Well, sweetie, I guess it's a nice Valentine's Day present, if you seriously couldn't find a plastic bag that'd fit over your head.

State Senator Confuses Lie Made By Idiot With Laboratory Study Sponsored By The Center For Disease Control

Tennessee state Rep. Stacey Campfield was thrown out of a restaurant yesterday. Martha Boggs, owner of Bistro at the Bijou, recognized the homophobic Mr. Campfield and said she wouldn't serve him because of his repeated lies about gays, including the "fact" that they live, on average, 42 years.

Despite getting the bum rush, Mr. Campfield was the picture of tolerance. "I said in as calm a way as I could that I don't hate gays and the things I have said were backed up by the CDC," he says on his blog. "I offered to send her the links."

Helpfully, Mr. Campfield has posted these links. The gay lifespan "fact" is here:

http://theroadtoemmaus.org/RdLb/22SxSo/PnSx/HSx/hosx_lifspn.htm

Now, perhaps Mr. Campfield should have realized this isn't an official Center for Disease Control website, because the URL would have included stuff like "cdc" and "us" and "gov." Clearly he should have noticed that on this website the letters "CDC" appear less often than "sodomy" or "MTV." Instead, we're just given one curious line:

In 1994, an obituary study revealed that the median age of death for homosexual males was 42 and for lesbians was 49.

You know, just from quickly scanning this, one realizes that it's slightly less believable than a hunchback saying they've bedded Scarlet Johannson. Because we all know how obituaries disclose the sexual orientation of the deceased. I still remember the headline for the New York Times obit of Alan Ginsburg: "ANOTHER GAY ONE, DEAD!!!"

Those still on the fence can easily discover that Paul Cameron, the author of this questionable study, was thrown out of the American Psychiatric Institute. In his defense, Mr. Cameron claims he said, "No, I quit!" several seconds beforehand.

So, is Mr. Campfield a liar or just profoundly stupid? I'm thinking it's the former, but hoping for the latter. It would brighten my life immeasurably knowing one day soon he'll mistake his hat for a waffle iron.

Just once I'd like to see a crook on Cops tell the truth.

COP: We gonna find any drugs in your car?

DISHEVELED GUY: How good you gonna look?

Hi. You're good-lookin'. He's good-lookin', ain't he? Mama likes nice-lookin' men. Look at those dimples. You could crack a walnut in them dimples. Mmm. Is that a dill pickle in your pants?

You heard me. No, I ain't shy, and I ain't jerkin' no gherkin. No, I'm just joshing. I'm a married lady, so I'm not gonna do anything. Well, maybe I'll just say a quick hello.

Honestly, darlin', I think you're packing some heat, but it's like trying to pet a kitten in a bag. Can I pull it out? You mind if I pull it out? I'm going to pull it out. Ohmigoodness. I would never have thought a nice man like you would be packing a weapon like that.

Tell you what. You showed me yours, so it's only fair I show you mine. See? There's my oven for lovin'. Ain't she pretty? Ain't --

Oops.

I slipped.

Honestly, darlin', I'm sorry. I certainly did not intend for this to happen. I'd pull it out but it was red and swollen when it went in and I don't want to make it any madder than it already was.

HAW!!! Ain't I naughty. Ain't I a stinker. Mama gets what mama wants.

Well, long as we're stuck together I might as well make myself comfortable. Yeah. Mm. Sugar, stir that pot. Stir that pot, and after we're done maybe Mama will let you lick the spoon. Yeah, that's it. Better hang on tight, honey, because this blender got twenty-one speeds. You hanging on? Let's slide this sucker up to FRAPPE.

Yeah, that's nice. That's nice. You know how to make Mama's milkshake. Now, punch that button and let's move on up to FRAPPE. Whoa! You just might be my favorite Kitchen Aid. Okay, sweetie, Mama's ready. Mama's ready to LIQUEFY. Punch that button. PUNCH THAT BUTTON! YES! YES! YES! YES! WOOWEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! AIEEEEEEEEEE!

Three years later.

Hi. This is Paula Deen for Herpeez.

Immigrants are ruining English. For instance, people used to think Miralax was a contraction of "miracle" and "laxative." Now they think it means "Look! Laxative!"

As Hugo opens, we meet a cute little boy and his new friend, a cute little girl. Next we're introduced to a middle-aged gendarme who has a crush on a single female who's around his age. And then we meet an old man who's desperately trying to pitch woo with an old woman whose dog just doesn't like him.

At Minute Two of the movie, we know the question: Will these couples overcome the obstacles and end up together? Which is why I was screaming at Minute Three, "GET THIS SHIT OFF MY TV!"

NBC's new Smash follows the contrary construction. (How did I get to preview it? We slightly-popular bloggers don't adhere to the same tedious programming rules as you regular folks.) Instead of each character being paired with an eligible partner, though, they're all weighed down by one giant problem.

Debra Messing and her hubby want to adopt, which is why she's taking time off from writing boffo musicals. Her best intentions go awry, though, when her writing partner comes up with a brilliant new idea:

DEBRA: A musical about Marilyn Monroe entitled "Marilyn: The Musical." That's incredible. Clearly you've spent a lot of time thinking about this.

Yeah, because the best I could come up with was Some Like It Washed Down With Nebutal. Even before they've written the first song, critics proclaim the show a smash, and the next day it's in previews. But what about the baby? It's not like a rich white woman can hang around a piano all day and raise a child at the same time. (Take that, bitches who try to have it all.) If Debra comes out of retirement, will her husband finally reach his breaking point?

Dark-Haired Marilyn Wannabe (Katharine McPhee) has unattractive parents who think she'll never fulfill her dreams of stardom. Can she prove them wrong? The director has the hots for DHMW, but Iowa girls don't leap into bed until wedding rings and cheese curds appear. Will Blonde-Haired Marilyn Wannabe sleep with him and steal the lead?

All of this is just as artificial as Hugo, and just as unsatisfying. Totally unacceptable, though, is what they've done to Marilyn. Audition after audition shows they've morphed our shy little flower into an American Idol-style belter. She's got Liza Minnelli's self-confidence, and she's belting out songs to the rafters:

MARILYN: CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THE LAST ROW, FELLAS? I WAS SINGING, 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SKIDDLY-DADDLY-DWEE-BOP YEW-OOOO-OOOO!!!'

If that makes you cringe, just wait for the scene where Marilyn decides she wants to date Joe DiMaggio, so she visits the Cubs' locker room. Yes, because five minutes of a ninety-minute Marilyn biography should consist of guys in pinstripes carrying her around while she caterwauls about peanuts and the difficulties of getting to second base. This boisterous broad only gets breathless after she's rotated the tires on her Jeep Cherokee.

So, adios Smash. Ride your silly conflicts into the sunset. And good luck, Actual Marilyn. I hope people remember you like I do, all breath and restraint and shy smiles, before you became so loud and confident you seemed a cinch for a Der Wienerschnitzel ad.

"I haven't had anything done!" Paris declared. "I've just been getting a lot of sleep."

What I Was Thinking

I am the Fort Myers, Florida policeman accused of tazing a disabled gay man after hearing what I thought was gunfire. I know some people may believe I did something wrong, but after they hear my story I think they will understand. Here is how the scene underwent.

I'm outside a strip club about to serve a warrant when I hear a loud BANG. And then another. Then another! It totally sounds like a gunshot, except for the part that sounds like somebody opening a car door in between. I look over toward where the sound came from and see seven men standing in front of a gay bar, laughing and joking. They're closer to the sound, yet they are laughing and joking. In that split second I decide that they are probably deaf.

So, I yell "GET ON THE GROUND!" at them. The fact they remain laughing and joking in front of a gay bar after one of them has fired a weapon repeatedly but very slowly causes me to think they are a really badass gay gang to whom human life means nothing and who may suffer from arthritis. I run at them with my gun drawn, repeatedly ordering them to get on the ground. They all do, except for the overweight one with the cane I call "Mr. Badass." "Mr. Badass" refuses to drop to his knees. Instead, he keeps touching his throat, where there's a hole. I think he's telling me, "Hey, I'm going to shoot you just like somebody shot me," so I taze him.

At this point he collapses onto the ground, and I am informed that what I thought were gunshots were actually somebody slamming their car door.

I probably would not have tazed this man if I had known this, or if I'd known he's disabled and can't actually lower himself onto the ground, or if I'd known he'd had a tracheotomy and he can't talk without pressing his throat.

But I'd still call him "Mr. Badass."

I've seen some other claimers to the throne, so it's about time I made this official. I'm the world's biggest J. J. Abrams fan.

Super 8 was my super favorite movie of all time. In it, a small town is torn apart by something weird. Cloverfield was a close second. In it, a big city is torn apart by something weird. What other writer/director has that kind of range? True to its name, though, Lost lost me. So many details! If his fans were good with following plot lines, we wouldn't watch movies that are guaranteed to end with the line, "Whatever it was, I hope it never comes back."

J. J. Abrams completely reinvented the Mystery genre. Before him, they suffered from a fatal flaw: they were either too easy or too difficult to solve.

On the easy end is Murder She Wrote. Anybody with have half a brain realized that for 14 straight seasons the killer was the special guest star. Robert Goulet making an appearance this week? Well, you know, stars of that particular caliber don't sign onto projects just to be suspects. They're not spending four hours in makeup for one little scene:

JESSICA FLETCHER: What exactly were you doing when Colonel Parker was clubbed with a brass candlestick at Shady Penguin Cove?

SPECIAL GUEST STAR: I . . . I . . . I was selling postcards in my little souvenir shop. I didn't hear anything!

JESSICA FLETCHER: Oh. Okay. You're clear.

On the other end of the spectrum is Arthur Conan Doyle. He's a reasonably fun read, but he punishes those of us who have short attention spans. See, when I finish a book, odds are a year or two have passed since I started it. Seasons have come and gone; hell, my pets have come and gone. When I get to the end of Sherlock Holmes, rather than feeling a sense of relief, I'm pretty thoroughly annoyed:

SHERLOCK: The murderer is . . . Mr. Carstairs!

(MR. CARSTAIRS runs for the French doors, but a pair of burly policemen emerge from behind the curtains and grab him.)

MR. CARSTAIRS: Drat!

Maybe some folks will proclaim, "Mr. Carstairs! Of course!" but personally I'm saying, "Who?" I forgot who Mr. Carstairs was about eighteen kittens ago. Here's how Mr. Abrams would solve the problem:

SHERLOCK: The murderer is . . . a teleporting unicorn!

(A GIANT TWINKLING UNICORN materializes in the center of the room, where it hangs in midair.)

MR. CARSTAIRS: Well, fuck me with a rock!

I don't know why nobody thought of this before. It neatly solves the Mystery flaw: there's no way we can guess the culprit, and we don't feel any pressure to try. We can enjoy the spectacle, knowing that while we're watching New York City being destroyed by an oversized alien, no smartypants is going to leap up and proclaim, "I KNOW! I KNOW! IT'S A LEPRECHAUN FROM THE TWELFTH DIMENSION!"

Needless to say, I'm totally loving Abrams' new Alcatraz. Just before the island-prison closes for good, 300 residents mysterious disappear. Flash-forward fifty years later and they're back -- without having aged a day! This is classic Abrams: we get to watch supernatural entities rip shit up, and there's no chance in hell some brainiac will figure out why.

In closing, I'd like to address the idea that Mr. Abrams' work is sheer escapism. On the contrary, it helped shape my philosophy of life.

You never know when a time-traveling pony is going to get you, but you can be pretty sure one will.

Double-Chinned Fast Food Addict Brings a Fiery Lecture to the Fit and Healthy

New York's cardinal-to-be Timothy Dolan delivered a no-holds-barred sermon on morality Sunday, telling his flock to resist a sinful culture that seems to coerce young people into premarital sex.

"God-fearing Catholics are treated as outcasts for following church teachings," Archbishop Dolan said at St. Patrick’s. “We're belittled because we take exception to the rampant promiscuity that's overtaken our culture. Pop culture is constantly marginalizing us, labeling us with words like 'uncool' and 'uptight,' but this is one four-hundred pound man who won't shut up just to join the hip crowd."

Dolan didn’t mention any one show or star by name, but he clearly seemed to be targeting the bedhopping popularized by shows like Jersey Shore. “All too often today, the one who tries his or her best to be pure and chaste is often thought of not as a hero, but as a freak. But we will not retreat! We have the word of God behind us. If Jesus were here today I think he'd say to our youth, 'Listen to these men who are very wise despite the fact they cannot see their feet.'"

Dolan linked “sexual immorality” with society’s ills — violence, sex crimes, disease and broken families — and called on his fellow puffy priests to fight it with hard lectures and taut writings. "Attractive, hip youngsters will surely listen to reason, even if it comes from a guy who never dated and has more chins than the Shanghai phone book."

“Besides," he concluded, "it's not like there aren't alternatives to sex. Instead of coming across as a naysaying, puritanical nag who's always saying ‘No, no, no,' I suggest we say, 'Why not have a cannoli instead? How about a bucket of KFC? What's wrong with Cajun fries?' Because immorality will eat your eternal soul, but gluttony is no sin."

Dolan then exited the altar clutching a bag of Cheetos as a few well-sculpted arms shot up in the air.

I really worry about young people today. Because of relentless peer pressure, too often they feel like they have to starve themselves in order to fit in. They don't even eat any more: they "graze." They eschew a burger or tasty plate of pasta for a carrot stick with a side of raisin. This can result in tragic consequences! If you watch TV even a little, you know what I'm talking about. I haven't seen a real, full-boned adult in years: instead, it's an endless stream of pencil-armed little girls. It's gotten to the point where I wonder if some of these twig-like bones are going to snap every time I turn on Monday Night Football.

Of course, I'm talking about you, Eli Manning. In fact, I'll bet the average person can't pick out which of the following arms are yours, and which belong to the Olsen Twins.

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

(5)

(6)

(7)

(8)


ANSWERS:
1, 3, 5 and 7 belong to the Olsen Twins. 2, 4, 6 and 8 are Eli Manning. Dude, eat a sandwich!

The school board of Union Township, New Jersey is moving to dismiss Viki Knox, the teacher who posted a nasty anti-gay diatribe on her Facebook page.

In her post, Knox described gay people as "perverted spirits" whose sin "breeds like cancer."

"Breeds like cancer"? Oh, puh-leeze. I've had sex with dozens of men and not one of them ever wanted to do it again.

I guess it just muddies the water if we consider this foreplay.

Whew! I was worried I'd be toast since I killed that drifter.

Why is cheese the most popular item to smuggle out of supermarkets?

Because toilet paper doesn't have a pointy end.

Coincidentally, that's the same graphic they use when advising priests to use lubricant.

(To the tune of Bette Davis Eyes.)

Here comes a customer!
What a crazy surprise.
Welcome to Papa John's,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

No sauce and extra cheese
on a medium size?
That's fourteen eighty-three,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

Pepperoni
and baloney
it all tastes like Rice A Roni.
Mozzarella
Got a fella?
Is the rest of you really yellow?
You sure do make my dough rise,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

Your pizza's coming soon.
I won't tell you no lies.
You really make me swoon,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

No, this pizza ain't yours --
it's for Cellulite Thighs.
Just hold onto your drawers,
pretty Lady Chinky Eyes.

Want a cheesestick?
They make me sick.
Long and yellow, like Chinese dick.
My stick's growing.
Why you going?
Me so solly we be slowing.
Want a Splite, or side of flies? --
Goodbye, Lady Chinky Eyes.

Archbishop Timothy Dolan's declaration upon his elevation to Cardinal:

It’s as if Pope Benedict is putting the red hat on top of the Empire State Building, or the Statue of Liberty, or on home plate at Yankee Stadium; or on the spires of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral or any of our other parish churches.

Uh, no. It's as if a dude who protected child molesters really, really likes you.

How to Act Like a New Yorker

When someone says: Happy new year!

You reply: Gawd, is it December 31 again? Well, happy new year, darling. I'd kiss you but that looks like a cold sore.

I'm too stupid to write a book review. My friend George Snyder has written a fabulous new book entitled Down the Garden Path, and I'd love to be able to recommend it. But I have absolutely no idea how.

First, I question people who recommend things put out by their friends. I mean, it's a slippery slope. Today you're exaggerating slightly, and tomorrow you're Jimmy Fallon telling 14 million people that Jack and Jill is the best thing ever put on film.

Second, I don't regularly review books here. If I had exactly one chance to tell you to buy a book, in fact, I'd say pick up Pride and Prejudice, and George can go fuck himself. Which I'd rather not say, since I'm one of those folks who prefers nice surprises in the mail.

And last, I don't know your circumstances. I don't know if you have $13.95 to spend on something that isn't an electric bill. I'm still peeved at a PBS pledge break telling me that the $120 annual membership was less than I'd spend for lunch. I sat there with my mouth open thinking, "What, has somebody really ordered 84 burritos at Taco Bell?" I'm constantly irritated by those clueless boobs who claim, as a recent Broadway reviewer did, that Hugh Jackman's smile alone is worth a $150 ticket. Because we had more than a few of these scenes while I was growing up:

ME: Mommy, I'm starving. What's for dinner?

MOM: Sweetie, we can't afford food today. (WAVING A PHOTO IN FRONT OF MY FACE.) But get a load of those dimples!

So, here's what I'll say. George and I became friends because I loved his writing; I don't love his writing because we're friends. If I reviewed books regularly, I'd tell you to go buy Down the Garden Path, because it's smarter and funnier than anything I've read in years, recalling everybody from Evelyn Waugh to Paul Rudnick. It's self-assured and effortless and I get a little sadder with every page I turn, knowing I'm a year away from his next book.

And if money's an object, well, cut back on food.

Hey, it worked for me.

So, I'm creating an account with an online company. I type in all my info, and on the next screen they want me to confirm that it's all correct. It is. Do I click this button or not?

Doing the Gas-Soaked Rag

(Jauntily, to any kind of tune)

Twelve-hour days and working every weekend
I finally snapped and hollered at my boss.
Lost my job and lost my health insurance.
Spent Christmas Eve just huffing on some cloth.

I feigned a couple panic attacks
then spent my 20s zonked on Xanax.
One day I'll laugh about
doing the gas-soaked rag.

Missing the vacations and the paychecks
but Blue Cross was the best part of my job.
I was such a fan of Roche and Pfizer;
and now I suck on scarves under my Saab.

Now I see fireworks all evening long.
Who cares if my skin smells like Techron?
Everyone's happy now
doing the gas-soaked rag.

I know the FDA won't be too happy.
I think my two front teeth are coming loose.
Fire the folks who make all of those downers
now I'm riding on the huff train's big caboose.

Hey, Abbott Labs, I ain't gonna share --
look, something's leaking from that Bel Air!
Everyone's passing out
doing the gas-soaked rag,
chewing a grass-smoked flag,
wooing a rash-stroked slag,
screwing a half-coked fag.

Coincidentally, that's what in the cupcakes too.