Friday, April 29, 2011

The tornados that decimated much of the south were certainly horrific, and I feel really bad for the residents. Still, this awful cloud may have a small silver lining, because we can use it to learn something and prevent this kind of devastation from happening again. As so many southern preachers have told us, it's the decadence and debauchery of gay people that prompts bad weather, so we can use this natural disaster to find out exactly where God draws the line on gay folks.

I mean, here in New York, gay people pretty much flaunt their sexuality. We're walking around in shorts and tank tops, with brightly-colored flip flops, maybe wearing fashionable sunglasses. We're chatting on our iPhones. Some of us are walking effeminate little dogs, and a few couples are holding hands. Yet the weather is absolutely gorgeous, which means God is cool with at least a six out of ten on the gay abomination scale.

Obviously, then, the gay men in Alabama and Mississippi must have been doing something far more offensive, ranking at least a seven or more.

Were they fellating each other while pissing on rosaries? Was there outright fucking in the street? Are rescue crews finding lots of guys in studded jockstraps? Were they dipping their dicks in chocolate, then asking bystanders if they'd ever tried a Hershey's kiss? It must have been something really horrendous to prompt such awful wrath.

Anyway, my sympathies with the red state folks, and like I say I hope we can learn from this. I'm even wondering if maybe there's some way to tie the weather report into the gay calendar, to predict adverse weather conditions. Like, a leather bar just opened so expect light showers, or there's a Chuck Norris film festival on TV so we recommend that everyone stay indoors.

Small Boy Spends Fifth Day Singing Songs No One Under 50 Has Ever Heard

WILL: Please, dear -- don't drive quite so fast.

KATE: Sweetie, why don't you just shut up and wave?

A 3-D movie about paintings. What, is the subtext going to leap out at us?

Because once the bill hits $4, most Iowa senators suddenly remember they left their change in their other pants.

As for Official Target, well . . . not so fast there, Manuel.

Oh, please. As anybody who's ever owned a Volkswagen knows, just roll the windows down and go.

Oh yes, count me in. I love hanging around places where the chicks' expressions say, "Oh, big strong man, I can't feel utensils jabbing me in the arm when you're near" and the dudes are so horny they just stare at the women and are about three minutes away from having Donald Trump's hair.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Ironically, Republican Party Chairman Reince Priebus agreed with Obama that the issue is a distraction -- but blamed Obama.

"Unfortunately [Obama's] campaign politics and talk about birth certificates is distracting him from our No. 1 priority -- our economy," Priebus charged.

The Republican Party: Yelling "Hey hey hey HEY!" and then asking why you looked.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

"Are you kidding me, Earth Day in the schools? We've got to save the Earth? I mean, that's like a tick trying to save a whole herd of cattle. I mean, ticks go along for the ride, they don't manage the cattle, they don't tell them where to go. And that's our arrogance in thinking that we can do something to save the planet and control where the planet goes." - David Barton, Mike Huckabee's favorite Biblical philosopher

Oh. Okay. Change "Save the earth" to "Stop destroying the earth." Got it now?


PORTSMOUTH, N.H. — Donald Trump held a triumphant press conference this morning, flashing a wide smile as he took credit for President Obama’s releasing his long-form birth certificate.

“Today, I’m very proud of myself because I’ve accomplished something that nobody else has been able to accomplish,” Mr. Trump told reporters who gathered in an airport hangar. “I am really honored to have played such a big role in getting rid of this issue. Now, finally, the country can move on to far more important topics. Namely, does President Obama have paws instead of feet?

"I'm sure you've all heard the rumors. I've heard from some very dependable, very reliable people that President Obama has paws instead of feet. Not like tiny cat paws, but big paws, big ocelot paws, with a long, sharp claw on each toe.

"Now, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with having gigantic paws instead of feet. They're probably useful in the jungle. I'm sure there are plenty of respectable people who have paws instead of feet, like Joy Behar. But if our Founding Fathers wanted America's president to have paws instead of feet, they would have voted for Rin Tin Tin instead of Benjamin Franklin.

"Frankly, I wouldn't have paid any attention to these rumors, but I started to wonder why the White House wouldn't respond to them. Why didn't they release photos of Obama with his shoes off? I have to say, it looks mighty suspicious. I can't find one single person who knows what Obama's feet look like, and frankly, I find that very, very weird.

"If the President doesn't have ginormous paws instead of feet, it's a piece of cake to prove. He can just take his shoes off in the presence of a certified foot examiner. I wear very expensive slip-ons, and I can take them off in about three seconds. My daughter Ivanka wears shoes that cost eighty thousand dollars a pair, handmade by very tiny cobblers, and she could probably take them off in about eight seconds, although she doesn't like to. So I don't see why the president can't take a few minutes out of his day to settle the matter once and for all.

"Now that I've been wildly outstanding with the President's birth certificate, I think the American people want me to look into this, and I know we'll be phenomenally successful here too. We've got private investigators at several Payless stores in Washington, DC and what they're finding is very, very interesting."

"What if the president does have paws instead of feet?" asked Roger Weeks of the Australian Courier. "Does it mean he shouldn't be president?"

"I'm not saying it means anything," Mr. Trump replied. "I just think, as a New York Times bestselling author, that the American people have the right to know. If they want to put scratching posts in the White House, it's got nothing to do with me."

With that, a black stretch limousine pulled up behind him, and members of his entourage signaled that it was time for him to go. He turned away and boarded his three-car motorcade, each limo emblazoned with the family name and reminding us Mr. Trump had a successful dad.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

It's not just ABC's Housewives that are desperate: their executives are too. The network ranks roughly sixteenth in the ratings, just below Hulu, YouTube, and a potted geranium, so they're working hard to devise fresh new shows to brighten the airwaves this fall.

Interested in a 21st century view of masculinity? Tune in elsewhere. Balancing the Housewives' estrogen is a steaming cow pat of manliness torn straight out of 1972, when a man only left his cave to hang out with his drum circle. Don't believe me? Which of these plot summaries describes a show currently in development, and which did I make up?

I've got very bad news. Look for them all on ABC.
Twilight star Robert Pattinson has disclosed that he is terrified of clowns after seeing one burn to death as a child.

The British actor was left traumatized and said that the experience had stayed with him ever since, leading to fears he was forced to confront while making his latest film.

"The first time I went to the circus somebody died," he told The Today Show. "One of the clowns died. His little car exploded. The joke car exploded on him. Seriously. Everybody ran out. It was terrifying."

You know, I would never have thought this was possible. How could a clown car explode? I mean, it's not like clowns are carrying molotov cocktails, though admittedly I've never seen the Pickle Family Circus. And for a clown to burn to death, there must have been something seriously combustible in the car with them. Which, you know, isn't awfully logical. They're riding from backstage to the center ring: it's not like they need a mattress, or a magazine. And they drive like a hundred feet, max. The tiny transport doesn't exactly require a Dodge Durango's gas tank.

Though this incident apparently escaped the attention of major media, the Weekly World News dates it back to December of 2005. Wedged between articles about Princess Diana's face found on a potato skin and a ghost surrendering to the police, they record the gory story:

Sadly, they don't offer any details to prevent this horrendous accident from recurring, though just by the power of elimination I'm guessing it had to be a fuel-line leak set off by the spark from a joy buzzer. But whereas I previously might have doubted Mr. Pattinson's account, or even made fun of him, now I can empathize. How horrible it must have been for him to witness this scene at the tender age of 19. I can picture it now: his denial at seeing those first plumes of smoke sending a warning of impending doom; his shock at seeing the clowns with their tiny hats and rainbow afros alight; his smidgen of hope when some well-meaning souls grabbed buckets and flung their contents toward the conflagration, and that hope dashed when he saw that they were actually full of confetti that turned into tiny fireworks of flame that pelted the melting merrymakers; and his horror at witnessing the faster clowns trampling the slower ones beneath their giant shoes.

In the end, I'd like to offer Mr. Pattinson some small bit of consolation. That poor departed clown has surely gone on to a brighter place where every seat holds a Whoopie cushion and every flower shoots water in your eye. And we can thank heaven that only one clown was lost, while the rest can go on just pretending that they're trapped inside a big box.

Monday, April 25, 2011

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Friday, April 22, 2011

I really can’t believe how stupid Dilbert cartoonist Scott Adams is. He walloped a beehive with a baseball bat last month, and today he did it again.

His blog post in March was about how life is unfair to dudes, and it was just as ridiculous as you’d think. How does male life suck? Let me count the ways:

We have to hold doors open for women, and they get served first in restaurants.

I know he’s starting off weak, but I feel stupid thinking up a feeble reply. “Men can pee standing up, nyah nyah”?

How about the higher rates for car insurance that young men pay compared to young women?

How often do you see chicks in turbocharged Camaros racing each other to the next stoplight? And how about hairstylists: does the smell of estrogen make scissoring more difficult? What about dry cleaners: is it harder to clean shirts with flower patterns?

[E]xamples of unfair treatment of men include many elements of the legal system, the military draft in some cases, the lower life expectancies of men, the higher suicide rates for men, circumcision, and the growing number of government agencies that are primarily for women.

The last one is my favorite: “the growing number of government agencies that are primarily for women.” Honestly, I have no idea what he’s talking about. Is there a new branch of Congress that deals strictly with menstrual cramps and Manolo Blahniks? And what about all the government agencies that are strictly for men, like the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, or Death Row?

Generally speaking, society discourages male behavior whereas female behavior is celebrated. Exceptions are the fields of sports, humor, and war.

Yeah, the business world is totally female. In fact, as a teenager I was fired from my job painting street signs because I wasn’t nurturing enough.

After a lengthy whine, Mr. Adams claims the double-standard doesn’t bother him. “The reality is that women are treated differently by society for exactly the same reason that children and the mentally handicapped are treated differently,” he says. “It’s just easier this way for everyone.”

Yeah, he said it. Dudes ignore chicks’ infantile bullshit because they want to get laid.

It’s called a strategy. Sometimes you sacrifice a pawn to nail the queen.

Mr. Adams deleted this post after it went viral, but it seems like he hasn’t learned his lesson. I’ll let Gawker tell you what he whined about today:

Huffington Post blogger Keli Goff wrote a column slamming Gwyneth Paltrow's suggestion that "everything in my life that's good is because I worked my ass off to get it and to maintain it." Goff noted, correctly, that a large part of what's good in Gwyneth Paltrow's life comes from the fact that she was born with a brace of silver spoons in her perfectly-shaped mouth and calls Steven Spielberg "Uncle Steven."

Mr. Adams immediately drops all semblance of gallantry, but I guess he doesn’t want to fuck Ms. Goff. Apparently her path to prosperity runs straight over poor Gwynie. She’s “ambitious and unscrupulous” “[b]ut at this point in her career she needs to fatten up her credentials to take the next leap.” “[S]he needed a hot social theme,” and “cleverly picked class friction between the rich and the poor.”

Yeah. That’s right. The only reason a non-rich black woman would criticize a dense, overprivileged white woman is because she wants to hop on that train to Blogging Superstardom. Take out the races and it's just insulting. Like the saying goes, Ms. Paltrow was born on third base but repeatedly, exhaustively claims she hit a home run.

Now that we’ve established a pattern, we can deduce what’s wrong with Mr. Adams. Wikipedia says he grew up in Windham, New York, the "Gem of the Catskills," population 1660, black population 6. Anybody who’s been to Orange County knows the problem: rich white neighborhoods breed bad behavior just as easily as slums. The residents set privilege as their baseline. They hear complaining so they join in, without realizing that, really, their problems communicating with the gardener don’t compare to trying to keep the rats away from your TV dinner.

I don’t want to fuck Mr. Adams, so I don’t have to put up with his bullshit. But maybe somebody who never saw a black person until he was 18 should think twice before attacking one. And as a final note let’s say, all gallantry intact, that if society truly favored female behavior, somebody'd make Mr. Adams stuff a sock in it.

A man has been arrested for repeatedly exposing himself and masturbating in front of a woman dressed as the Statue of Liberty to promote an income tax service in Tempe, Arizona.

Police say Kevin Robert Theriault, 42, exposed himself to the little lookalike three times before she reported him. Suspecting that he'd strike again, police set up a stakeout and caught him masturbating to the symbol of freedom.

Theriault was charged with three counts of public sexual indecency and three counts of indecent exposure.

In his defense, the guy said his huddled masses were just yearning to breathe free.

The hat reading "I'M TOTALLY BIPOLAR" was temporarily in the car.

Unfortunately, they had to chop down eighty trees to build it.
Mel Gibson, on being saddled with infamy:

It's like trying to put the toothpaste back in the tube, but you can't. The toothpaste is out there. You realize change has happened.

Dear Mel:

I'm not sure it's such a great comparison. My toothpaste never told me to blow it before we took a Jacuzzi.

Maybe switch to Colgate Sensitive?

Hope this helps,

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

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1b, 2a, 3d, 4e, 5c

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

I woke up in pain and called the doctor. Went in, got examined, got them to phone the prescription into the pharmacy at Target Atlantic Terminal. (I like offering those little details that say, "Hey, Target folks, if you don't think this is true, go ahead and fucking sue me.") I didn't hear the conversation, but I think it went something like this:

He's a new customer? Oh, swell! Oh, gosh! Yes, we've certainly got it! Send him right in! I'll keep an eye out. Thanks for calling Target!

An hour later I get to Target, say "Prescription for Hans, Roman." The clerk goes to look, but shakes her head: nothing. She goes into the back and talks to the pharmacist. He leans in close, and they both start shooting me dirty looks. A couple minutes later she wanders back to me.

"He didn't feel comfortable filling this prescription for a new patient."

"That's certainly understandable," I say. "After all, this prescription is for ear drops. God knows what a blight illicit ear drops are in America today. They're the reason wayward celebs like Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan have been seen exiting the bathrooms of fancy clubs with their heads held horizontal. Why, if these eardrops made it to the underground, I'd be able to walk more than a block or two without seeing some dude poking at his ears with his car keys."

She makes me fill out a form -- yeah, like the pharmacist's reluctance will be assuaged if he knows I'm not allergic to eggplant -- and tells me it'll be a 25 minutes wait. She directs me to the waiting area, but I decide I'd rather stand by the cash registers looking agitated, because that usually speeds things up. Fifteen minutes later the pharmacist comes over.

"This is so funny," he says. "You'll laugh! This is amazing. Really, this never happens. (PAUSE.) We're totally out of your ear drops."

I don't laugh. I call my doctor and discover it's after five so his office is closed. Then, I kind of yell. I yell while he says "Come back tomorrow and we'll have them!" I yell while he says "We can't transfer the prescription to another pharmacy because it's against the law." I yell while he says "There's another Target half an hour away that probably has them!" And I yell until a manager comes up and says, "Hey, go get them at the other Target and we'll give you a discount."

I say okay.

The pharmacist tells me the train goes straight to the other Target, so it doesn't sound too bad. Maybe an hour out of my way. But see, I thought he meant subway train, when in reality he meant Amtrak's Appalachian Snowliner. At the station, there are Russian families saying tearful goodbyes. Little Indian boys offer samosas from trays balanced on their turbanned heads. I take a seat, dodging chickens wandering down the aisles.

The seasons pass. The scenery changes. I see the Aurora Borealis, and we pass Dr. Zhivago's summer home. And when the train finally stops, we're in a desolate hellhole where, I swear to God, if those hip-hop hamsters in that Kia commercial took a wrong turn and ended up here, they'd wet their track suits and run squeaking away.

They've got the prescription. I got a significant discount. I'm happy, almost. But when I get home it's eight o'clock. I open the package and read the label.

Eye drops.

I'm beyond caring. I don't give a fuck. It's over. I use the drops, and the good news is, my ears have never looked so blue.

Monday, April 18, 2011

A possible accountancy discrepancy may work to Lindsay Lohan's advantage in her current court battle. Lohan is accused of stealing a $2,500 necklace from Kamofie & Co. But according to TMZ, the store only paid $850 for the item. So now Lohan's lawyer is expected to argue that her client should be charged with a misdemeanor instead of a felony.

Now that is an entitled white woman: she steals something, then demands to be prosecuted based on the wholesale price.
I'm increasingly anti-science these days. Evidence keeps mounting that scientists don't use data to come to a conclusion: no, they decide what they want to prove and then they force the data to prove it.

There's that ridiculous "All animals are monogamous" crap. "Scientists" parroted that until, oh, about eight minutes ago, when they finally conceded that nearly every animal fucked anything that moved, including those geese that according to that plaque on your grandma's wall keep the same mates for life. Anybody with a brain realized this was less fact than propaganda, like when Morgan Freeman, in March of the Penguins, says penguins find new partners every year before declaring them monogamous.

Evidently, like Raoul maintains, that means you only fuck one thing at a time.

Recently, another scientific "study" claimed that, because semen contains mood-altering hormones, women who get fucked bareback are happier than women who get fucked with condom-wrapped dicks. Researchers divided women into five groups: regular condom users, usual condom users, sometime condom users, barebackers, and chicks who just can't get laid. They gave the women behavioral tests and discovered the barebackers were happier. Their conclusion?

Yeah, that's right, baby. My hot jizz is gonna put a smile on your face.

The science is absolutely preposterous. Yes, I'll totally agree that women who don't use condoms are happier than women who do. But could this be because -- oh, I don't know -- maybe they're in a relationship, and not desperately humping whoever delivered their pizza that night?

The scientists don't ask if it's the rubbers that are depressing. They don't check to see if maybe women prefer to have naked dicks poked in them rather than things that look like a chihuahua's chew toy. Somehow they make the huge leap to claim it's their actual sperm that creates these happy feelings, leading to this unspoken conclusion to be broadcast to females of earth:

Yo, sweet baby: why you make me wear that dang jockey sock?

We all knew doctors had something wrong with them, with their "You need what I got!" attitude. Sure, maybe it's partially deserved because of their access to oxycodone. But I draw the line at begging for their man-jam. Dudes, I don't need that. Particularly, as the idiot author of the study suggests, up my ass:

"I understand that among some gay males who have anal intercourse," says Dr. Gordon G. Gallup Jr., a psychologist, "it is not uncommon to attempt to retain the semen for extended periods of time. Suggesting, of course, that there may be psychological effects."

Well, there it is! There's the proof! And I totally agree. In fact, immediately after a dude fucks me, I jump up and proceed with my day with that Valium of baby gravy inside me. I go for a jog, try on some shorts at Barneys, and just feel so much happier knowing I'm carrying around an unknown quantity of liquid. I'm not at all worried that in about five minutes I'm going to get that weird ass spasm that usually accompanies tainted tacos.

Note to Dr. Gallup: You're a psychologist. Maybe you should take claims made by your patients with a grain of salt. Or is this strictly a gay thing, where you assume whatever weirdness a gay man tells you is true? Because I doubt you'd give similar credence to a heterosexual nutter who swears by his tin-foil hat.

I'll conclude that it's misogynistic/homophobic weirdness, because their hypothesis is easy enough to test without getting women or gays involved. Since sperm gets absorbed through the skin, why hasn't Gallup checked whether it cheers him up to have some dude's spunk dry on him? Why not have some other "researchers" come on his face and then document his ever-changing moods?

Naturally, those aren't options. Privileged white doctors can't lower themselves to actually testing sperm on themselves: that would be weird, or gay. No, we're the guinea pigs. They're the humble martyrs dedicated to curing our ills.

And if they can do that with a serving of their ball-sack bolognaise, well, then, you're welcome.

Friday, April 15, 2011

It's official: I'm from outer space.

I should have been tipped off by the ad's details: ridiculously tall people wanted to be extras in a major motion picture. (Hint: I mentioned it on Wednesday.) They described me so perfectly, how could I resist? I went to the casting call, and they seemed to like me. Put a little gold star on my application. A couple days later, I got an email asking if I could come in for a fitting.

Custom clothing? I was seconds away from going out onto my balcony and waving at the adoring throngs.

Naturally my imagination started working overtime. The movie takes place in 1969, which, they said, was the year of both hippies and Mad Men. Since I am neither grubby nor tie-dyed, I figured I would be an ersatz Don Draper. They'd slick back my hair and put me in a grey flannel suit, and I'd sit in some boardroom chatting with other attractive men while somebody arm-wrestled aliens in front of us.

At the fitting, though, the costumers surprise me. A skin-tight yellow t-shirt fits me. Those acid-green pants are great. Now for a sport coat: do we have anything orange?

"I usually look good in neutrals," I hint, "with a touch of blue to bring out my eyes."

They ignore me. "Where's that purple hat?" one asks.

I stand there like Naomi Campbell as they slap on different separates on me. I look at myself in the mirror. It's actually painful. "So, what kind of character am I playing, exactly?" I ask as the rods and cones in my eyes shut down from overwork.

"You're an alien," one says, "on the boardwalk in Coney Island. You're desperately trying to look human, but you don't have a clue."

Ah. Got it. And then it hits me: that's why this scene is so unfamiliar. Usually when I go to buy clothes, clerks help me find something "attractive." Maybe "flattering." They don't scan the racks for something that says, "I have no clue about how earthlings dress!" Women don't shout "Perfect!" when I put on something that makes it look like I'm new to human form.

An hour later they finish, and I walk back to the subway. I'm a little depressed. They worked so hard at masking my attractiveness I actually start to wonder if they noticed it. "I'm not a monster!" I want to yell. "I'm a reasonably-attractive blogger!" I never thought I'd be the next Johnny Depp, but I also never thought that when I finally made it into the movies I'd be from the planet Megly-Don.

Still, all those years spent watching America's Next Top Model have taught me something: no matter what kind of crap people put you in, you sell the shit out of it. Believe me, that's what I'm going to do. This alien won't be self-conscious. This alien won't be worried that people will suspect he isn't quite what he seems.

This alien has got a hot new outfit, and he loves it. And he's watched Tyra and Project Runway and RuPaul's Drag Race, and he does what humans do when they know they look good.

Filming starts in a couple weeks, and the movie is released next year. Keep an eye out for me. No matter what Will or Tommy or whoever is doing in the foreground, look for the gaudy alien who struts and stomps and sets that goddamn boardwalk on fire.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Vicente Thrower, 31, was arrested March 31 in Pompano Beach after he allegedly approached two [Broward County] deputies posing as prostitutes in the 1400 block of Northwest 31st Avenue, according to a police report.

Thrower had proposed an oral sex competition and offered the undercovers $50, police said.

An oral sex competition? How does that work? Whoever wins gets to stop blowing him?
Loved the new Arthur movie, about a spoiled, immature playboy with ridiculous hair who has to jump through hoops to hang onto his inheritance. I hear they're already filming a sequel where he becomes convinced Obama was born in Nigeria.

Whoa! And I thought I cried a lot in locker rooms.

"Thou shalt not have false food gods before thee!" bellowed an angry Jesus Potato Chip.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

We've all heard about it: Southwest Airlines seems to have trouble keeping the tops on their planes. In fact, it's more likely you'll freefall from 30,000 feet than find tasty food at Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport. The good news is, it's not such a bad way to go. Due to the extreme cold at such a high altitude, your blood will immediately start to coagulate, and it won't provide the nourishment your brain needs. You will literally get stupider with every inch you fall. We've consulted Dr. Waylon Dowd, a world-renowned scholar, and had him write up typical thoughts that might fly through your nutrient-starved mind as you plummet to earth.

In Larry Flynt's new book One Nation under Sex, the porn king blows the covers back from early American sex lives, claiming Ben Franklin liked to seduce French women, Dolly Madison slept around, Abe Lincoln frequently shared his bed with men, and James Buchanan's boyfriend owned slaves.

Most shocking? George Washington used to shower the crowd with singles at colonial strip clubs, shouting "Who wants a little green picture of me?"

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Well, thank goodness! They finally fixed Antiques Roadshow so it's not just an endless string of rich white people.

I guess somebody else must have noticed and criticized. Somebody must have told them that a better name for the show would have been "White People Who Inherit Stuff From Rich Parents, Plus A Few Who Go To Estate Sales While They Weekend in Connecticut."

I'm pretty sure PBS didn't intend it this way: they just didn't think the whole thing through. "We'll get all kinds of people who want to get their valuables appraised," they probably told themselves. "I'm sure there's a ton of blacks whose grandparents collected paintings from the Hudson River School, or Hispanics with aunts who begged Charles Schulz for original Peanuts drawings." Unfortunately, reality was a cold slap in the face.

After a few years, though, PBS came up with a solution: they'd tack on an ending where they'd show people who brought in stuff that wasn't valuable. In their new Feedback Booth section, anybody can offer a quick comment about what fun they had during filming, or how disappointed they are that the ashtray they found at a garage sale is only worth two bucks. The tactic buys them at least one non-white face a week.

In the face of this success, I'm thinking other shows should adopt a similar strategy. Like, they could do the same thing on Bait Car. That's the show where cops leave a nice car in a bad neighborhood and then wait for somebody to take it. If they think it'll be a long wait, they'll enact a little scene to draw attention to the car. A cop in a marked police car will pull over an undercover officer in the bait car and give him a sobriety test. "Why, you're drunk!" he'll shout like a first-year drama student. "I'm going to take you downtown right now! We'll leave your car unlocked and the keys in the ignition but I'm sure it will be safe here!"

"Oh, golly!" murmurs an onlooker. "What a turn of good luck!" He jumps into the car the minute the cops drive away. Before he's gotten half a mile, though, the locks are triggered and the engine is disabled remotely, so the thief is trapped until more police show up.

Nobody seems bothered that the show is all white police entrapping men of color, but I guess there's no way around it. I mean, the cops can't leave the bait car in a white neighborhood, because it might take hours for the thing to get swiped, and there are donuts to be ate. Just to add the occasional white face, though, maybe they could go to a white neighborhood and ask people how they'd feel if the cops targeted them like that.

"A sting?" an elderly woman might ask. "In our neighborhood? How delightful!" "I'll bet my neighbor would take it," somebody else might reply. "Can you believe the state of his lawn?"

Monday, April 11, 2011

Bill Donohue, president of the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights, has a full-page ad in the New York Times today defending the church against claims it tolerated child molestation. As we read his ridiculous diatribe, we got to wondering: what would Donohue say if five thousand priests were vampires?

1. "Five thousand? That's barely, like, -- what's a bunch of vampires called?"

2. "If all these priests are always biting people, why hasn't somebody gotten a picture of it?"

3. "Wait, so we're all in love with Robert Pattinson, but some old dude with bad breath in a rayon robe is totally creepy?"

4. "Sucking the blood of innocents is inexcusable! But what if these guys just bit their necks and drank?"

5. "Honestly, we tried to stop them, but we used up all our garlic for spaghetti sauce."

6. "You saw these guys drinking blood during mass. You thought they went home and switched to Ovaltine?"

7. "I hear through the rumor mill that a lot of the victims were already undead."

8. "Oh, puh-leeze. Like getting bitten is a one-sided thing."

9. "Hey, why don't we talk about the Jews for a minute? Why don't we ever see them with crucifixes?"

10. "If the church were truly harboring criminals, I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror. Well, you know, if I could."

Note to all the writers out there: if your latest work has idiots fucking around with idiots, you better not be writing a drama.

I'm referring, of course, to the eight-car pileup that was Mildred Pierce. All the critics loved the show, but I'm thinking the TV Guide summary should have been, "Idiot housewife has daughter who's a twat." See, a good drama has to feature at least one protagonist who isn't stupid or nuts. When your characters are stupid or nuts, the conflict doesn't mean anything. It can rattle on endlessly, and it never gets resolved. That's why Shakespeare never wrote about Atlanta housewives. Toss in some ridiculous depression-era slang and you've got five hours of unmitigated crap.

If you missed it, here's a quick summary. So you don't doze off like I did, I'll ramp up the action a bit. In Part One, Veda aims a Model T at Mildred, her mom. "Jeepers!" Mildred cries, narrowly escaping death. "That dumb cluck gives me the willies!" In Part Two, Veda runs over Mildred with a beer truck. "Whatta goof!" Mildred yells, setting her broken limbs with old tea towels. "That's one slap-happy stinkeroo!" In Part Three, Veda squashes Mildred with a steamroller. "Phooey!" Mildred splutters, an eighth of an inch thick. "I think that lame-brain wants me to take a dirt nap!"

By Part Four, I'm screaming GET THIS SHIT OFF MY TV.

I don't know what the writer was thinking. Really, your audience isn't going to tear up when your star feels bad in the back of her limo. They're not going to sob in sympathy when she realizes maybe she should have banked a little more money before buying that mansion. They're not going to think, "There but for the grace of God go I!" when she admits that maybe restauranteurs shouldn't keep two sets of books.

I shook my head from start to finish, but nearly got whiplash at Mildred's last line to her daughter.

MILDRED: You played us all like patsies! You were totally faking the injuries from when I tried to choke you to death!

Mildred loses the daughter, of course, but she keeps her business, stays out of jail, and even gets her first husband, Bert, back. Evidently he agrees that a cunt is somebody who, when you hit her with an axe, totally mimes losing an arm.

BERT: Veda can just go to hell. She can take a long walk off a short pier.

MILDRED: Fuck her. Fuck her. (PAUSE.) More Rootin' Tootin' Root Beer pie?

Second favorite? Randy.

Friday, April 8, 2011

It started off innocently enough. Commercials for the local news stopped offering real news, instead reeling off teasers about what they were covering on their evening newscast. "Sadness in the entertainment world as a legend dies," they declared.

"Accident shuts down major freeway," they announced.

"Local business calls it quits," they said. "Have you just lost your job?"

This confused me. I mean, these were allegedly news people, right? Their job is to spread the news. Couldn't they have given us an actual detail in the same amount of time?

Over time they got bolder, realizing major sizzle got curious people to tune in. "Are the chemicals in shoe leather making you lose all feeling in your feet?" they asked. "Is your toilet tissue slowly eating a hole in your butt?" "Is an ordinary household chemical turning your daughter into a nymphomaniac?"

I watched, like a sap, and the answers were No, No, and -- in an awkward exchange -- No, she's probably just copying you.

After that, I steadfastly ignored their taunts, no matter how important they sounded, but it seemed like they started ramping up the danger to force me to tune in. The intent was crystal clear: the information they were withholding could pose an immediate threat to my life.

"A deadly animal is on the loose," they declared. "Should you be standing by your door with a big stick? Tune in tonight to find out."

"Fire races out of control in one of the five boroughs," they announced. "Should you be running outside in your underwear?"

"Are zombies terrorizing Manhattan?" they asked. "You might want to keep gas and matches nearby after you hear this!"

None of these warnings ever amounted to anything, so eventually I wrote them off. But one day I know they won't be crying wolf, and I won't be paying attention. It pisses me off: I miss actual news people, and I'm insulted that these idiots pretend they're something more than capitalist tools designed to make me buy Tide.

I'm tempted to phone them anonymously. "Somebody who's fed up with news-bulletin bullshit is standing in front of a TV station, waiting to punch a news anchor in the face," I'd say. "Could it be you? Find out tonight."

Thursday, April 7, 2011

A whopping four percent of Britons haven't realized that researchers at major universities can't let you electrocute total strangers.

In a recent study at Cambridge University, researchers presented test subjects with electrical equipment that was supposedly hooked up to innocent victims in an adjoining room, and told them they'd be paid cold, hard cash to shock them with massive surges of electricity. The bigger the buzz, the bigger the pile of cash.

Amazingly, four percent of the people refused.

"Is that incredible?" asked Daniel Lithgoe, a participant who raked in nearly thirty bucks. "I was like, 'Yeah, you're going to pay me to shock somebody, like Cambridge wouldn't be sued to hell and back for that kinda shit.' And they were all, 'No, it's totally real, you're actually going to be shocking somebody.' They even had a monitor so I could supposedly watch the person's face while I was torturing them. And I was like, 'What, I can't hear them scream through the wall, like in Milgram 1961? What a bunch of cheap motherfuckers.'"

Still, the researchers declared their work a complete success. "We're already planning another study where people will think they'll be crushing baby rabbits with remote-control rocks," one researcher declared, "and there's already eighty people on the waiting list."

The last man in America who liked white women has decided he likes Asians too.

Matt Hoxton, a 35-year-old computer technician, finally agrees that everybody else is right and he was wrong. Asian chicks are just way hotter than regular chicks.

"I was always defending white chicks to all my friends," Matt explained. "Like, some of them are feminine, and a few of them aren't loud. A couple weeks ago, though, my brother-in-law set me up on a blind date, and I realized they were right. Asian chicks just have a certain something about them that's really cool. They're smarter, and more stylish, and just cooler all around. You know, it's almost like Asian chicks are Macintoshes, and white chicks are PCs."

"That's RIDICULOUS!" screamed a white women who'd been eavesdropping, demonstrating that assertiveness that's turned everybody off. "That's ridiculous, and that's offensive!" Steaming, she jumped into her car and drove to Rite Aid to look for antivirus medication, but she crashed a couple times along the way.

Like, there's this beach with negro sand.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Censored Gay Sex Is Finally Being Restored To "From Here To Eternity"

Although frankly I can kind of understand why they cut it out.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

50 Reasons Stay-At-Home Moms Have Better Sex

If you spend any time on the internet, you know how to read between the lines. Sometimes people think they're saying one thing when in reality they're saying another. Over at CafeMom, for instance, they think they're listing 50 Reasons Stay-At-Home Moms Have Better Sex, but if you reword and rearrange the list just slightly you'll see a better title would be Why I Don't Have Any SAHMs On My Speed Dial.

When you're a SAHM, you don't shower very often,17 and you infrequently brush your hair.18 You're hornier than working women because you spend part of the day sitting in the park sending pornographic texts.7 You get to send them from home, too, because if you get caught a baby can't fire your ass.19

Fact is, you're always rarin' to screw because you got so relaxed in your sweatpants and ugly shoes.22 You haven't been able to see your husband all day, so you miss him. [Ed. note: Evidently employed people all work in the same building.]28 You can't wait for him to come home and fuck you because you got all hot watching those kiddy TV shows.32

Sex is extra special after you've spent the day cleaning up child and animal poop,29 plus sometimes it's just cool to see somebody with pubic hair.16 By the time hubby comes home, you can't wait to fuck, because at least it gives you a chance to lie down.31

You're better in bed than employed women because they use up all their filthy talk at work.38 And you're already warmed up for spanking.37 Hell, you've been puked on and shat on so much it's impossible to scare you in the sack.50 Plus, men really enjoy fucking you because you're helpless,13 and you'll make sure they don't hurt themselves.40

Besides, it's not like all that drinking is gonna hurt.20

Monday, April 4, 2011

Well, I'm not convinced it's evil, but it sure explains those nipple prints in my hummus.
Who says the American Dream is dead? Once again someone has proved that there are still ample opportunities out there for folks with the guts to grab them. According to a few news stories, some questionable web posts, and pure imagination to fill in the gaps, it seems like pornmeister Corbin Fisher may have blazed a brave new trail that ambitious entrepreneurs would be wise to follow.
  1. Make a porn movie. Really, it doesn't matter how bad it is. Your stars can be bleached blondes wearing puka shell necklaces. You can cut to wisecracks from Mr. Roper when somebody's erection flags. In fact, if all you've got is an MP4 of your dog Sniffles barking "Mama!" that's probably good enough.

  2. Give your movie a saucy name, like Eric Fucks Jude, or Brent Fucks Mitch, or Parker Just Can't Stop Fucking Tristan. Most folks Googling for porn include the word "fuck," so you've got to have that in there.

  3. Upload your movie to every bittorrent site you can find. If your movie was good, other people would do this for you, but your movie sucks, remember?

  4. Wait a week, then announce that you're going to sue everybody who downloaded your film. In fact, you're going to mail out the lawsuits in envelopes emblazoned with the words "To the guy who illegally downloaded 'CHRIST, NOW ALL THE JOCKS ARE FUCKING!'" in thirty-point type just above their name and address.

    Tell them you won't sue them if they send you $10,000. To those stupid enough to comply, offer a consolation prize, like a free year's membership to

  5. Sue everybody who didn't send you $10,000. Watch the millions pile up. You may actually be awarded $250,000 from one person!

  6. Move into a brand new studio. Now you can afford the best equipment in the world to make your godawful films.

  7. Give $60,000 a year to charity and watch the idiot gay press call you a motherfuckin' Mother Teresa.

  8. Teach Sniffles another word, and repeat.

"But mostly, Marlee," Star Jones whispered, "I love how you can keep a secret."

You know, if it looks like a real Louis Vuitton bag, I don't care if those are capillaries.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Regular readers know I often chat about turning my blog into a money maker, but so far all my efforts have fallen flat. Today, though, I think I've come up with a workable business plan. I'll find some product that I really like, and I'll write about it, and maybe the company that manufactures the item will send me a small check for giving them some publicity.

Abercrombie Kids has the same hip style as their parent company, Abercrombie & Fitch, but they're aimed at the grade school crowd. What's going to be the hottest swimsuit this year for seven- to fourteen-year-olds? Their new Ashley push-up bikini top.

"What?" I can hear you asking. "Push-up bikini tops for seven-year-old girls?"

Well, that's the perfect age, we say! After all, seven is the new fifteen. It's the age when you teach girls to be kind to animals, be loyal to friends, and start putting some frosting on the devil's cornbread. But let's be realistic: not every seven-year-old looks like Carmen Elektra. Hell, they might not have any breast tissue, and it's a couple of years early to start talking about implants. What's the solution? Abercrombie Kids' Ashley push-up triangles.

Now, it's possible your seven-year-old doesn't realize she's flat-chested. I mean, Dora the Explorer doesn't bring up the topic very often, despite the fact she's a longtime resident of the Straits of Notitty herself. But it's also possible your daughter is ashamed. I mean, what girl wants to bring up her little batch of cupcakes when Mom needs pillars to support her angel food?

Besides, I know you want your daughter to look her best. But picture this: you take her to the beach in a regular swimsuit, and nobody looks at her. She plays frisbee. She swims. She looks at tide pools. What kind of fun is that for somebody who's probably already sexted pictures of herself to Jamie Foxx? Buy your little angel the new Ashley triangles, on the other hand, and watch the difference. "Hey, boys!" this top veritably yells across the beach, "get a load of these sandcastles!"

How does it work? The bra's architectural design pushes all that extra baby fat up and out, so it looks like your little darlin' has a couple little darlin's of her own. Plus, there's a layer of padding built in, because if a girl doesn't have a little something to show off, all the boys will just be staring at her starfish.

So, be a good parent: buy the Ashley push-up triangles. It comes in Rockin' Strawberry Red, Smurfette Blue, and Count Chocublack. Then get the camera ready for when your little princess gets that first sand dollar stuffed into her shorts!

Playmobil's New Apple Store Playset