My current boyfriend, Raoul, is addicted to So You Think You Can Dance, which means I'm doomed to fourteen hours of fartsy gymnastics every week. Just for my own mental health, I invented a drinking game that really helps those turgid dance routines electric-slide by. If you're doomed to a similar fate, here are the rules I made up.

• Take a shot whenever somebody dances to a third-rate cover tune by an American Idol loser.
  
  
• Chug a beer whenever an edgy, pierced choreographer with a partly shaved head writes a piece where a boy meets a girl at a park bench.
  
  
• Chug a beer whenever Nigel Lythgoe congratulates the show for revolutionizing dance in America, then makes two teenagers foxtrot.
  
  
• Take a shot whenever a girl does something that'd get a fiver stuffed into her bra at Flashdancers.
  
  
• Chug a beer whenever a judge extols the sacred beauty of dance, and then the next dance features a move called "Look at my crotch! LOOK!"
  
  
• Take a shot every time the eternally-chipper Cat Deeley says to a contestant, "Come here, you!"
  
  
• Chug a beer every time a judge tells a dancer "The ladies here sure love you" and the dude is queerer than Elton John's purple codpiece.

Of course, you can customize this any way you'd like. I used to take a shot whenever a white chick whipped her hair like a pole dancer, but then I'd routinely pass out during the opening credits.

Health and Safety Alert From The New York Times

After you feed a thawed, hairless baby mouse to your pet snake, don't forget to wash your hands.

This has been a Health and Safety Alert From The New York Times.

Okay, I'm going to come out of the closet here. I've been hesitant to admit something here out of fear of being shamed, but I think I finally worked up enough courage to come out and say it.

I drink my own urine.

I've been drinking my own urine for about two years now. Just a dribble a day at the beginning, but I'm recycling most of it now. I finally shared my secret with a good friend a couple weeks ago. He took it better than I thought he would. "So, you're doing it because it's healthy?" he asked.

"It's healthy?" I replied.

After talking to him, I realized there are lots of advantages to drinking your own urine. When you go to a music festival, you don't have to bring a bota bag. When your boyfriend catches you naked, trying to force your head into your groin, you've got a convenient excuse.

Still, I realize people like me are a rare breed. Most people would pull an unknown shellfish out of the ocean, pry it open, see that it looks like mucus and toss it away. It takes a rare breed to find something disgusting and say, "Gosh, I wonder how it tastes!"

I hope with this admission, more people will give it a try. Heck, maybe one day it'll be as commonplace as drinking wine, and we'll see signs in restaurants telling customers to BYOP. Maybe we'll even have sommeliers to steer us to the correct dish to match with our wizz. "The Dover sole is extremely delicate," he'd advise. "You didn't eat brussel sprouts last night?"

Of course, it's hard to get started. "Why, I don't drink Sunny Delight," you tell yourself, "and it didn't spend two hours in my kidneys!" But it gets easier as you slowly learn to appreciate the heady scent of wee. Which brings up the one small side-effect. Now when I'm in Central Park or on the subway and I walk through a smelly tunnel, I feel like a fat girl walking past Cinnabon.

Now Girls!

[Pittsburgh Steelers' quarterback Ben] Roethlisberger's senior year of high school, when he became the starting quarterback and set state records, had its share of drama. Some of his receivers felt forced to befriend Roethlisberger out of fear that he would not throw the ball to them.

And if you caught a ball another quarterback threw, well, forget about coming to his sleepovers.

The Two Main Points of Dinner With Schmucks

1. Paul Rudd is way too good of a person to laugh at people who are pitiful or retarded or differently-abled than himself.

2. You aren't.

American priorities have always been warped. At some point I came to terms with the rich: I'm inured to the fact that billionaires are drinking champagne while toothless grandmas are dumpster-diving for their next meal. Once we introduce pets to the equation, though, it starts to irritate me. New York dogs, for instance, have better wardrobes than high school students in Africa.

Yes, even the ones wearing Juicy Couture Pour la Pooch.

Well, today the Observer's Very Short List newsletter gives us irritation squared. This little newsletter has always been a celebration of the trivial, every day blaring discovery of the hottest new film, song, or pomegranate-green tea muffin that's ever been created by mankind. Every day they draw some artsy Venn diagram that allegedly illustrates something but instead makes USA Today's bar graphs look like Nobel-quality work.


Today, they gush over a website/book of images called Inside Insides. I'll let them explain it.

Magnetic resonance imaging uses a strong magnetic field to give high-contrast images of the internal workings of water-filled things, such as knee joints, brains and, well, vegetables. The fruity MRIs on this site show a moving cross section of the fruit, producing images of vaguely familiar food shapes repetitively blossoming and oozing in gray tones. Though nothing revealed by these scans is all that surprising (we’ve all seen the insides of an eggplant), the format of the imaging takes advantage of the weird symmetries in plants and fungi to make beautiful, dreamlike patterns—the mushrooms pulse like jellyfish; the cabbage expands like a controlled explosion; and the celery spins like a fractal—thus proving technology can make even a salad exciting.

Got that? That spur your interest at all? Me, not so much. Mostly I find myself getting irritated that fruits and vegetables are getting health care that 80% of Americans can't afford.

I'm kind of angry that rutabaga stands a better chance of getting a checkup than the guy who picked it.

And I'm totally pissed off that some bored, overprivileged idiot is sending broccoli through a technological marvel invented to detect human disease when, you know, odds are there's no undetected brain tumor in its stalk that'll make it leave its little brussel sprouts prematurely.

News flash, dude: this million dollar machine wasn't created so somebody could say, "Oh, cool! Look at this photo of celery!" Or "Man, that cauliflower rocks!" If you've got access to an MRI machine and nothing to do, here's an idea. Walk outside and find the first non-white you can find. Odds are this person doesn't have health insurance. Ask them if they want a quick checkup. For free. Just to be nice.

If instead you head to the kitchen and think, Gosh, I wonder what an kumquat looks like on the inside, you're a full-fledged idiot.

Ohmigod! Shocking! Never-before-seen photos of Angelina Jolie at her absolute raunchiest. Electrical tape on her nipples! A dog collar around her neck! And . . . shudder . . . is that heroin she's smoking?


Uh, quick note from a resident of Realityville: real tape sticks.

Well, That's Awkward.

The sun has set at the Hard NYC music festival on Governor's Island. The crowd is exhausted after standing for six hours through acts of various quality, but there's just two performances left: the South African rap/performance art duo Die Antwoord and M. I. A. The MC tries to stir up the crowd.

MC: Hey, y'all! Make some noise! Who are we all waiting for?

CROWD: DIE ANTWOORD!

MC: Oh. Uh, well, she'll be up in just a couple hours!

Yep, it's me! Somebody who just realized he's at the wroooong house.

A gay bar in Maine was cited by the health department for having bartenders who show too much skin.

According to authorities, the shirtless bartenders at Mainestreet pose a health hazard because they're hairy and they mix drinks.

We're gay men. We can handle it. We floss with strangers' pubic hair.

Last night Lexus held another Darker Side of Green party to alert the world to the dangers posed by climate change. For a political event, it was about as close to heaven as you can get, with stars like the gorgeous Liev Schreiber, Ewan McGregor, Nick Zinner of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs djing, and free-flowing Patron tequila on a spacious, handsome terrace at the Bowery Hotel.

The brilliant Tracy Morgan moderated a short debate between Rolling Stone's executive editor, Eric Bates, and climate change skeptic Lord Monckton of Scotland. As always, the liberal was earnest and boring, and the conservative was crazy fun. Naturally, the conservative's argument didn't hold up to third-grade thought.

Lord Monckton made two main points. The first is that the U. N.'s model of climate change doesn't accurately reflect reality, so it can't be believed. Apparently the U. N. has an equation linking temperature change to CO2 levels, but temperature is increasing only one-third as fast as it predicts. Sure, that'll raise a question or two, but it doesn't justify Lord Monckton's conclusion that the whole thing is crap.

His second point was that consensus doesn't mean anything, and he quoted Aristotle. Sure, if 63% of the world believes in fairies, it doesn't mean they exist. But he implied that if every environmental scientist comes to the same conclusion, that consensus should be tossed out too. Somehow they should be viewed with as much skepticism as that posse that wanders your town looking for the chupacabra that killed somebody's dog.

Anyway, both sides agreed on one thing: we're all going to be fried very soon. The left thinks we should do something, though, while the right doesn't want to risk the cash.

Thanks to Lexus and Patron for another great night. I don't think anybody would deny that as the world heats up, we'll all need sturdy cars and strong tequila.

Teen heartthrob Zac Efron and his High School Musical co-star Corbin Bleu spent more than $2000 on lap dances and booze at Flashdancers Gentlemen's Club. Zac and Corbin were accompanied by "one other male friend, who paid for everything." The guys took a shine to three pretty brunette dancers, showering them with cash and requests for personal dances.

The trio were seen repeatedly glancing down at their crotches and muttering, "Nope, still nothing."

A new Roman Polanski rape accuser says the director handcuffed and sodomized her when she was twenty-one years old, in 1974. She is writing a book about it.

The book will be called One Good Page Out Of Two Hundred.

Topless protesters showed their support at a Maine gay bar after the health department cited it for having bartenders who show too much skin.

According to authorities, the shirtless bartenders at Mainestreet pose a health hazard because they're hairy and they serve food.

But the bar received an outpouring of support Saturday night when hundreds of customers turned up, with many of them topless in support of the hunky waitstaff.

Great. Fine. Looks like I'm never going to sell my armpit nets.

After ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange, Snooki asked if she could walk around in a bikini and stilettos with a sign telling people what round it was.

"The people who have been laid off and cannot find work are generally people with poor work habits and poor personalities. I say “generally” because there are exceptions. But in general, as I survey the ranks of those who are unemployed, I see people who have overbearing and unpleasant personalities and/or who do not know how to do a day’s work," says Ben Stein, whose high school had a lacrosse team and who inherited a vacation home from dad.

I just spent 25 minutes online-chatting with "Cesar P" at Time Warner Cable.  It's a borderline interesting story: my cable didn't work for a week or so, so they issued me a credit refund. While they've been automatically debiting my checking account for my bill, though, they decided to send the credit somewhere else. Cesar said they'll phone me tomorrow if they can figure out where.

Anyway, I tried to save a transcript, but the chat box doesn't allow cut and paste, so I hit "View Source."  It didn't give me a transcript, but it let me see the list of words they filter so your outsourced "analyst" isn't constantly barraged with profanity.

PARAM NAME="ProfanFilters"
VALUE="bitch|shit|asshole|bastard|fuck|buttshit|fucker|
motherfucker|dammit|whore|slut|shitbag|shithead|ass|
cock|cocksucker|dick|penis|goddammit|asshat|sonofabitch|
nigger|honkey|honky|spic|sandnigger|cunt|pussy|funckin|
fuckn|dickhead|shitting|hell|cum|erection|hardon|
ejaculation|dildo|fuckhole|jysm|arse|twat|piss|wetback|
skeet|porchmonkey|fagget|fag|lesbo|homo|dike|coon|
muthafucker|faggot|faggit|spick|punta|fucked|fuckers|
bitches|bastards|motherfuckers|nigga|niggas|crotch|
mother fucker|bull shit|damn it|fucking moron|fucktard|
tard|gaytard|crack slut|crack whore|negro|pimp|pimp slap|
butt pirate|fudge packer|chinc|chink|slope|suck|camelfucker|
niggaz|bitchass|fuckboy|skank|retard|bustard|assholes|
phucktard|WTF|ahole|fuckwad|dickweed|shitface"

Got that? So if I typed in "Oh suck crotch jysm, you honkey crack slut!", for instance, Cesar would read "Oh, you!"

The list seems kind of strange to me. Asshat? Gaytard? Fuckwad? C'mon, we're talking about an overpriced CABLE COMPANY. Do they really spend that much time arguing with Bart Simpson? Besides, Time Warner Cable frequently appears to be run by phucktards; don't we have a constitutional right to tell them so? It hardly seems fair that after suffering through their miserable service we're stuck with calling them surly, beetle-headed strumpets.

Still, I'm proud to say this filter didn't alter my chat at all. But if your name is Dick Bustard and you like to shoot coon on the ski slope, maybe you'd better use the phone.

When the author Justin Spring finally tracked down the executor of Samuel Steward’s estate, he had no idea what this sexual outlaw and little-known literary figure had left behind after his death in 1993.

So he was taken unawares by the 80 boxes full of drawings, letters, photographs, sexual paraphernalia, manuscripts and other items, including an autograph and reliquary with pubic hair from Rudolph Valentino, a thousand-page confessional journal Steward created at the request of the sex researcher Alfred Kinsey, and a green metal card catalog labeled “Stud File,” which contained a meticulously documented record on index cards of every sexual experience and partner — Rock Hudson, Thornton Wilder, “One-eyed Sadist” — that Steward said he had had over 50 years. . . .

On each of the 746 cards that ultimately made up his alphabetized Stud File, Steward listed his sexual partner's name, his place in the lineup (i.e., the 354th person Steward had sex with), the dates and locations of every encounter, a coded description of penis size and of every specific sexual activity, and a brief comment.

Great, great story. I already pre-ordered the book. Meanwhile, which do you think is the "coded description of penis size" -- the 7 or the 9?

A group of pooping pigeons forced the Kings of Leon to stop their concert after three songs Friday night in St. Louis.

The pigeons started pooping the minute the band started playing. "I was hit by pigeons on each of the first three songs," Jared Followill said.

Really, this confirms my suspicion that pigeons are the stupidest birds. Cockatoos would have held it until they started playing "Sex on Fire."

I watched Mad Men last night. It was great! If you haven't seen it, I won't spoil it with any details. Let's just say that quite a bit of time has passed, and the partners at Sterling Cooper have changed to fit the times.

A British chicken farmer has discovered an image of Jesus Christ on one of his flock.

Mitchell Grainger, 25, took a photo of his chicken taking a dust bath, and later discovered the miracle in the photo. "I literally said 'Jesus Christ' when I saw the picture," says Grainger. "The face of Jesus is clear to see and when I showed my mom she even pointed out the ring of thorns."

Meanwhile, the chicken's name is Gloria. After Gloria Gaynor. Why, what'd you think?

After the double disqualification, Abdullah [the Butcher, a professional wrestler] sits on an overwhelmed bench in the dressing room and dispenses wisdom to a small, rapt audience. He is their Buddha, the triple-plus-size version.

You know, I'm thinking maybe the New York Times should think twice about comparing somebody who jabs his opponents with a fork with Buddha. Buddha would have jabbed them with chopsticks.

Let's Learn the Law!

When heterosexual Christians hold an anti-gay rally in a public square, they temporarily control that space. They don't have to accommodate anyone with an opposing point of view. The police will enforce this, throwing out anyone who isn't wanted, including journalists perceived to be homosexual.

However, when gays hold their Pride Rally in a public park, the First Amendment still holds. Anyone can enter and express themselves at any time. Thus heterosexual Christians are allowed to run up to random festivalgoers and scream that they're perverted deviants doomed to go to hell.

We think the more you know about our judicial system, the more you'll respect it. And that's today's Let's Learn the Law!

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."