varying themes and periods of structural design. Be the first to own style, beauty and vitality at Ikon. -- Artist

Why doesn't this condo complex look anything like the drawing? Because God can't use Photoshop to make His skies, and the thing was built in Brooklyn instead of Gotham City. -- Reality

Joe.My.God and I have our differences. He's friendly. He has followers. He doesn't decoupage. When we met, though, we realized we had at least one thing in common:

We both loved Plastic Bertrand's Ca Plane Pour Moi.

Though to my horror this fascinating little tidbit couldn't keep him from stomping away before the thirty-second mark, hope springs eternal. Maybe next time I meet him I'll discover he likes Craig Ferguson, and rabbit puppets, and guitarists who don't mime to music by just randomly hitting on the strings.

In an interview to air August 28 on the National Geographic channel, President George W. Bush defended himself against criticism over the fact that, after being told of the 9/11 attacks, he remained in a Florida classroom reading a book aloud to schoolchildren. "My first reaction was anger," he said. "Who the hell would do that to America? Then I immediately focused on the children, and the contrast between the attack and the innocence of children.

"So I made the decision not to jump up immediately and leave the classroom.

"I didn't want to rattle the kids.

"I wanted to project a sense of calm."

Though this new explanation might not convince the skeptics, President Bush was actually following a long tradition of presidents maintaining a calm demeanor. Anything else, well, just doesn't look presidential. Franklin Roosevelt, for example, was writing a song when got that telegram from Hawaii saying Pearl Harbor had been bombed and our nation had been unequivocally pushed to the brink of war. Whereas the leaders of other nations might have leapt into action, Roosevelt didn't budge his wheelchair until he'd found a rhyme for "bootylicious."

President Herbert Hoover was baking when he received a call on Black Tuesday telling him the stock market had dropped 87% and stockbrokers were hurling themselves out of Wall Street windows. Did he rush into action to provide a stabilizing force?

No. He didn't freak out, and neither did his Bavarian strüdel.

Yes, in hindsight maybe Bush could have found some breathing room between the two extremes. Maybe there was an option somewhere between running out screaming, "OHMIGOD WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!" and continuing to read My Pet Goat to a bunch of eight-year-olds. Perhaps he could have excused himself with something that wouldn't have freaked the kids out, like, "Gosh, I plum forgot: I'm having lunch with a Smurf!"

I mean, kids are trusting. You can pretty much tell them anything and they'll believe it. They aren't gonna say, "Really? And you just remembered this, asswipe?" No, they'll get caught up in the excitement, asking, "Which one? Grandpa Smurf? Smurfette?" Bush could have buoyed the crowd while exiting with some dignity.

Of course, though it's easy to second-guess, I think this new excuse will quiet a questioning public. I think historians will finally agree that the president did the right thing. As all teachers know, you don't want a class to get rattled, because it'd take like $4 worth of juice boxes to fix that shit up.

While it is unclear what last week’s raid at the offices of the University of Northern Virginia yielded for federal immigration agents, a peek inside the home of the man who runs the controversial for-profit school would surely have been more interesting.

That’s because David Lee, UNVA’s chancellor and chair of its board of trustees, is so into domination and sadomasochism that he has transformed his basement into a suburban dungeon complete with bondage racks.

You know what really creeps me out about this story? If he's got a naked lady tied to a giant spiderweb in the center of the room, I'd hate to see what's behind that screen.

Arnold Schwarzenegger's childhood home in Austria has been converted into a museum, officially opening to the public last Saturday.

"It was a really big opening," Schwarzenegger declared, "but still tight."

Jack Chick was a religious crank who wanted to convert the world to fundamentalist Christianity. He drew up some tiny comic books illustrating God's alleged word and printed them out on cheap newsprint, making them available for free to anybody who'd promise to leave them anywhere heathens frequent.

The Birds and the Bees is Mr. Chick's offering about homosexuality. It's actually quite informative, teaching me that:

1. Heterosexuals have names like Frankie but homosexuals have names like Larry or Charles


2. Just because your teacher doesn't like you calling dudes "queer" doesn't mean they aren't, and


3. God gave Christians big, soulful eyes while saddling the rest of us with little beady ones.

The comic offers a line-drawing pictorial of homosexuality since the beginning of time, though somehow glossing over bellbottoms. In their little section on Job, though, they totally lost me.



See, already this raises a flag with me. Satan controls four cities -- but one is the worst? He's the King of Darkness, after all: why would he have cities with different degrees of wickedness? Is there sodomy and fornication in one city, but in another it's all just slow postal workers and Ziploc bags that you can never get to seal?



Well, I can't really dispute this. Obviously Mr. Chick has put in some time at the Motherlode.



Okay, here's where sense goes flying out the window. In Sodom, the streets are full of homos, all making out and stabbing people. So why's Lot here? I'm picturing him explaining to his in-laws: "Well, you know, the homos aren't so bad, plus it's near the beach!"



ANGEL #1: "You might not mind all these homos, but God does."

ANGEL #2: "You tell him!"

PASSING HOMOSEXUAL #1: "Hey, you smell big, soulful eyes, and fluffy white wings?"

PASSING HOMOSEXUAL #2: "I sure the fuck do."



ANGEL: "Get away, sinner! You shall not put your penis inside me, though I may borrow this Luther Vandross record for a while."


Though it's been slow going, Mr. Chick finally gets to his point. Repent! In the end, God gets his vengeance. Everything he hates is destroyed.


FORNICATOR: "AIEEE!"

THIEF: "MY EYES!!!

SODOMITE: "Why did we not recognize our wickedness?"

SCOOBY DOO: "Ruh-row."