I am absolutely aghast. This week Germany took steps to outlaw circumcision, calling it "bodily harm," and actually saying it should be banned.

Is that incredible? I mean, you can't get any more anti-religion without smacking a nun in the face. Are these guys utterly clueless? They clearly don't realize that some of us will fight to the death for our right to cut parts off our kids.

Germany's Central Council of Jews protested the ruling, calling it an "unprecedented and dramatic intrusion on the right to self-determination of religious communities." Which is right on, as my metaphysical construct of Self consists of my id, ego, and offspring willy. The Central Council of Muslims also echoed the outrage, saying the court's decision was "blatant and inadmissible interference." But oh, no. Germany just had to get between me and my doctor discussing the body parts my son doesn't need.

This is sooo wrong-headed it actually makes me wonder about Germany. I mean, at first glance they seem so smart, using those giant mugs for beer. But circumcision is a long tradition, and long traditions have to be obeyed regardless of how crazy they sound. I don't know about you, but if my parents did something repeatedly, then I have to do it too. That's why I drink sherry at five o'clock every night, and sit real close to babysitters.

Circumcision also comes straight from the Bible, which is God's Honest Truth. These are the actual words of Our Lord, as transcribed by people who wore animal skins and thought thunder was the Giant Sky Leopard farting. There's no reason not to believe them, because everybody who was crazy back then was inventing Buddhism.

Besides, circumcision is actually a good thing. If we didn't circumcise boys at birth, we'd have to do it later, and then just try finding a towel that'll soak up all the blood. Babies hardly even feel it. Okay, they all start crying, but that's probably because we haven't given them iPods yet. Post-birth is the prime time for surgery: that's why I told my OB/GYN to check my daughter for a big nose and flat chest even before he counted her toes.

I guess it's the whole "pointy knife and healthy flesh" thing that makes people think irrationally. I've even heard circumcision compared to female genital mutilation. Sure, they're both parental-driven body modifications based on religious beliefs or superstition, but otherwise they're not even close. I found a graphic in one of my old medical textbooks that illustrates the difference.

So, I beg you to join me in this fight. At the very least, think of your own son. Imagine the snickers he'll hear from kids who see his uncut penis in the shower after gym class. And, well, imagine that he can't reply, "So, dudes, why the fuck are you looking at my dick?"

I know after careful consideration you'll join me in this battle. I mean, this is a Bible-fearing country! God's rule is law here, which is why there are eight thousand people with rocks outside Kim Kardashian's house as we speak.

The Short Answer

Try this: "I am currently undergoing inpatient counseling to determine why I'm an insufferable prick-tease."

"Sit in a chair with your legs crossed. Now, what do you see in that mirror? OK, pretend it is your Grandpa!"

Christians might mean well, but when their brains can't keep up with their words the result can be flat-out scary. Take the website Secret Keeper Girl (which clearly needs a hyphen). It exists to teach girls that God's plan for them consists entirely of covering their hoo-hah. In their modesty test, above, they instruct a girl to sit in front of a mirror with her legs apart. Then they tell her to pretend the mirror is her grandpa.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but as a writer I try to avoid situations where old men look up the skirts of little girls. Luckily, though, bad grammar has derailed their intent. Let's examine exactly where they went wrong with a simple example:

I met Mark through my uncle Silas. I'm going to screw him until the cows come home.
In English, it's a rule that the first noun in the first sentence becomes the "it" in subsequent ones. If you interpreted this example correctly, then, you're not picturing me with a lubricated relative. Rather than telling us to pretend the mirror is grandpa, Secret Keeper Girl is actually telling us to pretend that what's between our legs is grandpa.

Now, is that better than having an elderly relative stare up up shorts? I don't know. Speaking personally, though, it's a heck of a lot easier for me, since I've already got the bald and the wrinkly down pat.

Sigh. As today's New York Daily News says, "Avery Owen is all smiles with new pal and Yankees first baseman Mark Teixeira at Flying Manes Therapeutic Riding in the Bronx."

Isn't that adorable? It almost renews your faith in mankind.

One small blot on the landscape, though. As the accompanying article says, Avery is the name of the horse.

I can't wait to see the newest Woody Allen film, To Rome With Love. It sounds unlike anything he's ever done. Lots of rich white people with piddling little problems? Laugh riot! A milquetoasty married guy who realizes he's too good for his ball-and-chain wife? Brilliant! A gorgeous whore who loves being subservient to unattractive men? Genius!

The crème de la crème, though, sounds like the funeral director who's an amazing singer -- but only in the shower! Is that hysterical? He actually takes to the opera circuit in a portable tub. You don't need to brave the cineplex to see that inspired bit, though: thanks to your friends at World Class Stupid, here's an exclusive sneak peek.

Santa owns a Thomas Kinkade painting?

I guess that explains why he kept giving me jackets from Sears.

Bristol Palin's New Show Attracts Less Than Half the People That Wanted To See Roseanne's Nuts

I love love love George Lopez's new game show, Take Me Out. George is a charismatic host when he isn't serving as a flash card for the symptoms of alcoholism. Thirty "girls" are lined up at podiums, and one "man" comes out who they might win a chance to date. As the man gives more and more embarrassing information about himself, though, the girls can hit their buzzers to say, essentially, "Yeesh, I ain't getting in a car with that!"

Clearly there are some things the producers aren't telling us. Like, why would fame-seeking females hit a buzzer that kicks them out of a game? If the choice is between standing in the dark and possibly getting a free dinner with a Civil War re-enactor who collects Dolly Parton's used wigs, I'll go with the latter, thanks. It's like somebody on Jeopardy! saying Don Knotts was the eighth president so they won't have to endure the bonus round.

Ignoring the inexplicable, I love how the show defines American gender roles. See, men have confidence. We're goofballs, but we're gutsy. We can stand up and say, "Hey, I like dressing chickens in tiny suits of armor, and I don't care who knows!" We know what we like, and we just don't give a fuck.

Women, on the other hand, are shallow and judgmental. Why'd they ring the buzzer? Oh, I don't know, you know? He walks like a duck. His ears stick out. He reminds me of my sister's boyfriend's dad. Imagine an opposite-sex version of this show, where one woman is judged by thirty men. That show would be, like, eighteen hours long, because every time a dude declared the chick un-hot she'd burst into tears and go buy another pair of shoes.

Rest assured, the show is airy bliss. The best part is George's quips when he drags out the men for the ladies' critique. It's like Genitalia Euphemisms 101. "Let the sausage see the peppers!" he declares. "Let the hot dog see the buns!" he announces. "Let the clams meet the chowder!" he says.

I'm in love. I'm in heaven. I hope this fun can go on forever, but after the tacos find their hot sauce I'm stumped.

New York City's "Hipster Beach"

If this is what the crowd looks like on New York City's "Hipster Beach," I'll stick with the fat Russians in speedos, thanks.

You know why I'm an atheist? An all-knowing God wouldn't have said, "Hey, and then I'll move the sun reeeeally close to the earth for three months out of the year!"

After Killing An Unarmed Black Kid, It Appears George Zimmerman Has Actually Done Something That Will Get Him Into Trouble

After killing an unarmed black kid, it appears George Zimmerman has actually done something that will get him into trouble.

During preliminary hearings for the murder, Zimmerman and his wife claimed they were indigent. A sympathetic judge set his bail at $150,000, which is exactly how much you'd have to post if you were arrested for bothering Mila Kunis. However, stories soon surfaced that Zimmerman had received $155,000 in PayPal donations from people who support his right to shoot unarmed black teenagers, and the judge realized that Zimmerman had lied.

He ordered the kid-killer jailed.

Today prosecutors say they have proof of Zimmerman's deceit and more. In recorded phone calls, Zimmerman and his wife not only acknowledge the $155,000 in donations but also discuss transferring the money between bank accounts in a way specifically designed to avoid money-laundering laws.

Banks are required to report financial transactions of $10,000 or more, and it is a federal crime to make repeated transactions in smaller amounts to dodge this requirement. Mr. Zimmerman's banking records show numerous transfers of exactly $9,999.

With this new evidence in hand, Trayvon Martin's killer may actually find himself in hot water. If found guilty, he could follow in the footsteps of rich white Republican Tom DeLay, who received ten years of probation for money laundering.

Finally, Mr. Zimmerman's critics say with a sigh of relief, he will learn that there are some things you just can't get away with in America.

Day 972

On a totally unrelated note, New York also holds the world record for the most people going to the bank dressed as their grandparents.

A camera hidden in a forest to monitor the wildlife population photographed a politician with his pants down.

An employee of an Austrian hunting society was shocked to review the film and discover that the automatic camera, which takes pictures when movement is detected, captured an image of a politician romping around half-naked.

Something tells me if there's any wildlife actually in the photograph it's not going to be beaver.

The shark bites with his motherfuckin' teeth, dear.

Man Who Yelled "Your Mom's a Whore!" At Bristol Palin Sues for Defamation After She Calls Him Homosexual

Thus answering the question, "Hey, little girl -- you think your daddy wants to do me?"

I've got lots of friends who are British, and I've always known there was something wrong with them. They're timid, reserved, even squeamish. They don't have any of that American spunk that everybody admires. Originally I thought all of these folks were isolated instances, but then I realized they weren't. It was a trend; it was the entire country. I heard their national anthem and realized, whoa! You got eight billion people who go to sleep with the lights on.

You see it everywhere in England. There are long lines of people at every supermarket, post office, drug store. It's not that the places are that busy, but at some point in history two people showed up at the exact same time and ever since then they've been going, "No, you first!"

You'd think all the butchness they've conserved could have been stuck into their national anthem. See, a country only gets one national anthem, so they've got to make sure they get it right. It's three minutes of boasting, to mention everything cool about a place. How should Britain whittle it down? Hmm. Let's think for a minute. There's -- nope. How about -- no. Wait, I've got it:

Odds are we won't be raped behind a barn.

Sigh. You can almost see them faking enthusiasm. Sure, maybe our food ain't great, and we aren't exactly beautiful, but, um, we've dodged the shackles as of now. It's pitiful. Where's the pride? Where's the braggadocio? This sad sack little country is seconds away from saying, "I swear to God, you're not going to hit me again!"

Anyway, it's embarrassing, and these guys need to fix it fast. If they're looking for a role model, they could look at America. I mean, we aced it with that "Star Spangled Banner" song. It clearly says we stand for -- no. We manufacture -- nope.

Well, we can sure kick your ass.

Ohmigod, it's incredible taking the subway into Manhattan at night. I swear to God, half the women are dressed like whores, headed to their jobs as bartenders or waitresses at fancy restaurants. It makes me sick. Just a few years ago, if a woman was dressed like a whore, she was a whore.

Whine, whine, whine. Yes, I know: your high school boyfriend was gay. Who gives a fuck? We're the ones who should be complaining. Our high school boyfriends were girls.

This is sooo much cooler than that old way where you had to, like, go to some school or something and pull levers in a tacky little booth.

I honestly wish I hadn't bought this lamp. Now when people come over and say, "What a dump!" there's a couple of things they could mean.

On the plus side, now it's just white trash at the side of the road.

Animal researchers in China have discovered that flamingos have sex more often when there are mirrors around. "When flamingos are separated from their flocks they become depressed and anxious," said one, "and they don't feel confident enough to have chicks."

RESEARCHER #1: See? We put the mirrors up, the flamingos feel more secure, and they have sex more frequently.

RESEARCHER #2: That must be it. I mean, the only other explanation is that they like to stare at themselves in the mirror and think, "Oh, that's so fuckin' hot! I'm totally plowing that little pink ass!"

Yes, this weekend the cultural mecca that is New York City offers a dance about "the denial of the anus in dance."

O-kay. You know, maybe I'm weird: I kind of like it that way. I've been to a few dance events and not once have I said, "Gosh, I sure wish there was more anus in this."

Meanwhile, the exterior of the human body is a lonely world? I don't exactly have a Shriner's convention in my butt.

I think Obama's critics should shut the hell up. Sure, he isn't perfect, but he could be far worse. Gravity isn't doing great things with my balls but I'm not going to suggest getting rid of it.

Alternatively, look for their line of "Oh, just go ahead and slug me!" stickers for grade school and above.

Don't tell me; let me guess. Is she pregnant with her second child?

"Love Never Dies"? Well, maybe. When your partner starts pinning veil directly into cranium, though, it might take a break for a year or two.

Ohmigod. Is that unbelievable? These people have carpet on stairs.

Like A Silicon Robin, The First Sighting Of Lindsay Lohan's Breast Means A Bad Movie Isn't Far Behind.

There are two main reasons why I didn't become a famous basketball star. First, I have zero coordination. It seemed understandable, with my 6'8" body. My brain made decisions quickly enough: I mean, you don't need to be a rocket scientist to realize you should "run over there," or "bounce the ball," or "shoot at the hoop." After my decision was made, though, it had roughly eight hundred miles of nervous system to cover before it reached the relevant body parts. While my brain was getting the decision ready to send, it might as well have packed it some lunch, because it wasn't getting anywhere anytime soon. It'd run out of energy roughly four hundred miles down the road, realizing it should have stopped for refueling at Buttonwillow. By the time my head or hands or feet reacted as required, we'd lost the game and I was standing all by myself in a cold, dark gym.

The second reason is psychological. As I've said before, I was raised by wolves. There was no one around to explain even the basics to me: how to shave, how to shower, how to smize. I gathered bits of information from wherever I could and used my imagination to fill in the rest. That explains the years I spent convinced I'd have two deformed children because I'd gotten hit in the balls.

One of the theories I'd pieced together was this: if you have something that's hairy and smelly, you don't shove it in somebody's face.

Half the point of sex education, I think, was to teach you to keep your dirty bits away from other people. It wasn't particularly easy, because at puberty our count of offensive body parts roughly tripled. Random regions sprouted hair and started attracting mosquitos. We did what we could to keep them under control: we scrubbed them with soap, doused them with hygienic sprays, hid them under thick fabric. And we made sure to keep them away from other peoples' faces.

It made total sense to me. I mean, I knew I had to suck on eighteen Tic Tacs before I could talk to anybody, and I didn't pee out of my mouth.

That's why I never understood basketball. Really, after we tell women that their genitals require an entire aisle of sanitary products to keep in line, we flip on the TV and watch the Unregulated Armpit Parade? The high school basketball coach might as well have said to me, "Roman, we got a shot at taking the title! All you gotta do is keep focused, and keep loose. Oh, and drop your shorts and keep your anus pointed at Marty's face."

There was no way I could play it. In fact, I never really learned how. Maybe if I'd had parents, they could have explained the situation to me. Maybe we got special dispensation to jam our pits in other people's faces because we were athletes, and it was a game. Maybe our pits weren't as dirty as I thought, despite the fact that mine started to fester roughly eight seconds after my Mitchum dried. Maybe it was like marriage annulment in the Catholic Church: we got special dispensation to do preposterous things if we filed the right paperwork.

I guess being gay is part of the problem, too, because we think all those dirty male body parts are sexy. Imagine a female sport where the players keep their opponents at bay by the strategic placement of their pussies. Maybe the straight women wouldn't have any problem. Maybe they wouldn't get distracted. But the lesbians would say, "Hey, why don't we all get a drink somewhere, and forget all about this stupid game?"

I'm pretty sure they're motorcycles.

Performing at Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee Ceremony, Grace Jones Wishes Her A "Happy Birthday!"

If you don't want to see Grace sing while hula-hooping, fast-forward to 4:18. Can't blame her for being confused, though: she's been queen longer than Liz. (Liz's actual birthday? April 21.)

Taco Bell commercial:

Last year, Taco Bell released the Taco Supreme, with a shell made of real nacho cheese Doritos, in a few cities. None of which were anywhere near the hometown of Nat Christiana.

So, Nat drove his friends 965 miles to get it.

Well played, Nat.

The new Doritos Locos tacos. Now at Taco Bells everywhere.

The New York Times:

[Nat Christiana] is a real person, living in Clifton Park, N.Y., and last month he posted a video addressing the ad. He did eat a Loco Taco on a road trip last year, he said, but he did not go out of his way to do so, let alone drive 965 miles. The taco was good, he said.

Before you move to New York, realize there's a trade-off. On the plus side, we've got great culture and fascinating people. On the minus side, we can't make fruity vinegars. Or ginger ale, or infused vodka, because we just don't have cool, dark places. We used to, but that's where our roommate lives now.

First Mayor Bloomberg bans outdoor smoking. Then he tries to outlaw Big Gulps. I swear to God, he'll have to pry Taco Bell bean burritos from my cold, dead hands.