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

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

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

(5)

(6)

(7)

(8)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because toilet paper doesn't have a pointy end.

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

(To the tune of Bette Davis Eyes.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Act Like a New Yorker

When someone says: Happy new year!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, it worked for me.

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

Doing the Gas-Soaked Rag

(Jauntily, to any kind of tune)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coincidentally, that's what in the cupcakes too.

Today they're all OMFG.

Inspirational Stories

I've heard all the clichés about New Yorkers, but here's a little story that proves them all false. Contrary to popular belief, even rich and smug Manhattanites can teach us a lesson once in a while.

It seems a busy BMW owner kept getting speeding tickets. He'd careen to work, race home, zip around on vacation. His gas pedal was permanently stuck to the floor. It was like the cops never gave the poor dude a break: every time he took a corner on two wheels there'd be more flashing lights in his rear view mirror. It was like the poor guy was cursed.

Whereas the rest of us would just pay the tab and cry into our Budweisers, though, this guy had a brilliant idea: if there was some way of making it hard for cops to write his details down, some of these tickets would get lost. But how on earth could somebody do that?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my New York Hero of 2011:


Put me down for I1lIl1I.

Random Thoughts

Exercise makes you live longer. That's why every cat on earth is dead.

How come bed sheets stained with an outline are holy when it's Jesus and disgusting when it's me?

How can a woodpecker move its head back and forth really fast for hours on end? I don't know, but I'm a guy so I don't have to.

In Thailand, are typhoons just called phoons?

Note to self: "Sleigh bells ring/are you listening?" doesn't sound very festive when you scream the second line.

Give a man a fish and you'll feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and he'll need ugly clothes forever.

I'm constantly striving to be more positive. Instead of complaining that my boyfriend bought me a kitten for Christmas rather than the iPhone I wanted, I'm looking on the bright side. Nobody likes throwing an empty bag into a lake.

If the above does not work for you, you do not have Flash. Click on the Pope and maybe something will happen.

On Monday, a group of British feminists proudly led a so-called Muff March through the streets of London to protest the paucity of pubic hair on women in porn.

Declaring that porn's strict stance on hairless genitalia is an anti-feminist statement by a patriarchal society, the women chanted slogans like “There’s nothing finer than my vagina." Some wore large, bushy merkins celebrating pubic hair untouched by any blade.

Bystanders mostly seemed amused by the protesters. After about an hour, they wandered away, perhaps leaving some minds slightly open and the streets slightly cleaner where they walked.

Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris is sufficiently bad that it zips past the word "crap" and goes straight to "steaming pile of shit." In its desire to succinctly describe the predominant problems facing the world today, it divides us into two distinct tribes: fabulously-wealthy conflicted artists, and even richer but un-fun Republicans.

Hmm. Which side should we choose?

Now, at this point I realized that everybody not wearing an ascot should probably run screaming for the OFF button, but I decided I'd keep an open mind. If I'd shut off every film when it started irritating me I wouldn't know who Al Pacino is.

As "Gil," Owen Wilson plays Woody Allen to the point of mimicry. Every time he gets near a bedroom you think he'll suddenly spout, "Is sex dirty? Only if you do it right!" Gil is a fantastically successful screenwriter who Hollywood just adores, but he longs to be a serious novelist. The problem is, he doesn't know if his book is any good. He says it's about something called a "nostalgia shop," which should send up red flags with viewers. I mean, if Allen doesn't know you find old crap in antique shops, maybe he should leave the astute depictions of contemporary life to, say, Paris Hilton.

Gil's fiancée Inez, played by some chick who's obviously learned acting from reruns of Three's Company, is a total caricature. She hates Paris in the rain, long walks on the beach, baskets full of puppies. You expect her to set a bum alight and then complain that she simply detests sitting in front of the fire. Naturally, she thinks Gil is crazy to consider cutting off the Hollywood gravy train.

Stop me if this rings a bell.

Now, I've got two problems with this setup. (1) Drama is supposed to have high stakes. If Gil fails as a serious writer, what's the result? He's doomed to living in a Malibu mansion with $20,000 ottomans and Fresh Direct delivering Moët every eighteen minutes? I couldn't give a fuck about a dude who slits his wrists with a Fabergé letter opener. And (2) there's nobody to identify with. We try to feel sorry for Gil, relentlessly criticized by the shallow Inez, but clearly he's an idiot or the words "HEY, DUDE, YOU KNOW YOU TWO AIN'T MARRIED!" would have, at some point, popped up in his wracked brain.

While Inez is shopping for puppy daggers, Gil takes a long walk. A vintage Rolls pulls up next to him, and the occupants -- all in tuxedos or flapper attire -- implore him to get in. He does. Next stop is a party where the hosts introduce themselves as F. SCOTT and ZELDA FITZGERALD.

GIL: You're . . . who? That's . . . crazy. Isn't this 2011 anymore? I swear, I'm going insane. I'M NUTS! WHAT'S FUCKING HAPPENING!!!

F. SCOTT: I say, I like this chap! What say we split this boring joint and go see JOSEPHINE BAKER?

ZELDA: Zounds!

They go to a nightclub where nobody notices Owen's suit, shoes, and shag haircut are from eighty years in the future.

F. SCOTT: Isn't JOSEPHINE BAKER an amazing talent? My friend ERNEST HEMINGWAY has a terrific crush on her. (PAUSE.) Oh look -- here he comes now!

GIL: WHAAA??? HEMINGWAY??? THIS IS PSYCHOTIC! THIS IS CRAZIER THAN ANYTHING I WROTE IN MY BOOK!!!

HEMINGWAY: You wrote a book? Gosh, old chap, I'd love to read it, because I've got so much spare time in between winning Nobel prizes and bullfighting. As you must know, though, we artists are incredibly passionate. If I don't like your book I'll push you in front of a speeding cab, and if I like it I'll stab you to death, then say I wrote the damn thing myself. (PAUSE.) Let's go see somebody who can judge your novel fairly: my friend GERTRUDE STEIN.

Naturally PICASSO is at Gertrude's place. In fact, I'm thinking everybody short of BODECIA THE WARRIOR QUEEN is going to turn up in her parlor. Visions of a gingham-aproned ALICE B. TOKLAS appear before me, though, doing bong hits with the Surfer From the Future, and something snapped.

Really, a movie where the central dilemma is making money vs. making art? I felt like Gil: Did I somehow travel back in time to 1962? Was a suspendered mime going to dance while hippies sang about freedom? Instead of being a egocentric moron welcomed into the Bloomsbury Group, though, I was being spoon-fed pretentious pabulum by a pandering Woody Allen.

Roughly half an hour in, I shut the thing off.

I tried. I really did. I would have kept watching if I'd thought there was hope for our side -- you know, poor people who hate overprivileged idiots who somehow think they have actual problems -- but the odds weren't good.

Because if any of those fabulous celebs had told Woody's stand-in to shut the fuck up and go away, why would he have made the film?

I can't believe I watched another TV program where somebody broke into somebody else's email by guessing their password. Whenever I open an online account, they want a password with, like, five letters (two uppercase), three numbers, and six symbols. Good luck breaking into my email by guessing my password is H!%8_lQ+n.

Dear All The Patriots Who Freaked Out When An Occupy Wall Street Protester Used An American Flag As A Blanket,

Wanted to make sure you saw All-American football player Beau Palin's sweaty dick rubbing against Old Glory. And you know what happens when he sits down, right?

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

Last night thousands of Penn State students flooded into the streets and rioted to protest the firing of football coach Joe Saterno, breaking windows, tearing down light poles and overturning vehicles, unequivocally telling the world that their patriarchal leader is far more important than any molested children.

This morning the Pope was all, "Bless you, my sons!"

Herman Cain is such an asshole. All he does these days is whine that he's the victim of a "high tech lynching." Call me crazy, but I'm not sure the words "high tech" and "lynching" really belong together, like "Nazis" and "spreadable cheese." Sure, the news that Cain sexually harassed just about everything with a vagina was disseminated via online news sites, bloggers, Facebook, etc., but it's pretty much a slap in the face to African Americans everywhere to link the word "lynching" with a nasty 140 characters on Twitter.

From Steve Wright in the Afternoon on BBC Radio 2:

Wright: Johnny Weissmuller died on this day. Which jungle-swinging character clad only in a loin cloth did he play?

Contestant: Jesus.

I have to do something. Every morning I wake up and it's like my eyebrows have grown just a little bit bigger, until they threaten to consume my face. It looks like two squirrels are scurrying across my forehead, and very soon there's just going be to one. Years ago, though, after an overzealous afternoon with a razor blade, I learned that shaping and tweezing your facial hair is like trying to remove your own gall bladder. This time around, I decide, I'll let a professional handle it.

I don't exactly keep up with the trends, but I know about threading. I've seen it on the news, where an Asian woman wielding something like dental floss wraps a coil around a stray hair and yanks it out, faster than the blink of an eye. While I run my daily errands I pass eight or nine threading salons, and I slow in front of every one. I feel my eyebrows swelling until I can barely keep my head up. I think, why don't I just go in and get it done?

You hear all these rumors about New York metrosexuals, but I'm the only guy in the salon I finally choose. There's so much estrogen in the building, in fact, I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into Pinkberry. Mercifully, the procedure is quick and painless. Five minutes and fifteen dollars later, the woman passes me a hand mirror. My eyebrows are far apart and half their original size. The delicate arch makes me look ever so slightly surprised.

I look at the woman. She looks at me. "Well, I think they look good," she says.

I race to the bathroom of a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond and survey the damage. They could definitely be worse. They're certainly not that 30s Jean Harlow brow, the thin Sharpie squiggle dancing below the hairline. They could almost pass for natural. Still, the arch is sharp enough to change my default expression. I'm no longer bored. I'm not exhausted. If I keep my face entirely still, I'm somewhere between inquisitive and questioning. Add in even the slightest additional surprise, though, and I look like a man fleeing Godzilla.

I run my remaining errands as I struggle to keeping my face utterly placid. Inquisitive eyebrows aren't such a horrible thing, I discover. They have the attitude that I don't, second-guessing every word I hear.

I stop at a fruit stand for a mango and some strawberries. "That'll be twelve dollars," the man says. I look at him. He looks at me. "Okay, okay," he snaps. "Maybe it's just ten."

I drop in Designer Shoe Warehouse to see what's new. There's a pair of Ecco shoes I almost like but they're clunky, and they only come in brown. "Those are sooo cool," a clerk says. "Those are sooo great!" I look at her. She looks at me. "If your girlfriend's named Rainbow and you wear fringed vests," she adds.

By the time I head home it's late, and the subway is deserted. Still, a middle-aged man sits down right next to me. His suit is cheap, his hair's thinning, his moustache nearly hides his mouth. "You should be a model," he says, just out of the blue. "I mean, you are absolutely gorgeous. You've got an amazing face, and it looks like you've got a really hot body. You could be, like, in one of those Calvin Klein ads, just wearing underwear. David Beckham's got nothing on you."

I look at him. He looks at me.

"Well, I wouldn't turn off the lights when I fucked you," he says, so imagine my surprise when he did.

Modern Romance

I found you on Friendster
and asked you to be mine.
You wrote me on MySpace and said
"That would be just fine."

I sent you a fax in which
I asked if you'd be true.
You left a message on my pager:
"Beep beep means 'I love you.'"

Just not a hell of a lot.

When Did "Pawn Stars" Jump the Shark?

"Pawn Stars," a reality show on the History Channel, used to be one of our guilty pleasures. We'd watch it week after week, continually amazed at Rick's broad expanse of knowledge and the strange items people brought in.

And then one day, out of the blue, it hit us. We realized the show was a massive pile of manufactured crap, just a Great Gazoo away from being a cartoon for eight-year-olds. When, exactly, did this happen? Well, it could have been a number of times.

• The day Chumlee decided a Bob Dylan record would be worth more autographed, so he went outside and found Dylan.


• When somebody brought in some ghost-hunting equipment, so the Pawn Stars decided to see if their 21-year-old building was haunted.


• The day Chumlee "stupidly" bought a fake Gibson guitar that was barely more than a piece of wood and a string.


• When Rick and his dad spent 55 minutes calling Chumlee an idiot and then said, "Sure, we'd love to try your homemade wine!"


• When you realize the only person who'd call Corey "Big Hoss" is Corey.


• The episode where somebody brings in some Native American beadwork to pawn, and during the appraisal the beads change color.


• The day Rick bought a run-down Coke machine, and during restoration it switched models.



• When somebody found out that a customer seeking to pawn a guitar worked at the same vintage guitar store as the expert brought in to appraise it.


• When somebody who visited the store was asked if he wanted to be on the show, and when he said yes they gave him something to pawn and a story.


• The day somebody decided three fat guys would be the perfect spokesmen for Subway.


• The 400th time Rick declared that if something was authentic it'd be worth a fortune, then discovered it was authentic and offered $65 for it.

Name one athlete you would hate to be stuck in a car with for all of eternity.

That flamboyant figure skater Johnny Weir. I don't think we'd have much to talk about. -- NASCAR driver Jimmie Johnson, in an interview in November's Maxim magazine

God, I totally agree. I mean, figure skating is such an effeminate profession. Puh-leeze. You skate around in little circles and occasionally crash. It's nothing like car racing, where you drive around in little circles and occasionally crash.

Car racing is a sport tailored for manly men, requiring a distinctly masculine set of skills. You've got to spin a little wheel, press a little pedal, and sit for long periods of time with no air conditioning. It takes absolutely nothing from the profession to note that other people put air in your tires and fill your gas tank. Heck, I'll bet even James Bond doesn't like the smell of gasoline getting in his clothes. Besides, drivers have to save their energy for repeatedly turning corners without any power steering.

And what a queen Johnny Weir is. Christ, if a race car driver acted like that he'd be run out of town.


I'll bet Johnny Weir doesn't even edge his stubble before he goes to work.


Maybe Jimmie has a giant gold belt, but he knows to cut back on the jewelry and earrings when he wears it.


Even if Jimmie has four really pretty vases, you don't see any flouncy flower arrangements in them.


Sure, Jimmie's mock turtleneck is totally covered in embroidery, but at least the colorful patches are for manly stuff, like those logos of car parts on his chest and that splash of Siemens on his arm.


The butch gray coat on Jimmie's signature bear more than counteracts his rainbow dickie.


His official screensaver conveys the awesome butchness of racing, with the powerful Ford leaving a cloud of burning rubber in its wake. It doesn't look anything like Bai Ling after she's put talcum powder on her ass.


As Jimmie's videogame says, he can ride "anything with an engine." That's a real man!


I'll bet he wouldn't hesitate for a minute before jumping on this fucking stool, and he'd probably burn out the motor before he stopped.

Sure, in 2006 he fell off the roof of a golf cart and broke his hand, but I'll bet even Chuck Norris runs into trouble when he pretends he's the Artichoke Queen in the Shriner's Parade.


Anyway, I think I've proved it by now. Jimmie Johnson is a butch, manly man, and whenever he wins a race, the whole world erupts in golden glitter as he hoists another giant silver vase toward the sky. Hooray for heterosexuality!

A 19-fingered robot that can play piano faster than any human has been unveiled.

And he still can't bring women to orgasm.

Created in Italy for a cost of $5,000, Teotronico has 19 fingers because it is the ideal number for covering any melody or song.

Teotronico is said to be the only robot in the world capable of simultaneously singing and playing the piano while judging if an audience is impressed. As he plays, cameras in his eyes allow him to view an audience and interact with them, changing his choice of song if they don't look like they are enjoying themselves.

Unfortunately, he's oblivious to that "Christ, what the fuck is up with his eyebrows?" expression, and he can't fix the creepy smile that makes it look like he's also jerking off.

I'm an anarchist with a conscience. I lob Molotov cocktails at our oppressors, then wring my hands for years afterward thinking maybe I should have just sent them an angry note.

I wrote down one particular worry and emailed it to Ariel Kaminer, the NY Times' "Ethicist":

The city I lived in held an essay contest in which entrants had to send in true stories about car-pooling. I took exception to this, because clearly it was going to be judged by subjective people giving away taxpayer dollars. I’m gay, and I know from experience that writing about how you met your boyfriend never wins. So I made up a heterosexual story, and I won a prize.

Justified? Obviously, the best course would have been to get them to cancel the contest, but this didn’t sound possible.

Thanks!

After the Ethicist told me she was going to answer my letter in the Times' magazine, I alerted her to a few concerns.

Of course, I think your answer will be that I shouldn't have entered with a fake story, but I can't accept this. Ignoring discrimination never did anything. Of course, profiting from it by lying wasn't exactly Rosa Parks either. I was just sick of the double standard that straight people are a privileged class and decided to even the playing field.

The next day I wrote again, going into further detail:

I worked in the defense industry for twenty years. I wouldn't have been hired if I admitted I was homosexual, so I didn't. I lied and said I was heterosexual. The conditions weren't fair, so I did what I had to do rather than blithely accept their bigotry.

I see this contest in the same light.

Yes, it would be great to change the system, but that's not realistic. Yes, lying is bad -- but institutionalized homophobia is worse. I'm sick of employment, housing, TV shows and essay contests that have the implicit message that homosexuals need not apply. (Though Extreme Makeover: Home Edition has aired some 200 episodes, they still haven't found a gay family that qualifies.) I firmly believe that anything homosexuals do to temporarily level the playing field, regardless of legality or ethics, is easily justified, and I hope in your reply you don't convey the idea that gay people should take the high road by shutting up and accepting
whatever slights society gives them.

The Ethicist never wrote back, fueling my worry that I wouldn't get a thoughtful reply. Four months later, then, when a note arrived from a Times employee asking me to "run through a few things," I was absolutely certain: I was going to be the butt of a joke. So, I didn't reply. I hoped that, unable to confirm a story, a newspaper couldn't print it.

Hah! I forgot this was The New York Times. Yesterday my story showed up in the magazine, and here, in total, is the Ethicist's reply.

This may be the most creative adaptation of the term “obviously” I’ve come across. And by the way, no, you were not justified.

You’re welcome!

I read this reply and shook my head, wondering what part of I hope in your reply you don't convey the idea that gay people should take the high road by shutting up and accepting whatever slights society gives them she'd missed. And, you know, I don't have a fancy magazine column, but I'd like to take the opportunity here to offer Ms. Kaminer a quick word.

Dear Ethicist:

According to the dictionary, an Ethicist is "a person who specializes in or writes on moral principles."

Don't you think maybe you should change your name?

I'd offer to help, but obviously somebody already took "Carrot Top."

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

Comic Con was this weekend, which means the city was full of folks in costume. Exactly what they were portraying, though, was anybody's guess.


I'm pretty sure this guy is Wonder Woman. Admire the costume. Respect his courage. Whatever you do though, don't ask about his magic lasso.


This woman demonstrates a trend I saw in a lot of costumes: handicraft. Which, you know, should certainly be applauded for ingenuity, though execution can be questionable. Unless this creature is from a distant planet where you have to crochet your own head.

Though these aliens may face incredible star battles against distant galactical foes, they'll never want for oven mitts.


More handicraft here. Somewhere an Olive Garden is missing its breadsticks.


Guest of a Guest says this is Zangief from Street Fighter. I'm pretty sure it's just a dude showing off the only sash he'll ever own.


I'm totally at sea here. He's got Wolverine's claws, but he's singing. Got it! This is obviously Benverine.

Some universal tales have variations shared worldwide. Stories carry lessons for young and old. Stories do not always represent reality so much as they teach lessons, values and morals. The following is a very old story told by Cherokee, Seneca, Hindu, and many other people all around the world.

The little boy was walking down a path and he came across a whore. The whore was very old, and very, very horny. She asked, "Please little boy, can you fuck me hard in a hot tub? I need one last one head-spinning bang before I die." The little boy answered, "No, Ms. Whore. If I fuck you, you'll call the Enquirer and it'll destroy my marriage." The whore said, "No, I promise. I won't call the Enquirer. Just please fuck me hard in a hot tub." The little boy thought about it and finally picked up that whore and fucked her hard in a hot tub.

Afterwards, the little boy and the whore climbed out of the hot tub. "Thank you," the whore said. "You are very kind." And just as the boy was about to say goodbye to the whore, she called the Enquirer. "Ms. Whore, why did you do that? Now it will surely destroy my marriage!" The whore looked up at him and grinned. "You knew what I was when you picked me up," she said.

Where do the soups and salads come from, the bathroom?

A pregnant suburban Chicago woman felt contractions a few minutes after finishing the Chicago Marathon and gave birth hours later to a baby daughter.

Amber Miller was nearly 39 weeks pregnant when she started the 26.2 mile race on Sunday morning. Her daughter June was born at 10:29 p.m. weighing 7 pounds, 13 ounces.

Sure, call it sweet. Call it adorable. But today June is shaking her rattle whether she wants to or not.

Sure, politics is a bizarre process, but there's one thing about it that totally mystifies me. It seems like it's the only field where unsuccessful people don't try to imitate the successful folks.

Say you own a company that makes clothing. A rival company puts out a line of skinny jeans, and they immediately sell out. They're in all the magazines. You're a smart businessman, so what's your immediate thought?

(1) "Times have changed, and I need to change with the times."
(2) "Blast them! One day people will want bellbottoms again!"

Obama campaigned as a pro-gay, pro-choice, pro-environment candidate. He beat the guy who was not. Naturally this sent the Republican party into a tailspin. They had to retool! They hid away in their bunker for a few months, and when they emerged they were holding Rick Santorum.

Yeah, Rick Santorum. In a battle of wits, he'd lose to the counter guy at Taco Bell. His clothes are slightly cheaper than religious people who go door-to-door. But he's got the message! Let gay people marry, and pretty soon chickens will be raping elephants!

Oh. Okay.

It reminds me of Wal-Mart. They stand on the sidelines as the trends zip by. Women's underwear shrinks until it's the size of a Post-It and they're still standing there going, "But these granny panties will make you feel safe!"

Remember when the Strokes hit it big? Ten seconds later there were forty similar bands. We were spoiled for choice. We'd ask ourselves, "Do I want to listen to the Strokes copycat with the chick lead singer or the one whose songs are all in B-flat?"

In the political bizarro world, though, the Republican agenda is set in stone. Nobody changes their style. We shake our heads as they maintain that waltzes are coming back, but you gotta admit they get their money's worth with those accordions.

DJ Shadow on Burning Man

Maybe “hate” is a little strong, because I’ve never actually been. What I mean to say is that I hate the 40-something investment bankers and efficiency experts I meet at social engagements who describe their Burning Man experiences as “transcendental,” and then when pressed for an example can only offer that an erection resulting from being jabbed in the stomach by a cattle prod is unlike any other.

Sigh. Sometimes you see things that just make you rethink everything you've learned.

Once again, here comes footage from YouTube to remind us that the world is a mystifying place.



Is that incredible? A moob in half a slankie actually has a girlfriend who reads Bride.

A "fart fetish group" wants to license the rights to Nancy Grace's on-air Dancing with the Stars fart. But what if it wasn't Nancy, but the host, or her partner, who farted? And now Nancy is stuck being the fart fetish pin-up girl for the rest of her life. Such are the bargains we make for fame.

Does anybody know any fart fetishists? I wonder if they're reluctant to pleasure themselves to the DWTS footage because they can't be sure it's Nancy farting, and masturbating to a dude's farts would be totally gay.

Three days on a boat and they can't even get the Vivian Girls to plug in their instruments? What, will they be holding Mai Tais in both hands?

Edward Devereux Sheffe III Says Wall Street Protesters Are Hurting Ordinary Middle-Class People Just Like Him

"You guys need to be in Greenwich, Connecticut where the rich people live," says the peeved millionaire whose classical music listening is presumably interrupted by chants. "The people you're disturbing are middle-class people just like you."

In a new rap track, Nick Cannon says to his nemesis Charlamagne, "Man, you about as gay as dick pics."

Sigh. It really pisses me off when idiots use "gay" to mean "lame," but in this case maybe it's just envy. I mean, I'd absolutely love to Nick Cannon for a living.