Health Nut Dies At 58

"Yeah," he said from heaven, "it kind of surprised me too."

After twelve days of intensive study, I think I can finally say it.

Every other octopus? Fuckin' useless.

A friend of mine bought a car with a spoiler. I said, "Don't tell me; I haven't seen it yet."

I just read that this baseball player, Andy Pettitte, is going to miss four or five weeks for a groin pull.

Is that crazy? Is that the weirdest thing you've ever heard?

Still, I guess you can count me in. I mean, I'll go, but I can't guarantee how long I'll hold on.

A handsome man is sitting at an outdoor cafe when a sexy single lady approaches. With a flirty wink, she shoves a card into his french fries, and before he can say a word she's gone.

He examines the card. "Find me at Cheekd.com," it says, and it lists the woman's personalized code.

Lori Cheek is the card shover, and she loves this sassy new way of hooking up with hot men. The New York Times, of course, is on board with any wacky new trend, and they bookend their story with Lori's anecdotes.

Which, you know, might be slightly biased, since SHE OWNS THE FLIRTY CARD COMPANY.

I know the Times is desperate, but this confuses me. There are billions of idiots entrepreneurs creating "trendy" new websites every day. This doesn't mean any actual, thinking person would use them. In fact, the Times manages to find exactly one user for every hookup website they name. Mostly they just quote the owners saying how great their service is.

I hope they extend this kind of journalism to the rest of the paper. They can write about how nobody's chewing any more, say the folks at Jamba Juice. And all the really sexy people are orange, say the owners of ChernobaTan. And everybody's got their cats using the toilet, say the makers of Pussy Pee Perch.

Regardless, I'm steering clear. Like shaved chest hair and Magnolia Bakery, it's too Sex and the City for me. I don't want to meet anybody who drinks cosmos, or loves to shop, or whose idea of foreplay consists of nudging my crotch with pointy shoes. But mostly, I don't get what the need is here. "There are eight million singles in New York," the business plan must read. "Surely one or two percent must be too afraid to talk." Really, does anybody want to get involved with these people? It's like those "Missed Connections" personals ads in the paper. I've always thought they should be called "I Have To Say, You're Really Hot, Signed Too Shy To Speak Out Loud."

These dating cards, though, made me rethink my antipathy toward the latter. In fact, if somebody wants to create a competing trend from the "Missed Connections" column, I'm happy to provide a quote. "Originally I wasn't going to date him," says sexy swinger RomanHans, "but then I thought, hey, at least he's not like those bitches who stick things in your french fries."

Actually, I gave them up in the 90s. They made my breath smell, and turned my fingers yellow.

You know, I don't like killing any bug, but it's even worse when I kill one I'm pretty sure was gay.

Dear Roman:

My ex-husband Mel keeps hitting me while I'm holding my child. I snap close-up pictures of the kid afterward but he still doesn't stop. What can I do?

Signed,
Oksana

Dear Oksana:

Gosh, I don't know. Have you tried a fish-eye lens?

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

Motoring back to the airport after seeing the devastation wreaked on the Gulf of Mexico by BP's oil disaster, President Obama finally broke down. "Stop here," he choked to his chauffeur. He stepped out of the car and stared in disbelief at the BP gas station. Finally it all clicked into place. He hoisted the metal barrel that served as a trash can onto his shoulder and then threw it through the front window with an explosion of noise and shattered glass.

He fell to his knees and pounded the ground with his bare fists. "DAMN YOU!" he yelled loud enough to wake the dead. "DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!"

Glenn Beck has announced that he has an eye disease, and he may be blind within a year.

And that, my friends, is the reason why I'm not a big wanker.

So, a plainclothes policeman tried to arrest DeFarra Gaymon for public lewdness in a New Jersey park, but the arrest went awry. The cop shot and killed him. Four days later, the acting Essex County prosecutor offered the unnamed policeman's account.

It doesn't make a lot of sense, but I'm sure it'll all fall into place when we reconstruct the scene.

UNNAMED PLAINCLOTHES OFFICER: There they are! Gosh, that's lucky. You'd think after five years spent chasing gay men in this park I'd figure out how to run without losing my handcuffs.

DEFARRA GAYMON: Hi. You look so sexy bending down to retrieve those cuffs I had to talk to you. Ordinarily I wouldn't take a chance talking to you, but because of all the plainclothes cops arresting people here there aren't too many hot dudes around. I'm currently masturbating, but I still feel the need to put this into words. Would you like to have sex with me?

UPO: Not a chance! I am a police officer, and you're under arrest!

MR. GAYMON (thinking): Hmm. Since he's 19 years younger than I am, he can probably run faster than me. But maybe I'd have a chance if I pushed him to the ground first. (He pushes UPO, then runs. Aloud:) Catch me now, copper!

UPO (chasing): Stop! Stop! (Thinking:) God, you'd think we'd figure out a better way to do this, since I lost my handcuffs chasing the last guy.

MR. GAYMON: You'll never catch me! And this might sound strange since I'm running away from you, but I'm going to kill you if you get any closer!

UPO: I totally believe you're armed but I'm going to chase you anyway, because public masturbation is just that important. Aha! Now you're trapped. That was lucky. Since lakes are oval, frequently it's hard to corner people around them. Now, put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest.

MR. GAYMON: No! You're not going to handcuff me! (Thinking:) Hmm. I could stick my hand in my pocket and pretend I've got a gun. Or I could lunge at the officer and try to grab his gun. Just to be on the safe side, I'll do both at once. (He does.)

UPO: Ohmigod! I never thought I could feel so threatened by a man whose penis is out. (He shoots MR. GAYMON.)

MR. GAYMON (falling to ground): Oh, c'mon dude! It isn't even dark! You think you can shoot people who are primarily interested in masturbating and running?

UPO: (Pause.) You know this is New Jersey, right?

MR. GAYMON: Damn! I knew I should have moved. Oh well, too late now.

UPO: Sorry, dude. Before you go, answer a question for me. Why didn't you jump in the lake? You know I wouldn't have chased you.

MR. GAYMON: Are you kidding? I'd rather have my secret life exposed and my entire world shattered than damage these sweet threads.

UPO: Gotcha. You know, I gotta say I'm sorry. I've been patrolling this park for five years and I've never shot anybody.

MR. GAYMON: You've . . . what? You've been arresting guys in this park for FIVE YEARS and you STILL can't do it right? God, what a fuckhole. (He dies.)

Dear Diary:

I love writing for Outsourced. Today we thought of a second joke.

It would really be tough for a gay guy in the NFL, for the locker room to understand him as a homosexual. I'm not saying it's impossible to pull off, but I'm saying right now the fear of coming out of the closet and more so coming out in the locker room would really be too tremendous to overcome. It's unfortunate because it shouldn't be that way. I understand that the locker room is pretty intimate. I do understand that there are 53 guys walking around nude at times and I do understand how guys may feel uncomfortable, but I don't think that it should impair someone's decision to live their life, have their freedoms and express themselves. I don't know whether that will be five, ten or twenty years from now but right now the NFL culture has no tolerance toward it. -- Marcellus Wiley, former NFL defensive end and current ESPN analyst

I totally get this. I hate it when my buddies and I hang around naked together and then faggots show up.

I'm a little depressed. I think my bodily functions are smarter than I am. I farted in a revolving door and it got out before I did.

Luke Russert, son of the “Meet the Press” host Tim Russert, worked at City Hall during summer 2007. In an interview, Mr. Russert said that he juggled two internships that summer — one at the mayor’s office, the other at NBC, working for Conan O’Brien.

Asked what role his connections played in landing [these internships], he said: “I don’t really know about that. I went through the application process like anyone else.”

“I did not have the traditional internship,” he said, quickly adding that when he was at City Hall, “I was like everyone else.”

Huh? Everyone else was flipping burgers at Pup N' Taco.

Of rising bands, among the most promising [on the Warped Tour] were Whitechapel and Suicide Silence, a pair of brutal groups playing deathcore, a brand of metalcore taking influences from death metal. Emmure, who plays on the fringes of the genre, had one of the day's most invigorating sets. (It also had some of the most amusing merchandise, a category in which there’s a lot of competition at Warped: best was its T-shirt featuring characters from “Twilight” with the words “over it!” — punctuated with a snarling adverb.)

I always play "Guess the dirty word" when I see anything censored, but I'm totally lost here. I remember from a California education that most adverbs end in "ly." Really, there are filthy adverbs? I've run through every swear word in my head and come up short. Fuckly? Shittily? My profound thanks to anybody who comes up with a viable word, I said cocksuckingly.

"Today, the Anglican Church condones marriages between men and the same for women. The Archbishop of Canterbury is blessing such marriages -- that is similar to dog behavior. At some point, I realised that I was reprimanding blameless dogs and pigs, which are aware that marriage is for procreation. We say no to gays! We will not listen to those advocating the inclusion of their rights in the constitution." -- Dictator Robert Mugabe, in a speech also promising the continuance of polygamy rights in Zimbabwe.

I know a lot of activist gay sites are angry about this Mugabe guy, but I can't help but be impressed. Over there in Zimbabwe, where 95% of the population doesn't have running water, their dogs and pigs know that marriage is for procreation? Wow! That's gotta be bizarre.

FARMER: Hey, Mr. Snuffles, how was your feed yesterday?

PIG: Snort!

FARMER: Is the mud okay?

PIG: Snort!

FARMER: Don't you think that gay people have the right to get married, just like anybody else?

PIG: It's blasphemy! Blasphemy! You're all going to -- Hello, is that a corncob?

I can imagine it makes for some awkward scenes.

FARMER: I had the best pork chop last night.

PIG: That was no pork chop. That was my wife!

Still, I can see some obvious advantages. If the animals are so smart, maybe the government should enlist their help in getting electricity to more than ten percent of the population. How can it fail? I mean, if they accidentally hit an electrical wire, barbecue spare ribs would fall from the sky!

So rather than attack the Zimbabweejuns, I think they deserve our praise. I know what kind of work all those animal marriages must be. I mean, hell hath no fury like my dog Snowflake when I try to put him in an ugly gown. God forbid I sign him up for a civil ceremony. And just imagine the bachelor party! It'd be just like a party at Goldman Sachs, except Snowflake knows he shouldn't pee on the bed.

Last, this answers a question I've long had about Zimbabwe: if twelve percent of their kids are in school, what are the rest of them doing? If Mugabe's got them making Lladro fire hydrants, I gotta say, "You go, girl!"

Problems, problems, problems. Everybody's got problems. Luckily there are altruistic people and corporations willing to step up and help.

Which of the following are Rite Aid-brand products, and which has Willie Nelson done a benefit for?

1. Tsunami Relief
2. Dairy Relief
3. Laxative Relief
4. Disaster Relief
5. Famine Relief
6. Gas Relief
7. Haiti Relief
8. Teething Pain Relief
9. Gulf Relief
10. 12 Hour Nasal Relief



ANSWERS:
2, 3, 6, 8 and 10 are Rite Aid-brand products. 1, 4, 5, 7, and 9 are the reasons everybody loves WN.

Though Puccini set "La Fanciulla del West" in a California gold mining town, the details don't quite convince. A passel of goldminers hang around the local saloon singing about how much they miss their mothers and listening to Minnie, the town's sole female, read from the Bible.

By far the strangest disconnect, though, comes with the entrance of the bandit Ramirez. A regular customer beats him inside, and he tells the crowd that a stranger from San Francisco is approaching. He drinks his whiskey mixed with water, the man sings in disbelief. That's ridiculous! the others agree. What kind of a pansy would do something like that? Minnie shakes her head. "Why, we'll show him things that'll curl his hair!" she trills.

Well, word gets out to Ramirez, because a minute later he throws open the saloon doors and, dripping machismo, all swarthy in black leather, swaggers forward.

"Who wants to curl my hair?" he asks.

"Hey, thanks! I appreciate that!" the scientist says as the secret police shoot him in the head.

The theme of the New York Times today is that rich old white people love to be reminded what it's like to be poor.

In one story, millionaires party at an expensive, exclusive dude ranch owned by a Rockefeller. An old white doctor says he likes it because he connects emotionally with the outdoors. I can sympathize: I mean, it's totally hard to relax when the poolboy keeps asking if you want another drink.

At the J Bar L, you round up cattle, go on hikes, ride a horse. For no room service and no spa, you pay four hundred dollars a day. You live like a poor person. In Manhattan you can do the same thing for fifteen bucks at the Tenement Museum. Me, I was horrified to discover the cramped, pestilence-ridden flat they preserved was nicer than my place. Seriously, half the New Yorkers on my tour tried to put down a deposit. This dude ranch seems like another confirmation that, added to the list of everything that's been priced out of reach of regular folk, we now have "former homesteaders' cabins" and "meals of rice and beans served from chuckwagons."

In the second story, a retired white dentist builds an entire Wild West town in his backyard. He's got twenty-two faux buildings, thirty-four wagons, five log cabins, and a ridiculously understanding wife. It's what would happen if you gave Carrie Bradshaw shots of testosterone. There's no pavement, no running water, and you have to leave your house to pee.

His tale teaches us why rich people don't get divorced as often as poor folk. When the poor have arguments, their resolutions are often tenuous. "Okay, I'll keep Little Britttani out of your hair for an hour or two," the trailer park mom promises, "but save me a golddamn Colt 45."

Rich whites, though, compromise on a grander scale. "If you let me build an authentic Wild West town on our country property," the dentist says, "I'll build you a twelve-thousand-foot limestone house in town."

Still, in the end it's inspiring. Once again the Times reminds us that the American Dream is still alive, though it's slid a bit downscale. Work hard, lad, and if you're lucky, one day maybe you too will be able to enjoy all those things that used to be reserved exclusively for the poor.

New York Times Reporter Pisses In Sink For Two Weeks Straight

Hey, I don't make the news: I just steal it to get people to come here.

Dear Oksana Grigorieva:

Please cancel my subscription to Mel Gibson's Sociopathic Rant of the Day.

Initially I subscribed for two reasons: first, I was curious exactly how crazy Mel could be; and second, I wanted to know how many abusive conversations you had to endure. After eighteen months, though, I realized the answer to the former was "pretty darned insane," and the latter was "a shitload." In October I switched to just Saturday and Sunday service, but I'm still finding I don't have time to listen to all your tapes.

I guess I should level with you, though, and say they're just not that interesting any more. I loved it when he threatened to kill you, and called you a cocksucking whore. Your latest recordings suffer in comparison. I don't mean to be heartless, but frankly I've been called worse things than a "pearshaped pea-shooter."

It's not all that humiliating to be dubbed a "palsy-fingered clam-shucker."

Perhaps I've grown, or maybe I'm fickle, but I no longer get that frisson of excitement when Mel uses forbidden words. In fact, rather than feeling aghast, I'm actually kind of sad that Mel's run through all the good minority groups and now says that when you wear your new Alaïa block-heel sandals you're going to be shunned by albinos, and that David Yurman smoky-quartz ring will have you disrespected by the Amish.

Yes, I realize this means I'll no longer be able to access SometimesMelLooksLikeAngelaLansbury.com, but something tells me I'll live.

Your dearest fan,
RomanHans

Here's a page from an official U. S. Army comic book to instruct the troops about Don't Ask, Don't Tell.


Is that lame or what? I mean, c'mon: Gates is screwing, for God's sake. My grandma could have harassed him better than those bozos.

Well, it's about time. A federal appeals court finally struck down that ridiculous FCC policy on indecency, saying that laws barring the use of “fleeting expletives” on radio and television violated the First Amendment because they were vague and could inhibit free speech.

I never understood how we got those laws in the first place. We've always treasured free speech in America, ever since the founding of this great nation, yet somehow we got sidetracked. In the fuzziness of history, we began to think our founding fathers were Puritans, when in reality the opposite was true.

Rather than being stuffy old white men who debated chattel and the iron trade over brandy and cigars, the men who wrote the Constitution were hard-drinking and hard-partying. After long hours spent poring over parchment by candlelight, they were frequently known to dip their spoons in mochachino pudding. Indeed, they were even regarded as fashion plates, taking pains to keep up with the trends though the "common folk" probably thought it was madness to pair bolero jackets with matador pants.

No, the Founding Fathers were hellraisers, and they'd have been horrified to see that their grandiose project -- this great nation we call America -- claims to grant freedom to the downtrodden peoples of the world, but won't let Cher say "shitfaced" on Carson Daly Live.

Benjamin Franklin, for one, can be seen as the Britney Spears of his day, once causing a sensation by appearing at the French court in his own hair rather than a wig. Is there any doubt that, were he alive today, he'd be touching himself in music videos, and kissing Ricky Martin?

When Nicole Ritchie talked about cowshit in her Prada bag during the MTV Movie Awards, Alexander Hamilton wouldn't have clutched his chest or called in the cavalry. Heck, I'll bet he'd have texted "LMFAO!" to the Continental Congress!

As a fan of President James K. Polk, I'm convinced he'd be aghast to hear that Bono was roundly chastized for saying "Fuck" during the Billboard Music Awards. He was a master of the zither, which can be seen as a predecessor to the Fender Stratocaster, and were he alive today I think he'd be a huge U2 fan, though of their earlier work and not the pointless electronica noodling like Zootopia.

But since these great men are no longer with us, I'd like to stand up for them today and say thank God the courts, in their infinite wisdom, have finally reinforced the planks of freedom that support this great nation and have once again granted its citizens that inalienable right to show off our nipple rings during Super Bowl halftime shows.

Dear Gay Seniors,

I think you're terrific. If it weren't for you, gay people wouldn't have the rights we have today. Also, I think some of you are attractive in a Sean Connery or Tom Selleck kind of way.

However, if you're looking for a pickup line that works with the youth of today, go for something like, "Isn't it great they finally made a watchable Twilight movie?" rather than "Oh God, your skin is so firm and unlined."

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

From the latest Mel Gibson tape:

I will fire [name redacted] if she's at your house. I will make it known and fire her. I'll report her to the fucking people that take the fucking money from the wetbacks, ok?

Dear Pringles and Bud Light,

I know this is supposed to be heartwarming, or funny, or something. A real live male tortoise falls in love with a plastic one. Still, when I read about it, I got really depressed.

I mean, how can you miss the allegory? This tortoise is pouring his heart and soul into this relationship, and he
doesn't even notice it's not real. He's fallen in love with an inanimate object who can never return his feelings. Honestly, to me there's nothing more pitiful than a dude who doesn't realize the blissfully happy universe he's constructed exists entirely in his mind.

Still, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't so horrible. Sure, she's plastic. She's for sale to anybody with a buck, and she does nothing but sit around and look pretty. He kisses her when he feels affectionate, and once in a while he brings her food.

But toss in the occasional car crash and rant about the Jews and this is pretty much everybody in New York.

Dear Scientists:

Congratulations on the great work. Next time around, though, could you maybe build a robot that doesn't look like it was beaten with a belt by her daddy?

Sincerely,
RomanHans

First step on the path to Queendom? DON'T TELL ANYBODY YOU'RE A LESBIAN.

Are You Straight or Gay?

Sure, you've probably already made up your mind, but does your body go along with that decision? See which of these slabs of hot chest flesh gets your mojo working. Is it Jason Segel, who courted gorgeous Kristin Bell in Forgetting Sarah Marshall last year, or is it Betty White, who lost a husband in the Civil War?

Let your genitals speak for themselves: quien es mas caliente?










ANSWERS:

(A) is Betty; (B) is Jason.

A lot of people make fun of hipsters, and it's time for me to take a stand. I like hipsters, if only for one reason: they don't wear cargo shorts. When every other male in the universe is wearing these virtual duffel bags with waistbands, hipsters are wearing actual shorts. You know, like regular pants, except cut off above the knee. With, like, two regular pockets where the pockets should be. They look dapper, they look cool, and -- since society took that weird swerve a couple years ago where, for six months out of the year, every male had to don shorts with seventeen built-in cupholders -- they look most decidedly retro.

To cargo shorts fans, I have one thing to say: look at yourself in a mirror. Do you really think they're flattering? It's as if a woman emptied out her handbag and attached the contents at various locations down her legs. A cellphone on her hip, a bottle of water on her thigh, a copy of The Fountainhead at her crotch. They make me assume negative things about you. They were created for soldiers, for use in battle. Those little pockets are for grenades and sniper scopes and stuff. In that context, then, you seem a little trivial when you wear them to the mall stuffed with emergency bags of Funyums.

In fact, I've drawn a line in the sand. Should I ever meet an attractive man in cargo shorts, I'm going to write him off. I'm not even giving him the time of day. Because maybe he's creative and thoughtful and intelligent, despite his wardrobe, but I don't think any relationship should start with the line, "Are those lumps in your pants your belongings, or are they you?"

Jason Segel, star of Forgetting Sarah Marshall and a voice in Despicable Me, legally married a heterosexual couple on television last week. He prefaced the ceremony with the allegedly cute little story of how the whole thing came about. This couple, he said, wanted to get married, and they were huge fans of his. They posted signs asking him to marry them on streetlights and telephone poles all around his neighborhood: from his house, in fact, all the way to his favorite bar.

Which spooked him, he admitted, because it's kind of a stalkery thing to do. And then one night he went to the bar, and there they were! But it turned out they were really, really nice, so he said yes. He became a minister with the Universal Life Church, and the ceremony took place on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno last week.

While Mr. Segel may be an ordained minister, the observant viewer definitely questioned his commitment to the truth. The story sounded preposterous, starting with the idea that somebody thought one of the frat-boy actors in the Apatow stables would be the perfect officiant to recite their holy vows -- I mean, if you're gonna dream big, you'd go for Adam Sandler, right? -- to the part where they hung around a bar until he showed up.

Shooting the whole thing to hell, though, was Mr. Segel's declaration a few days later that he found the couple through Craigslist. He didn't say who posted the ad.

Now, a lot of people here are going to say, "Whoa, what a freakin' liar!" Me, I'll cut the guy some slack. I can sympathize.

I know how difficult it is to come up with a story that'll make people think, "Uh, is he trying to be funny or what?"

The New York Times addresses the difficult questions that children ask their parents.

How much money do you make? As with any financial question, your first response ought to be, "What made you think of that?"

Your children may not be looking for a number, especially if they're young and have no context for five- or six-digit figures. They may just be worried about running out of money or wondering why you don't live in a mansion. . . .

[The problem with disclosure] is that many younger children will immediately tell someone (or everyone). And the automatic social reflex is often a flash of shame among people who hear the number and make less, Mr. Kessel noted, or arrogance among those who make more. Who truly wants to put others in either situation?

If older children persist with their questioning, try instead to use this as a lesson in budgeting.

I'll give similar advice to all you kids out there. When your parents ask to see your report card, you need to say, "What's it to you?" See, they probably don't know what they're saying. They're probably just confused. Maybe they just want to know that you aren't ditching every day.

The problem is, if you've done really well, they're going to call up all your relatives. And how will that make you feel when Uncle Butch hears you got an A in some punk-ass crap like Civics? He's gonna think you're a wuss. So, instead of answering your parents directly, satisfy their curiosity by saying, "Don't worry, dudes, I ain't on crack."

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