Realizing he wasn't exactly dressed right to meet the mayor of London at Gay Pride 2010, Stuart ran back to his car and put his best flip flops on.

San Francisco artist Chris Trueman created a portrait of his younger brother -- from 200,000 dead ants. At one point he halted the project as he felt bad about killing so many, but then he decided to carry on or the first ants would have died in vain.


At first this pissed me off, but then I realized I've probably killed 200,000 ants in my lifetime. You figure 2,000 ant farms, . . .

A Portland, Oregon chef who advocates sustainable, locally grown food attacked a man over a meal that came from out of state.

After losing an exclusive culinary contest, chef Eric Bechard completely freaked out when he learned the winning chef had brought a pig all the way from Ohio. He slugged the event's organizer, prompting the police to come with Tasers and pepper spray.

Oh, puh-leaze. You can't import foreign meat for competitions? He'll be shutting down Miss Universe next.

Ashley Judd angered coal supporters a few weeks ago when she called mountain top removal “the rape of Appalachia.” In retaliation, coal supporters used a semi-nude photo of the actress to attack her stand on mountain top removal mining.


Well, here's a good reason: When Judd takes her top off, all the local wildlife don't fall over dead.

Gay refugees have a right to asylum in Britain, a high court has ruled. The decision will stop those fearing imprisonment, torture or execution from being shipped back to their home countries.

Supreme Court judge Lord Rodger said gay people’s right to live freely must be protected. “Just as male heterosexuals are free to enjoy themselves playing rugby, drinking beer and talking about girls with their mates," he said, "so male homosexuals are to be free to enjoy themselves going to Kylie concerts, drinking exotically-coloured cocktails and talking about boys with their straight female mates.”

"Yeah, I totally love Kylie," said a gay man who was hanged in Iraq.

I hear that new Jonah Hill-John C. Reilly movie is doing good. Me, I'm not interested. If I wanted to see a creepy kid named Cyrus, I'd be a Hannah Montana fan.

Dentists in Taiwan have noticed an odd epidemic recently. In the past few months, they said, dozens of men have had to be treated for jaw-related injuries. They reported extremely sore jaws, and some even had difficulties opening their mouths.

Hsu Ming-lun, associate professor of the School of Dentistry of National Yang-Ming University, said the men blamed extra-large hamburgers for the problem.

What? Oh. I, um, asked for pubic hair instead of fries.

From an eighth-grade Space and Earth Science text for homeschoolers:

The difference between the believing scientist and the unbelieving scientist is not that the believer has presuppositions and the unbeliever does not. The difference is what presupposition each is building his life and thinking on. The believer rests everything on the reliability of the Bible. The unbeliever rests everything on himself -- his use of scientific methodology and his power of reason.

Got that? "Sure, I believe in God, but you believe in logic and reason!" That'll sure shut up your college science professor.

Chicks in Christian homeschooling textbooks sure buy a lot of mirrors.

Well, thank God. I was afraid they were diverting some of the funds to help those annoying harelip kids.

A Japanese court on Wednesday convicted anti-whaling activist Peter Bethune of assault and obstructing Japanese whaling ships, but his prison sentence was suspended.

The charge of assault was for throwing bottles of rancid butter at a whaling ship.

One terrified whaler said, "We thought we were toast."

There is no such thing as a religious scientist.

One of the fundamentals of science is Occam's Razor. It says that when there are many possible solutions to a problem, the one that adds the fewest new questions is probably correct.

This principle, unfortunately, pretty much means you can't believe in God.

See, we're looking for an answer to "Where did everything come from?" When we answer "God," though, we're adding a hell of a lot of new questions, including ones that are worse than the original. Including "How does this dude live forever?", "Where did he come from?", and, of course, "If there's an intelligent force behind the universe, how can pigeons exist?

Before grasping that theist belief system, then, the card-carrying scientist will research more plausible ones. Like maybe walruses created everything. Sure, they don't seem smart enough to create a platter of tasty brownies, but at least they're not invisible, and we know they exist. Or, Martha Stewart made everything. Now we have to deal with the question of how she's been around since the beginning of time, but hey, if anybody's actually capable of crafting on the atomic level, she's the one. I'm pretty sure she's got a microscopic hot-glue gun.

The only answer less plausible than God? Two invisible old men created everything.

But at least one employer has been outspoken [against President Obama's changes to federal guidelines governing the employment of unpaid interns]. John Stossel, a former anchor on ABC’s “20/20” who now hosts his own show on the Fox Business Network, has been sounding off about the issue all over print, the airwaves and cyberspace. He even donned a police uniform for an appearance on the Fox News program “America Live” to ridicule the crackdown.

“I’ve built my career on unpaid interns,” he said in the interview, “and the interns told me it was great — I learned more from you than I did in college.” (Asked why he didn’t pay them if they were so valuable, he said he didn’t have the money.)

A guy who worked 28 years at ABC, author of two best-selling books, winner of nineteen Emmy awards, now with his own show on Fox, can't afford to pay people who have no income.

If dude ever writes a sequel to Myths, Lies and Downright Stupidity, he needs to write a chapter about himself.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary:

I spent most of this morning on a pile of dog poop. It was okay. Didn't see anybody I knew. Then I zipped downwind and found this big heap of tangled brown rope. I was having fun just kinda jumping around until some idiot said, "Eww, there's a fly in your hair," and then there were, like, eighty hands, all swatting at me. I ducked out through the back way.

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

Ohmigod, it happened again. It was unbelievable. I'm chilling in this cool, shady place, when I decide to hit the road. I fly toward the light, doing maybe twenty, and all of a sudden I slam head-first into something! It just about dislodges my tiny brain, and I think to myself, WTF? I back up a little and give it another try, and I slam into the fucker again. I swear to God: I can see everything outside, just inches away, but for some bizarre reason I just can't get there. There's like this weird, invisible shield stretched across it.

I musta circled it like a hundred times and couldn't find any way through it. Exhausted now. Will investigate further tomorrow.

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

HALLELUJAH! So, I spend like eight hours banging my head against nothing, and finally I give up. I retreat. I'm flying the other way when I spot this big, sweaty thing lumbering around. It doesn't smell particularly tasty, but it's been a while since I ate. I ain't choosy. I land on it and give it a lick. It's a little clammy, but that don't bother me. Hell, I spent most of 2008 on Abe Vigoda.

So I'm just kinda sitting there when this bright light comes on, and I feel a rush of cool air. Mm, I think. I wanna get me some of that. I fly toward it, getting brighter and cooler with every flap, and finally when I'm in the thick of it I discover something:

THE WHOLE THING IS FULL OF FOOD!

Holy SHIT! I think to myself. This is INSANE! You know, I've heard some pretty crazy stories in my life. Like, my grandpa used to tell us about the time he flew into this little metal room where he just sat around for a couple hours, but when he finally flew out he was TWO HUNDRED MILES AWAY. Took him three weeks to get back home. Needless to say, Grandma was furious. She was sure he shacked up with some tsetse. Still, grandpa NEVER talked about NOTHING like this. It's heaven. Everywhere I look there's another delicacy. It's like a kennel, except everything is cold.

Man, you never seen me so happy. I was moving like I was being swatted by freakin' ninjas. I spot some takeout Chinese and I figure I'll start with that, but the second I land on the box the whole place goes black. I'm thinking, WTF? Still, you know, the darkness ain't stopping me. I swear to God, I musta ate an entire grain of fried rice. Next, I flit over to a plate of fried chicken, and I swear I sat there eight hours. It was tarsus-licking good. Then I stuck my proboscis into a fine little porterhouse. Reminded me of the weekend I spent on Bobby Flay.

Needless to say, Diary, today was one of the best days ever. Yeah, I'm starting to feel a little cold, but it's probably 'cuz all the blood is rushing to my stomach.

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

Some time over the past couple hours I admitted to myself that something was wrong. Sure, the food here is amazing, and I know most flies would kill to be in here. But in between eating I've been looking around, and I'm not sure I can find my way out. It's really dark, and really cold. Every once in a while the lights come on, but before I can get my wings moving everything goes black again.

Hey, I'm probably worrying about nothing. Everything's gonna be okay. I spent last night sleeping on a whole stick of butter, so how bad can it be?

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

All hope is lost. I can find no escape from this place. I'm surrounded by platters of kiwis and pineapples and cantaloupe, but leaving here is fruitless. Yeah, I made a joke, but I'm way too cold to laugh.

I buzz and buzz but no one hears me. I'm now lying on, I believe, some rice pudding. I thought the color contrast would help in case I'm sleeping when that rescue party finally arrives.

Please, somebody hear me. And soon.

Your pal, Marv

P. S. There's couscous!

Dear Diary:

The light came on a couple minutes ago. You know the pudding I'm laying on? It's chocolate.

Love to my maggots.

Your pal, Marv

I don't have the time or inclination to read, so my continuing education comes from television. Obviously it's preposterous to think you can learn anything from "Two and a Half Men," or "Accidentally on Purpose," but the commercials can fill that gap.

Take the recent string of Swiffer ads, for instance. They've taught me everything I need to know about life from their portrayal of household appliances.

Depending on the product advertised, the commercials differ slightly, but basically they fit the same format. A woman buys a Swiffer product and then tosses out an old and useless tool.

ANNOUNCER: Switch to Swiffer [product] and you'll dump your old [product]. But don't worry: he'll find someone else.

The old, useless tool pines for a while, but eventually finds a new partner as the Isley Brothers classic "Who's That Lady?" plays.

While on the surface this might look like just another accusation that kitchen implements are whores, beneath the surface the observant viewer can learn far more.

1. Women need to make sure their cleaning implements are male, as evidenced by the announcer's use of the pronoun "he." Certainly one can understand why this is necessary: no Christian woman would hold a female cleaning implement by the girthy stick and repeatedly thrust her fluffy mop into the floor.

2. When that discarded male implement finds a new lover, what song do we hear? "Walk on the Wild Side"? "All The Young Dudes"? No, "Who's That Lady?" plays. Because while folks in big cities might vacillate, our faithful implements will always remain heterosexual. That's a promise they're not going to make with, say, Hostess Twinkies.

3. At the end of some of these commercials, the discarded tool marries his new girlfriend. Aside from teaching us that even inanimate objects should marry before they procreate, this touching denouement also shows us why smart filmmakers shy away from showing homosexual relationships. Because would the ending have been nearly as heartwarming if the broom and rake were seen driving to Vermont?

Lorenzo Torres, 19, attended a midnight showing [of The Last Airbender] Thursday with friends. Half the people in the theater, which was full, requested a ticket refund after the show, he said. Viewers cited the 3-D effects, storyline and lack of Asian actors as reasons. Amazingly, the Edwards Alhambra Renaissance Stadium 14 complied, according to Torres.

WHAT? We can get money back when movies have no depth, bad plots, and no Asians? Put me down for $200 for that Twilight shit.

I'm a die-hard atheist who's not particularly fond of religious people, but there's one area where I have to concede they're right. They say that even though our public schools can't teach about Jesus as a religious figure, because of the separation between church and state, they should still be able to teach about him as a historical one.

Put that way, it's hard to disagree. While Jesus' divinity is a matter of some controversy, his existence is not, and he figures prominently in the historical records of many countries.

Similarly, leprechauns. Whether they're called leprechauns, cluricauns, or goblins, they appear in the literature of many disparate lands, so they too should be considered an essential part of a classical education.

In fact, it's easy to write up a sample curriculum that could cover all the basics:

Week 1: Paul Bunyan and his ox Babe
Week 2: Minotaurs and unicorns
Week 3: Elves, fairies, sprites
Week 4: Yetis and snowmen
Week 5: Anthropomorphic trains
Week 6: The Chupacabra
Week 7: Jesus, Mary, Joseph
Week 8: Ronald McDonald, Wendy, Jack

I hope religious people accept this idea in the spirit it's intended: as a bridge between two often-conflicting groups. And I hope one day soon our schools will teach all the children -- believing and non-believing -- this essential information, maybe instead of math. Because on December 24, which is more important: how to multiply fractions, or exactly what kind of cookies Santa likes?

"It's the coolest job ever"? Sigh; okay.

You know your race is screwed when even the imaginary jobs go to white people.

I was on the fence until the straps slip and exposed his rosy nipples.

I'm thinking about buying the soundtrack to Two Days in Paris. I'm kind of wondering, though, if it isn't just 47 3/4 hours of the sound of a penis withering.

Laugh. Ha ha! Look at the Cheetos fighting.

Let's see how funny you think it is when all the rivers run orange.

Radar Online claims to have a tape of Mel Gibson humiliating and threatening his ex-wife Oksana Grigorieva with foul and racist language. Gibson, currently battling Grigorieva over custody and the divorce settlement, supposedly says to Grigorieva, ""You look like a fucking pig in heat. . . . Look what you are. Look what every part of you is. Fucking fake. Fucking fake."

In her defense, dude, sugar tits don't just fall out of the sky.

The Hollister clothing store is affiliated with Abercrombie & Fitch, so they've always had plenty of shirtless models around. They have shirtless models on the wallpaper, in the catalogs, and posted out front to welcome you to the store.

Now that their Soho store has been closed due to an infestation of bedbugs, though, the shirtless models are telling people the store is temporarily out of commission.

Wow. Hunky, half-naked guys warning people to stay away or they'll get infected.

Welcome to my honeymoon.

Great News For House-Bound Drag Queens

I watch Cops, the TV show, every week, and last week one scene in particular startled me. Some horny old dude in a park walked up to a woman and said, "Hey, how about blowing me?"

Needless to say, the woman freaked out. She called the cops, and they turned up within seconds, throwing him against their car and handcuffing him. They intimidated and harassed him and asked him what the hell he was thinking, telling him civilized men just don't act that way.

And I thought, Huh? What country are they in? Civilized men act that way all the time. The thing is, usually they take the woman out to dinner a few times, flatter her, tell her they love her. Eventually they get her naked. And that's when the question comes up.

So I was wondering exactly why the police turned up. Are they enforcing semantics? Are there laws about context now? Will the SWAT team break into your apartment and force you onto the ground if you ask some chick for a Dirty Sanchez before you tell her she's hot?

I think the cops knew the guy hadn't broken any law. Instead, they were trying to enforce morality. Which, unfortunately, seemed to flatten the poor guy's right to free speech. So while the cops thought they were doing the right thing, in reality they couldn't have been more wrong.

See, Americans are all about being direct. When I walk down the street, for instance, probably five times a day somebody comes up to me and says, "Dude, you are just freaky tall."

There's no beating around the bush. No pleasantries. They just get right down to it. It's what makes us American. When I went to Japan, on the other hand, it was craziness. They were bizarre. They were far too uptight to just blurt it out. Instead, ten or twelve times a day, some Japanese person would approach me, followed by a crowd. "Hello," they'd say, bowing. "My name is Michiko. This is my grandmother Narumi. This is my aunt Miyako. This is my uncle Hideki. Is this your first visit to Japan? Yes? I hope you are enjoying it. (Pause.) Dude, you are just freaky tall."

Here in America, we have the freedom to ask whatever we want, and the people we ask have the freedom to reply any way they want. Want to intern for Vogue magazine for absolutely no pay? Sure! Want to clean the toilets at 7-Eleven for six bucks an hour? No, thanks. Wanna give me a blowjob? Oh, I dunno. What does your dick look like?

In the end, the policemen let the guy go. Which, of course, was the right thing. Straightforward speech is the American way. Ask, and cross your fingers that you'll get lucky.

In closing, though, I'd be negligent not to note that some speech is criminal, such as soliciting prostitution. So make sure the woman knows you don't think she's a whore. Make this perfectly clear, because aside from being illegal the insinuation is offensive. Say something like, "Hey, I'd sure like you to give me a blow job, but there's no way in hell I'm gonna pay you." Our founding fathers would be proud.

I've been checking my stats on Sitemeter, and it's disconcerting. Literally every other visitor came here by Googling "underage gymnast" or "sex doll" or "porn stills."

I'm sitting here shaking my head. Is that why I work so hard on this website? For that? I try to put my head in the sand, but it's impossible. Finally I've got to face the truth and ask myself the hard question:

Does nobody care about Jamie Foxx's dick any more?

Oh, Come On.

That's disgusting. And what a double standard: Something tells me the police would come running if I had that same suit holding up my balls.

bellaandedward.com. Was crystal meth, not alcohol.

Thanks but no thanks.
RomanHans

Dear Polish People:

I just read about this new controversy. To advertise an art show, somebody has put up this poster right in the center of town.

Immediately the complaints started flying. You're furious! You're offended! It's absolutely disgusting to depict a naked Minnie Mouse cavorting in front of a Nazi flag. And right next to a synagogue!

I've thought about this long and hard, and I have decided that you're wrong.

Sure, the swastika is offensive. Yes, artistically the whole thing is a pile of crap.

But that there is Mickey Mouse.

Minnie's got a bow on her head.

Don't know why they gave Mickey a huge pair of boobs, but hope this helps nonetheless.

Your pal,
RomanHans

I collect pitchers. I must have like a thousand of them, in all kinda shapes and sizes. I've got glass pitchers, plastic pitchers, tall pitchers, squat pitchers, antique Viennese pitchers with hand-cut etching, and sleek Beaux-Arts pitchers that probably served absinthe-spiked punch at Oscar Wilde's salon.

Why do I have so many pitchers? you ask. Because I'm trying to find ONE FUCKIN' PITCHER that DOESN'T DRIBBLE WHEN IT POURS.

I can't get my head around it. Is it that fuckin' difficult? You got a big glass container, and a little glass spout. Is it that hard to squeeze up the spout so it don't dribble on the counter when you're pouring out a fuckin' glass of green tea?

I pour thin stuff, I pour thick stuff. I pour fast, and I pour slow. I pour slow as a motherfucker. And still it dribbles all over the countertop.

Now, I've only got a Bachelor's degree, but I'm thinking it's gotta be possible. Surely there's, like, some dudes with PhDs who have no-dribble technology in their heads. If not, I don't know why we don't put our top scientists on this. When I'm chilling at home, I don't care if a man's been to the moon. I don't care if we can split an atom into eight zillion parts. But I do want to be able to pour myself a fuckin' GLASS OF HIBISCUS LEMONADE without getting HALF THE FUCKIN' PITCHER on my clean Corian.

Hell, I been shopping nearly everywhere. I been to Bed Bath & Beyond. I dragged my ass down to Williams-Sonoma. Nothing! Ya know, if I gotta design and produce that motherfucker myself, I'll do it. If it means a smooth stream of pomegranate limeade to my guest's cup, it'll be worth it. It'll probably save like eight million disposable napkins a year, and that's just at my crib alone.

An ad on TV just promoted tonight's news with the line, "At this year's G20 summit, rioting taints talk." I'm gonna make sure to watch it. I didn't even know taints were there.

I have a social life for one and only one reason: for some inexplicable reason, there are businesspeople who think bloggers aren't completely useless.

On Saturday Intel (computer hardware) and Vice (fauxhemian lifestyle accoutrement) teamed up to present a seminar/party called the Creators Project. It's already been dubbed the party of the decade, and I'm not going to disagree. I went from thinking I'm reasonably creative to realizing I couldn't hold Spike Jonze's jockstrap.

I got there promptly at 2, when it opened, and ran straight for the Mira Calix installation "My Secret Heart." It's an abstract, indescribable 48-minute film on a huge, 360-degree screen, progressing from isolated dots to dancing ribbons to exploding silhouettes. For the soundtrack, she hired people at homeless shelters to sing her interpretation of some 17th-century choral shit. Absolutely brilliant.

Most of the other art pieces were interactive. Radical Friends scanned your face and projected it on endless loop above a pyramid. United Visual Artists had a wall of lights activated by movement. When you walked into Muti Randolph's twelve-foot cube of computer-controlled lights, it felt like you shrank to the size of a neutron and atoms were dancing around you.

Mark Ronson's seminar proposed to write a pop song in 59 minutes, then upload it to the internet to share. After he spent half an hour attempting to answer preposterously stupid questions from the audience, though, I ducked out to see the Rapture, who are apparently destined to be one-hit wonders. I consoled myself with a couple of portobello mushroom burgers, courtesy of Pop Burger, and Arte de Gelato ice cream. All, of course, complimentary.

"Hi," I said to the ice cream man. "Could I try the olive oil and the banana, please?"

"Sorry," came the reply. "We can only give you one flavor."

"Okay," I said. "Olive oil."

He scooped something white into a paper cup and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said. I stood there and counted to ten. Then I said, "Hi, could I try the banana ice
cream?"

He smiled and gave it to me.

With time to spare before the big musical guests, I wandered from room to room. I had the first of a string of Camparis, trying to pace myself. I saw Spike Jonze's new robot love story, "I'm Here." Brilliant. No wonder dude got to marry a Coppola, though I'd have gone for Nick myself.

I have to say, the event was run pretty brilliantly, considering there were 3,000 guests. Unfortunately, though, around six the place started to get packed, so entire floors were randomly closed to new visitors. Elevators stopped going to certain floors. In one smallish gallery M. I. A. was showcasing artists from her record label, so I decided to stick close. Sleigh Bells came up first. I like their record, but in concert they're little more than karaoke. A great guitarist, an energetic singer, and a backing track with drums, synthesizer, and hand claps. Still, the crowd went crazy -- screaming and moshing and crowdsurfing -- though I'm thinking maybe the open bar had something to do with it.

Die Antwoord was up next. I'm still confused about them. The dude sings about being a ninja, and constantly says "yo yo yo." The chick is short, has a vocal range north of helium, and talks about how preposterously funky the beat is. Basically, it's Vanilla Ice with a dwarf. Googling them I discover fans are split on whether they're a joke or not. Again, the moshing and crowdsurfing are fun. Reprising the ninja song, not.

Then, of course, came "surprise guest" M. I. A. Her first two records were classic, so all I'll say is this: she's a good enough producer to know she needs gimmicks and guests onstage. Her posse rapped, poured drinks for the crowd, and tossed out all sorts of stuff. When controversy eventually fails her, she'll need to find more talented help.

By now it was 12:30, and I'd been packed like sardines in overheated rooms for six hours. My ears were ringing, and I could hardly have stayed upright even if the floors weren't a slip-and-slide of spilled alcohol. Heading to the exit, I ran into Mark Ronson DJing, so I detoured there. Ninety-nine percent of the crowd was smashed and dancing on every vertical surface. I decided to join them. I headed to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic. "Nope," the bartender told me. "Can't make them."

I pointed to the vodka and the tonic. "Rules," he said. "Have you tried the signature Skyy vodka cocktail?"

"No," I said. "It better be good."

"If it isn't," he said, "you can spank me."

Sadly, it was.

Fourteen New York Homosexuals: "We Blog, And We're Not Ashamed!"

Ike Turner even got a few votes.

Okay, that's it.

Most of my life I've thought intelligence was overrated. I mean, if you've ever met an intelligent person, you know there's always a hell of a lot of bitter with the sweet. Sure, occasionally you hear the story of how Benjamin Franklin invented the electric dildo, but just as often you're lectured about how persimmons got to the New World. It's not like intelligence helps you in life. And it certainly doesn't get you past the idiots blocking the sidewalk, busily texting other idiots.

And now I discover that some animals are just smart enough to be irritating.

See, I've always taken refuge in animals, purely because they're moronic. They have simple thoughts, like "Where's the food?" and "Gosh, it's hot in here!" Uncomplicated thoughts are totally foreign to us cognizant humans, which makes them adorable. It's why we love Rachel Ray.

For instance, when a dog sees itself in a mirror, it thinks, "Hey, there's another dog! And he looks just like me!" We smile, and run for the camera.

Dolphins, on the other hand, are nearly up there at human intelligence. Which I've always thought was terrific -- but now maybe not so much. See, apparently they're smart enough to have a couple of our most irritating human traits: self-consciousness and vanity.

Dolphins have passed the famed mirror self-recognition test, which bespeaks possession of an inner life and a concomitant concern with its packaging. When presented with a mirror, dolphins take the opportunity to check their teeth and body parts they can’t normally see, like their anal slit.

Got that? The reason thinking humans dive for the remote whenever someone invokes the words "Sarah Jessica Parker" has now been found in the animal kingdom.

So, cross them off the likable list. Toss those giant nets back into the water, fishermen, because I don't care any more. The world isn't big enough for another species that stares at itself in the mirror and asks, "Hey, does my ass look fat?"

On the plus side, my new Roomba won't stop for anything.

I'm still trying to process this little news item somebody sent.


This is the Marina Bay Sands Skypark in Singapore. Basically, it's like a cruise ship perched atop three hotels.

Sure, it looks cool, but already twenty-six people on the ground have been killed by shuffleboard pucks.

All the slang words for drunkenness apply equally to how one feels the morning after. Smashed, wrecked, blasted. Today I am all of those and more. Last night NYC Pride -- the folks who organize the gay parade, rally, etc. -- held a party celebrating Pride Week. It was held at Puma City, a temporary melange of repurposed cargo containers and rented space down at the South Street Seaport -- which was an unconventional choice for homosexuals, being otherwise a bastion of athleticism. Outside, one could play soccer or basketball. Inside, one could enjoy pingpong, foosball, and darts, or just gorge on complementary cocktails and platters of fabulous hors d'oeuvres.

Naturally I spent all my time indoors.

Where it was an absolute riot. Oddly, after a couple drinks, people just get better at foosball. We played teams so nobody'd have to put their cocktail down. As for darts, well, offering three hundred drunken homosexuals pointy things to throw plays out exactly the way you'd think. In a nod to the gay crowd, the big-screen TVs showed not sporting events but Betty White, Purple Rain, and Jersey Shore.

One cute young waitress always seemed to find me just as the last snack -- chicken satay, goat cheese tartlets, molé taquitos, wild mushroom canapés -- disappeared from her hors d'oeuvres tray. We started laughing about it, so the next time around she came to me first. Unfortunately, she was bearing the one dodgy snack I had all night. I'm pretty sure it was beef, and I don't think it died naturally.

Anyway, thanks to everyone involved, from NYC Pride to Puma to Skyy vodka. I had such a great time I won't even bring up the irony of a group named Pride having a photographer who won't snap anyone over twenty-five. Let's just say my anonymity is safe.

Take that, environmentally aware!

The New York Times Does Its Best To Get A Cute Young White Girl A Book Deal

Because the world needs more oversharing by overprivileged 25-year-olds. Please God, shoot me now.

She says she's "just a girl." Which means she wants to be played by Kate Hudson, right?

And then Bobby Flay said, "Fuck it! They're not paying us for pretty plates."

So, back in 2006 a massage therapist filed a police report against Al Gore accusing him of "unwanted sexual contact" at an upscale Portland hotel. The massage therapist's story (as relayed by Gawker) is awfully dry, so we reconstructed the scene as best we could from the police report so you could experience the horror firsthand.

GORE (hugging her): Hi! You're the massage therapist? Thanks for coming!

MASSEUSE: Hi! I'm excited to meet you! (To herself): Hm. That hug lasted just a little too long.

GORE: Well, let's get to it. You know what? I get really tense here on my inner thigh.

MASSEUSE: Okay. I'll see what I can do.

GORE: Here too, on my abs.

MASSEUSE: Okay.

GORE: A little lower.

MASSEUSE: How's that?

GORE (growling): LOWER!

MASSEUSE: There?

GORE (still growling): LOWER!

MASSEUSE: Look, why don't you show me?

GORE (grabbing her hand and placing it on his "pubic crest" region): There!!

MASSEUSE: Ohmigod!

GORE: Grrrr!

MASSEUSE: No! That is not considered safe territory for a legitimate massage.

GORE: C'mon, it's therapeutic. It's one of my chakras. I got a lot of tension there.

MASSEUSE: No! I'm sorry, sir, but you have crossed a boundary, and I am leaving now. I am going to pack my things.

GORE (hugging her): Don't go!

MASSEUSE: I'm definitely going. Stop that! Don't caress my back! Stop caressing my buttocks! And stop caressing my breasts, which seem impossible since you're currently hugging me.

GORE: C'mon, baby! Relax!

MASSEUSE (spotting a box of chocolates nearby): Why don't you eat some candy instead?

GORE: Oh, okay. Mm, these are tasty. How about eating one out of my hand?

MASSEUSE: No, thanks.

GORE: Well, then, how about some Grand Marnier from the minibar? Wait there while I open the fridge, get the bottle out, untwist the little cap and pour it into a glass. There. Have some.

MASSEUSE: No thanks.

GORE: HAVE SOME!!!

MASSEUSE: OKAY!!!

GORE: Now kiss me, baby.

MASSEUSE: No!

GORE: We're kissing whether you like it or not! Ha ha ha!

MASSEUSE: Stop this! Stop groping me! Stop flailing about! Forget this horrible seduction and just let me go!

GORE: C'mon, baby!

MASSEUSE: Stop pressing your body against mine! (To herself:) Ohmigod! Is that his erection I feel? I've really got to get out of here!

GORE (throwing her onto the bed and pinning her down): Make love to me!

MASSEUSE: Get off me, you big lummox!

GORE: Kiss me!

MASSEUSE: Let me go!

GORE: At the very least, look at my iPod! LOOK AT IT!

MASSEUSE (examining iPod): You like Pink? "Dear Mr. President"?

GORE: Yes, it's a great song. She almost mentions me in it.

MASSEUSE: Wow, that's cool. Well, now I've really got to go. This has been horribly insulting, bordering on sexual abuse. Goodbye and good riddance!

GORE: No, wait! Please!

MASSEUSE: Do not grab me! I'm right here at the door, and I'm going to open it! No, don't hug me! THTOP TONGUE KITHING ME! Now, stop massaging me! Stop rubbing your crotch against me. Hey, get your hands off my buttocks! Stop groping my breasts! Hey, that nipple squeezing is painful. And all of this while you're hugging me, again!

(She throws open the door and finally gets outside.) Ohmigod. That's incredible! Nobody will EVER believe me! I'm going straight to the police in a month or two, but I have no proof. OHMIGOD! There are stains on my pants that could be Al Gore's bodily fluids! I'd better wash them at once.

The Reviews Are In!

Knight and Day, starring Tom Cruise:

"[L]oud, seemingly interminable, and altogether incoherent. . . . [S]lapped together with the meticulous care of a high school yearbook staff wielding Photoshop on deadline. -- The New York Times

"[T]his hyperactive, joyless thriller keeps going, and going, and going. . . . [Cruise's character is] just so irritating, . . . each subpar quip delivered with a cocksure grin that makes you wish the bad guys were better at hitting back." -- The Village Voice

"[S]oul-shattering emptiness. . . . [T]his smug and callous action-comedy is about nothing but teeth." -- Time Out New York

"A genial romantic thriller. . . . [T]he most entertaining made-for-adults studio movie of the summer!" -- The Los Angeles Times

Thigh. What a McChrystal Meth.

Who gets to share Matthew Morrison's "sexy bedroom"? Beats me. Judging from the bedspread, Engineer Bill?

Oh. Okay. Hey, how's not using steroids going?

And some people need psychiatrists more than fiancées.

By tradition, a bachelor or bachelorette party is a night of Dionysian excess. How that unfolds is a matter of taste.

For some, it entails a liberating number of drinks and a close encounter with the taut, spray-tanned skin of an exotic dancer. But for one recently married man and his friends, it meant bottles from a good winemaker to accompany the crispy, golden skin of a roast suckling pig.

Oh, now I got it. "Honey," the groom says, "I swear: that stain is just bacon fat."

Recently, a group of men took over the Krug Room, a private room at Restaurant Guy Savoy in Caesars Palace, and paired a seven-course dinner with seven vintages of Krug. The wine brought the bill to more than $1,000 a person.

“The groom specifically requested the black truffle and artichoke soup,” said Franck Savoy, the restaurant’s general manager. “They were extremely sophisticated and knew what they wanted. It was the opposite of ‘The Hangover.’ ”

Yeah. "The Hangover" was fun.

Andrew Loewenstern, 37, . . . celebrated his bachelor party two weeks ago at Alinea in Chicago. His friends converged on the city, flying from San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York. (Bonus: Phish was playing in town, too.)

Of course, if locusts had attacked, it would really have hit it out of the park.

The five men had the 25-course “tour,” a tasting menu that lasted late into the night and included a king crab presentation that Mr. Loewenstern is still talking about.

“You eat the crab morsel” in a small depression in the center of a plate, he said. “Then they remove the cover and there is another, more elaborate and even more beautiful crab preparation inside. Then you think they’re taking the dish away, but they remove the center piece and there is actually a third crab preparation,” what he called “the best crab au gratin you could imagine.”

Really? How about if, after you eat its brain, the crab grabs a salad fork and stabs your waiter? Somebody got no imagination.

[T]he Brooklyn Kitchen, a cookware shop in Williamsburg with classes on subjects like home brewing and canning, has hosted six bachelorette parties in the last year. Most are multicourse dinners made from scratch, with plenty of wine and snacking while the meal is prepared. A pickling party is scheduled for next month.

And, sad upscale couple with more money than sense, that's why I sent you a cucumber as a wedding gift. I swear.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

Coming soon to your local bookseller. In the spirit of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters comes the latest thriller from Synergistic Publishing House:

The Diary of Anne Frankenstein.

This touching, fascinating, ultimately heartwarming achievement merges the unwavering optimism of a young Jewish girl in Nazi-occupied Amsterdam with the unfeeling fury of a monstrous, pea-brained hulk. Sit spellbound as you witness Anne's recollection of her birth.

Dear reader, I can hardly ask you to believe my tale, as I can scarcely believe it myself. All I know is, one dark winter morning, I opened my eyes to discover that my immortal soul was imprisoned in a grotesque, oversized body that lay fallow on a cement slab. My flesh was pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle of waxy carrion sliced from bodies of every color, shape, and size, haphazardly slashed together by ropy cords of animal tendon.

While every nerve cell in my body screamed, I struggled to my feet and staggered on unfeeling, tree trunk legs to the window. Rather than examine life outside, I stared at my own reflection in the rippled glass. Reader, I cannot convey the pain I felt. Though deep inside I was just like every other little girl, wanting nothing more than to drink lemonade and play with my dolls, on the outside I had iron bolts protruding from my forehead and a jagged flap of skin securing my rotting brain in place.

I screamed with the torment of the undead. "I'm HIDEOUS!" I yelled.

My creator, a white-bearded man wearing the traditional garb of the Orthodox, shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, "maybe you're smart?"

Cheer to this pastoral adventure:

Walking about yesterday I saw a young girl, perhaps aged four or five, tossing edelweiss into a stream. Though she wore a Nazi armband, I felt such delight at this sight that I decided to join her. I too picked a flower and flung it into the water, and the young girl and I both laughed. Then I couldn't find any more flowers so I explained to her my feelings about the corruption of innocence and then I threw her in.

Feel your heart pound as a desperate Anne eludes pursuers in the English countryside:

I couldn't believe this angry mob was chasing me. Though I was a head taller than any of the trees, and my creator's lack of surgical training had left me with deep-set eyes that pointed opposite directions and a gash of a mouth that continually poured rivulets of saliva, though I was burdened by the blind stagger of an absinthe-swilling drunk rather than the measured gait of a lady and my skin, rather than being scented by Parisian scents or rose-water, stank both of the grave and smoked ham, I still felt like a little girl. And yet I found myself the object of such narrow-minded hatred solely because I had a different name for my Creator than they did!

Well, or maybe because they saw me steal a sheep from a local farm and unhinge my jaw to devour it while it bleated for help.

Last, have your heart torn out of your chest, just like our heroine's friends, by the unvanquished spirit in the new, updated end.

Dear reader, I know not what will become of me, as nowadays even the most minor exertion has me dropping more fractured parts than a Fiat. Still, I believe that, despite it all, flowers are pretty, rabbits are fluffy, and that fire stuff is just crazy shit.

Okay, just for your own protection, here's something you need to know. "Does he bite?" is no longer the first question to ask somebody who's got a cute dog. "When he gets excited, does he lose control of his bladder and pee on a stranger's shoes?" has replaced it in the number-one spot. Much discussion preceded this decision by experts in the field, and eventually all agreed that they'd rather have an attractive scar on their shin than a spray of yellow splotches on their new Skechers.

Hope this helps.

I really wanted to get a tattoo, but I couldn't decide what to get. Somebody told me Japanese characters are really stylish but still masculine, so I went for that.

Now, I don't know. The tattoo artist did a great job, but I get some really weird looks.

Coming up next on the Dyslexia Channel: Hell's Chicken.

Still, all he has to do is say "I am innocent!" with an accent and all's forgiven in my heart.

Gosh. Sarah, you know, they were halfway through, but then they quit.

Constance McMillen has been invited to a White House reception tomorrow to celebrate LGBT Pride Month.

McMillen, you remember, wanted to bring another female as her date to the Itawamba County Agricultural High School prom. The school district didn't like that idea, so they cancelled the prom and told her about an "alternative prom" where she'd be welcome. It drew exactly seven people, because everybody else went to the alternative alternative prom, where out gays weren't allowed.

Tuesday’s reception will commemorate June as Pride month, and will give McMillen a chance to meet the president. If anybody else from Itawamba County wants to go, they're welcome. Some time after dark tomorrow night, just head down Highway 71 and make a left at the dump.

Butt Magazine has introduced a new line of beach towels featuring semi-clothed men. They're $45 each, and a portion of the sales goes to benefit the Ali Forney Center for homeless LGBT youth.

I know it's for a good cause, but I still think they're kind of creepy. I can't help thinking they're like a gay version of the Shroud of Turin.

Where was I between 12 and 6? Waiting for my Time Warner cable to come back up.

I didn't bother calling. Hey, if I deserved any respect at all, I'd have FiOS.

Oh. Okay. The good news: You can read what some random dude thinks are the "50 Worst Hip-Hop Fails of All Time!"

The bad news: He gives you one fail per page.

Estimated click-through time: eighteen hours. Let me know if you get to number 1. Hell, let me know if you get to 49.