Gwyneth Paltrow's patchouli-scented, vegan shit has hit the fan.

Last week, the New York Times published a piece by Julia Turshen describing her life as a cookbook ghostwriter. In it, she tells how what she thought would be a dream job actually held "more humiliations than [she] imagined." She says that sometimes her work got minimal recognition, while sometimes it got none at all.

Many real-world cooks have wondered at the output of authors like Martha Stewart, Paula Deen and Jamie Oliver.... Rachael Ray alone has published thousands of recipes in her cookbooks and magazine since 2005. How, you might ask, do they do it?

The answer: they don’t.

Ms. Turshen goes on to say that while many of the chefs she worked for were brilliant, they'd never written down any recipes, and they lacked those easily-summarized points of view and touching personal stories that media outlets like the Food Network require.

They just wanted cookbooks with their names on them, and Ms. Turshen complied.

Though the article doesn't specifically mention otherworldly sylph Paltrow, it's accompanied by a photo of her latest cookbook and the line, "Gwyneth Paltrow's ghostwriter is Julia Turshen."

Which, in the overly-sensitive world of celebrity branding, is like saying, "Gwyneth sucks dog cocks in hell."

Furious, Ms. Paltrow threw aside her decoupage and took to Twitter. "Love @nytimes dining section but this week's facts need checking. No ghost writer on my cookbook, I wrote every word myself."

"She wrote every word of the book and developed every recipe," echoed her spokeperson. "Julia was her assistant."

Oh. Okay. Gwynie hired a ghostwriter to not write for her. I get it. Now, though, I've got to go. I found a hunky masseur on Craigslist and he's coming over to not lay a finger on me.

Lindsay Lohan's father Michael is fighting mad at porn star Voodoo after Voodoo claimed he had sex with Lindsay while her dad was upstairs.

“This delusional moron wishes he had a nanosecond alone with Lindsay!” Lohan told Radar Online. “If I ever caught a guy having sex with my daughter in my house I’d be in jail the rest of my life, especially a dirtball porn star.

“Can you imagine ME, Michael Lohan, of all fathers, allowing my daughter(s) to be alone with any guy while I was present? Ha ha! Lindsay would NEVER stoop to the level of this neophyte. (The lowest form of living organism on earth)."

Is that disgusting? That's what it's all about today: money-grubbing whores just out for free publicity. And that Voodoo guy is just as bad.

If Isaac Newton had lived in the twenty-first century, he'd have discovered a totally different Law. Fuck gravity and inertia, he'd have declared. Here's the ineluctable rule that truly describes our universe:

There is exactly one hottie in every Starbucks.

I used to love Starbucks, which is why I've visited at least one on every continent. I've discovered that this rule holds hard and fast. It works day and night, 365 days a year; it includes the customers and the employees. It's true whether there are two people inside, or whether there are two hundred.

It's like when a really hot man appears at their door, the previous one clocks out and heads home.

Starbucks is the only company I know that has this law. Lots of chain establishments draw in hot men by the dozens -- Whole Foods, Gold's Gym, Hunting World. Other chains are vast plantations of mundanity. Nobody within half a mile of Quiznos has ever come close to the hottie hurdle. I think that's why their employees are so depressed, aside from the fact they toast Sonoma Turkey Sammies for a living.

Nope, it's just Starbucks that has exactly one hot man in every franchise.

I was a regular for a year or two, spending a few hundred a month and thinking I had a chance with the hottie. I'd scope out the situation while I was waiting in line. I'd find the hottie, then ask myself what Jennifer Aniston would do. Sometimes I'd sit nearby and offer to share my newspaper. Sometimes I'd "accidentally" drop a napkin at his feet. Once in a while I'd pretend to search the ground around him for open electrical outlets while secretly admiring the breadth of his thighs.

I clearly remember the day I gave up. I was right behind the hottie in line, and I ordered the exact same thing he did so we'd have something to talk about. "Why, I would ALSO like a half-skim-soy quarter-caf free-range caramel macchiato, please!" I said excitedly. We waited at the counter, and when the first drink was ready I made a fake grab for it. "Oh, gosh!" I said, pretending to remember. "Looks like we have a lot in common!"

"Except for the 'gay' thing," he replied.

That was it. I gave up. Said sayonara to my long-term goal. I accepted the fact that the insane hottie-to-regular-folks ratio made that $12 coffee break absolutely futile. The hottie would go over to get sugar and there'd be eight other singles elbowing me out of the way. "Skim milk?" offers one. "I don't see an ounce fat on you." "I'll bet you don't need sugar," gushes another. "You look naturally sweet."

Last Saturday, though, the rain was coming down in buckets, and my pride lost out to my flattening hair. I raced eight hundred other soggy New Yorkers into line, ordered my usual, and scurried over to the last empty table. My hair was starting to spring back to life when I spotted the requisite hottie standing at the counter.

Staring directly at me.

No, I said to myself. It's not possible.

I looked back. His eyes never left me.

Well, I thought, maybe it's God's little joke. He waited until I gave up, then he gave me what I wanted. Little pink butterflies fluttered in my chest. Staring. It was like we were the only people in the store.

I blushed. I giggled. I slurped the whipped cream off my frappuccino and let the whipped cream drip from my mustache.

I held my breath as he made his move. It's like time stood still as he approached, his scruffy brown hair announcing the sensitivity of an artist but his broad shoulders promising the force of a brute.

He leaned in close enough for me to smell espresso on his lips. "Hey," he said in Barry White's voice, "you wanna get outta here?"

"S-s-sure," I stuttered, sending an unspoken "Thank you, God!" to the invisible forces above. And then I grabbed my drink and headed toward the door while he and his girlfriend sat down.

You probably noticed that when you walked in the building all of the appraisers just turned and stared. I think I can safely say we've ever seen anything like this on the Antiques Roadshow before. Usually people just bring valuable stuff.

How much did you pay for this? Really? At a garage sale? Well, next time you go to a garage sale, bring me along. Because I'd say, "Girlfriend, if you think this piece of crap is worth three dollars you are totally nuts."

This is a statue of Jesus playing hockey with two boys, dating back perhaps five or ten years. You've really hit the triple crown here, because already you've got hockey fans, religious people, and statue collectors who would look at this and say, "Holy God, this is one ugly piece of shit!"

There are no markings on the bottom, which is to be expected. Nobody signed The Faggiest Vampire either. I'm pretty sure this was made in the American South, because the artists in other regions know you don't have eight joints in each arm.

If this were at one of the major auction houses, I think the director would look at it and say, "Really? Do you really think we sell trash like this?"

Of course, if it went to auction and there were two collectors with deep pockets, one of them would probably say to the other, "Ohmigod, this place is hawking so much crap today. What do you say we cut our losses and go to lunch instead?" And the other would say, "Le Cote Basque?" And the first would say, "Ooh, that sounds delightful! I just loooove their cardamon souffle."

Last, if this were in a retail shop, I think you'd be very wise to say, "What the fuck is this doing in a retail shop?"

Anyway, thanks for bring it in. The sweater my grandma sent me for Christmas doesn't look so bad now.

CARL: Well, when I said I was gonna give you a fast ride on my big log, what did you think I meant?

Two men who got their jobs through their dad went to Africa and killed a whole shitload of animals last year.

Donald Trump's offspring, Donald Jr. and Eric, visited Zimbabwe for a week in March, and the story they brought back would make Ernest Hemingway quake in his boots. The pair managed to take down an elephant, a crocodile, a kudu, a civet cat and a waterbuck with just a fleet of safari vehicles, a platoon of assistants, and an arsenal of guns.

Above, Donald Jr. is seen holding the elephant's tail after a bout of chopping that would have a Benihana's chef crying uncle.

While some animal rights groups are attacking the pair as pitiful, bloodthirsty morons, the unbiased observer must begrudgingly acknowledge their achievement. Perhaps the most impressive of their prey is the civet cat, sometimes called the "jungle raccoon." Known more for a dizzy amble than a walk, it's very difficult to kill these things, unless you've got a flashlight to temporarily blind it and something to hit it over the head. The more patient hunter can hold a bit of food close to the ground and then hit them with a rock when they approach. This can be extremely dangerous if, say, the hunter is also holding a bunch of carrots, or a dozen eggs.

The waterbuck is also an extraordinary trophy. Waterbucks are like river cows, and everyone knows how feisty cows can be if you try to milk them when your hands are cold. You can use some very scary words to describe the waterbuck, but if you want to be accurate you pretty much have to stick to "sedentary." It doesn't sound awfully remarkable when one notes the waterbucks' main predator is the dog, but if you've ever had a pocketful of Snausages you know the damage a feisty terrier can do.

The Trumps must be particularly proud of having killed a kudu. They're extremely dangerous animals, though primarily for what they can do to your rose bushes. Some African native is probably in her garden right now thanking these two fearless men for her flawless florabunda.

Crocodiles, too, are a deadly prey, though if you've ever watched the History Channel for more than eight seconds you've seen a redneck kill one with a pointy stick and a Budweiser bottle. People for miles around must have gasped in appreciation as the manly Trump brothers fired into the water and hoped they hit something. And imagine their terror as they watched their assistants try to wrestle the dead creature into the boat without getting their new hunting ensembles wet.

The studly duo also took down a knobthorn msasa and curly baobab before natives explained that these aren't quite as impressive as the rest of the cull, being tropical plants.

Of course, one must give some credit to Hunting Legends, their outfitter. They're the ones who provided all the equipment, including hunting and game drive vehicles, along with the necessary professional hunters, cooks, waiters and camp assistants. They're the ones who will drive you out to the "HUGE RANCHES" where these animals live, provide you with native trackers to locate them, and then hand you the guns. You have to pull the trigger yourself, and then write them a check for taxidermy and their "Trophy Fee" while your trigger finger is still sore.

Hunting Legends can also arrange for you to hunt from a helicopter, but that's reserved for the most manly hunter. The backfire from the rifle might startle your pilot, and helicopter turbulence is the worst.

"AIEEEE!!!!" came the shriek from the living room of the spacious Union Square loft.

A dozen pair of footsteps hurried to investigate the bloodcurdling call. "What is it?" cried Vanessa, the journalism student from New Hampshire.

"I'm writing my term paper on the greatest film actors throughout history," sobbed Margo, the Cinema Studies major, "and I've mixed up my photos of Channing Tatum!"

Sympathetic squeals echoed throughout the $18,000 abode paid for by sixteen sets of parents. "Oh, no!" said Briana, the visual arts major with a part-time internship at Der Wienerschnitzel Home. "Can we help?"

"Channing recently reprised some of his most famous film roles for the New York Times, including G. I. Joe, The Vow, Magic Mike and 21 Jump Street. The photos show his remarkable facility to physically transform himself into the disparate characters he created even seven or eight months ago, but now I can't remember what photo goes with what film."

"Oh, pshaw!" said LeeAnn, the lesbian Animal Husbandry major. "I think we can figure it out!"

Can you?

(1)

(2)

(3)

(4)

ANSWERS:
(1) 21 Jump Street, (2) G. I. Joe, (3) Magic Mike, (4) The Vow

Fans of the Rush Limbaugh show have been noticing something odd lately: his ridiculous rants are now frequently bookended by vast stretches of silence. Is the chub Repub finding it hard to fill all those hours now that all his advertisers have stormed off in disgust? Not a chance! says Rush. On today's show he offered a plethora of explanations for those quiet times.

• He was interviewing a mime.
• Some of his segments are only meant for dogs.
• Occasionally, Rush wants you to listen, really listen to your heart.
• Rush was going to keep talking, but he thinks he heard a bear.
• A wise old Asian told him he'll die after speaking 1,000 words, and he's already called 999 women "sluts."
• He dropped a Valium, and when he talks under his desk it sounds echoey.
• He's taking phone calls from listeners, and this one just happens to be a cricket.
• He was temporarily stricken really dumb.
• He's finally realized that if you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all.

Hungry Idiots Rejoice: Kraft Comes Up With Recipe For Cheese & Crackers

Really, Kraft -- five minutes prep? Somebody needs to replace the batteries in their electric knife. Still, this sounds pretty good. Unfortunately I've got an ounce of cheese and three crackers.

A Sad Note

A spokesperson for the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Philadelphia announced today that beloved Cardinal Anthony Bevilacqua has passed away.

Cardinal Anthony Joseph Bevilacqua, who served 15 years as shepherd of the 1.5 million-member Archdiocese, died in his sleep Tuesday night. His last day was unremarkable, the spokesperson said: he went for a walk, he talked with friends, and he was cleared to testify in court about the Catholic Church and child molestation. And then he died, just like that.

Like many of his peers, Cardinal Bevilacqua's tenure was not without controversy. In September 2005, after a three-year grand jury investigation into clergy sex abuse, the Philadelphia District Attorney's Office issued a report excoriating Cardinal Bevilacqua for ignoring claims of child molestation and allowing hundreds of predator priests to continue unpunished.

Cardinal Bevilacqua was finally set to spill the beans about three of these priests when -- bang! whaddaya know? -- he died.

Cardinal Bevilacqua, who'd assuredly accumulated a wealth of knowledge over his fifty long years as a priest, had shown no signs of dying previously. Still, his supporters prefer to look on the bright side. "Rather than being sad," the spokesman said, "we should all celebrate the fact Cardinal Bevilacqua lived a long, happy life right up to the point where he could have seriously fucked up the Church."

New York is the best city in the world for cheap entertainment. Bored? Just wander in any direction and odds are you'll run across something fabulous.

I tried to stay home last night, because it was twelve degrees out and I'm not at my best when cold. Confronted by reruns of Dancing With the Stars, though, I decided to hit the road. I'd barely walked ten feet before I encountered a giant naked man laying motionless by the side of the road. I figured it was some kind of art piece or I'd have administered mouth-to-mouth.


Obviously what I'd run across was a giant foam copy of Michelangelo's David. That's a statue I've never understood: the man is totally, stark naked, but from the stupid look on his face you'd think he was a security guard at the mall. I circled it a few times, trying to figure out the story behind this version. Honestly, how many visitors to Rome have looked the original and thought, this would really be cool if it was twice the size and spray-painted gold? Not everybody's from New Jersey. Still, this roadside attraction drew scads of camera-wielding females who focused on the more interesting bits.


Now, here's where the sculptor completely lost me. I don't care if your statue is five hundred feet tall: if the dick looks like a hot dog, maybe you should go for quality instead.

Just out of curiosity, I hit up Google when I got home. The artist is Serkan Ozkaya, and after pausing for a day in New York the statue is headed to a museum in Louisville. As I perused the photos, I started to understand it. It actually started to look . . . good. Maybe we aren't so different, I thought. Maybe we're two of a kind.

We're both oversized. We're often found by the side of the road. And nobody should judge us when we're freezing cold, because when it's sunny out we're a work of art.

A Virginia religious society has petitioned the Pope to officially designate St. Gabriel Possenti the patron saint of handgunners.

The St. Gabriel Possenti Society says their namesake saved villagers of Isola del Gran Sasso, Italy in 1860 with his amazing marksmanship. When renegade marauders threatened, St. Gabriel shot and killed a lizard scampering nearby, scaring the attackers into fleeing the town. St. Gabriel was canonized by Pope Benedict XV in 1920, and the Society now seeks his Vatican designation as Patron Saint of Handgunners.

Members of the Society agree that St. Gabriel could have tossed a rock in the air and shot at that, but nobody claims he's the patron saint of brains.

Allegedly Hacked From Olivia Munn

Thank you, Alleged Olivia Munn. Now I'm not only incompetent at sex but I'm incompetent at sexting too. This chick actually takes saucy photos of herself, lines them up in a sexy sequence, photographs that and then writes and types on top of the whole thing in pink marker and lower-case font. Apparently she fires up Adobe Illustrator when she wants to send a dirty note to a dude. Me, I can't even be bothered to get an erection and take a photo of it: I just Google for naked photos of Wilfrid Brimley and forward those to my dream date with a line like, "Hey, you wanna see this up close?"

So, I comfort myself with the thought that this sext probably wasn't composed by the real Olivia Munn. I mean, if a genuine working actress wanted to announce that she was saving her ladybits "just for you," it wouldn't have better art direction than Every Day With Rachael Ray. It's so weak, too: my last boyfriend liked to wear diapers and he used capital letters and 24-point Courier. If his dick had ever looked "raw," I wouldn't have considered intercourse.

We'd have done the Camera Game: he stands a safe distance away from me, and I point and shoot.

Why such a narrow age range? Because once you hit 45 it's not like we need to debate.

The Food Network is one of the biggest successes in niche television. Started in 1993, the network has introduced to America such celebrity chefs as Emeril Lagasse, Rachael Ray, and Bobby Flay. Viewership has increased exponentially, recently hitting a record ninety million households.

Naturally the business world is taking notice, so don't be surprised when the Food Network's blueprint shows up in real life.

• Whenever somebody throws a surprise party, they warn the recipient a month in advance.


• Hundreds of beauty pageants are held every year, yet you never see or hear from any of the winners again.


• While you're having sex, you hear a smug narrator detail the history of felching.


• As your doctor is examining you, he relates a story about how his Nana always used to have green stools.


• A traffic cop gives you a ticket for DFIATMPHZ.


• After eating her fried chicken and donuts for eighteen years, you discover your mom makes a commission off your Xenical.


• Instead of actually fucking you, hookers just tell you about the best blow job they ever gave.


• Everybody's resume starts with the line, "In 1993 Queen Elizabeth knighted me, and then I baked Lady Di's wedding cake."

A TV meteorologist stunned his news anchor girlfriend when he interrupted his weather report to propose live on the air.

Seconds after taking center stage during the nightly broadcast, Frederick, Iowa weatherman Stan Loebling stunned viewers by ignoring the weather to talk about anchorwoman Stacy King, who was sitting at her desk just ten feet away. Mr. Loebling declared that Miss King was "not only the sweet, quirky, crazy girl that you watch every night on this channel" but also "the love of my life."

As a shocked Miss King covered her mouth with her hands, Mr. Loebling walked over to her, dropped to one knee and proposed. Miss King cried "Yes!" before her new fiancé slipped the ring on her finger and everyone wiped away tears.

Sadly, all the townspeople were killed that night by a surprise hurricane, but they'd probably be thrilled to know that the wedding is scheduled for June.

Dear One Million Moms:

Maybe you should take a short break from boycotting gay-friendly corporations and see if you can get the other 998,807 of you on Twitter.

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

I saw this stuff in the supermarket today and it really pissed me off. I mean, "Ready to Serve!" has come to mean something special in the U. S. It means, "I'm a proud American and I'm ready, willing, and able to defend our country against evildoers."

It doesn't mean, "Hey, this rice be cooked!" It doesn't mean, "Slap me on a plate and douse me in gravy!"

This rice, then, is not ready to serve. This rice will not be parachuting into Iran to attack Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's camp. This rice won't even be throwing itself on a grenade to save a platter of egg fu yung.

If they had half a brain, the Minute folks could have been avoided this offensive confusion. Isn't it obvious that they should label the box with whatever a person is most likely to do with the rice? They wouldn't write, "Ready to Fill Balloons!" or "Ready to Smother Pigeons!" Obviously most people are going to eat this shit, so "Ready to Eat!" makes sense. "Ready to Serve"? Only if housewives put this crap on the table and then sigh and say, "Okay, now what'll we eat?"

Twynchronicity

Whenever Newt Is Out Of Town, Callista Sends Saucy Photos To Remind Him Of What's Back Home

Once again a baby-wipe user has informed me that I'm a total moron for using toilet paper. Okay, okay, I get it: you love your baby wipes. They're soft. They make you feel clean. Now your bum is all moisturized, and it smells like autumn spring. Glad things are working out so well in your bum-centric world! But now you're all disgusted -- simply disgusted -- that the rest of us still use toilet paper, and you're lecturing us about our simply unbearable habit.

"I don't get it," one of you said to me recently. "If you had crap on your arm, would you just wipe it off?"

Dear Baby Wipe User:

There's a difference between assholes and arms.

One, arms aren't usually sheltered under three layers of clothes.

Two, arms don't reside at the bottom of a six-inch deep crack.

And three, assholes don't need to be as clean as arms, because very rarely does one say to their partner, "Oh, this is so romantic. Please, take my anus."

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

That's the problem with TV today: too many perverted sex scenes, not enough dwarves.

Best Dialog Ever: TV's "Smash"

DEBRA MESSING'S WRITING PARTNER: You know who would be a great Joe Dimaggio for our Marilyn Monroe musical? Derrick Clay.

DEBRA MESSING: Derrick Clay? I've never heard of him. Where can I hear him sing?

DBWP: Currently he's starring in that Bruno Mars thing in the East Village.

DM: Oh. Okay. I'll guess I'll go see that Bruno Mars thing in the East Village.

(LATER)

DM: I really, really loved Derrick Clay in that Bruno Mars thing in the East Village.

DBWP: Yes, he is absolutely amazing in that Bruno Mars thing in the East Village.

DM: Can we get him for our show?

DBWP: Hmm; I'm not sure. He's in that Bruno Mars thing in the East Village.


(P.S. Bruno Mars is pretty much the opposite of the East Village. The day there's a "Bruno Mars thing in the East Village" is the day there's a Carol Channing thing in my pants.)

This is a big deal? These folks have obviously never gotten a present from 1-800-FLOWERS.COM.

Maya Angelou Seeks the Existential Reassurance of "Home." The London NYC Hotel Offers to Help, With Rooms Starting at $298 a Night.

Yes, when Maya Angelou was talking about being at home wherever she was, she wasn't talking about feeling comfortable in the world, or within her own skin. Surely she was thinking of a luxury cosmopolitan hotel that offers a personal suite experience to their international celebrity guests. "I know why the caged bird sings," Maya wrote, and we do too. It loved the sophisticated ease and cosmopolitan vibe of The London NYC!

One glance at our ultramodern lobby and you'll know that Maya's march for freedom would end in one of our overstuffed chairs. All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes, and what better place to find them than this hotspot of pulsing urban energy mere steps from Christian Louboutin on Fifth Avenue.

And who needs A Song Flung Up to Heaven when The London NYC's intuitive yet discreet service knows what Maya wants even before she does? Forget freeing Nelson Mandela -- she'll get free wi-fi, even in our split-level health spa. After dark, the author of Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'fore I Diiie would swoon over the London Bar's Diablo Gordon Ramsay. Unlike the tempestuous chef, she wouldn't call it "fucking awful."

So next time you're in town, don't miss The London NYC. We'll even give you our special discounted Martin Luther King Jr. rate if you tell the reservation clerk, "Brother, I have a dream of unparalleled luxury!" America's greatest poet famously said, "While one may encounter many defeats, one must not be defeated," and we wholeheartedly agree.

Just call the concierge.

Ordinarily I don't like artsy hipster crap but when it involves reuniting a moose with his family count me in.

Synopsis, Including Ending, of a Crap Movie: "Margin Call"

An investment banking and securities firm packages trillions of dollars worth of securities that, due to the financial downturn, become worthless. While most of the firm's Ferrari-driving, multi-millionaire employees express dismay as the securities are dumped onto an unsuspecting market, potentially throwing the world economy into chaos, one is concerned and apologetic.

"Goddammit!" barks Manhattan Messenger publisher Charles Magruder. "You headline a Frankie Valle interview 'Wop Like A Man' and all of a sudden everybody in the world is mad at you."

"One needs to be particularly sensitive in this era of social media," declares Irene Martin, his PR consultant. "But don't you worry: I'll write up an apology."

"No need," replies Mr. Magruder. "I found the apology Tracy Morgan gave after he said he wanted to stab gay kids. I'll just replace 'Italian' for 'gay.'"

"What?" snaps Ms. Martin. "Are you fuckin' goofy? Apologies for being anti-gay are nothing like real apologies. You'll get your ass handed to you on a platter."

Ms. Martin is right. Can you tell which of the quotes below come from public apologies for anti-gay comments, and which apologize for offending important minority groups?

1. "I'm truly sorry."

2. "I can certainly understand how someone could come to a different conclusion than the one I meant."

3. "Earlier today ... I made an offensive comment.... It was regrettable and I should not have said it."

4. "I am aware that some people have said they were offended...."

5. "I humbly apologize and ask for your forgiveness of my unwise behavior."

6. "All a very big misunderstanding!"

7. "We are truly sorry...."

8. "I didn’t mean it that way...."

9. "There's no defense for the indefensible. All we can offer are our apologies, sincere though incalculably inadequate."



ANSWERS:
1, 3, 5, 7 and 9 are apologies for racism. 2, 4, 6 and 8 are apologies for homophobia.

1. Fox Sports columnist Jason Whitlock apologizing for his tweet that, due to Jeremy Lin's enthusiasm, "Some lucky lady in NYC is gonna feel a couple inches of pain tonight."

2. Roland Martin of CNN apologizing for telling fans to "smack the ish" out of gays.

3. Bob Griese after saying a Colombian NASCAR driver fell behind because he was "out having a taco."

4. Houston politician Manuel Rodriguez apologizing for a flyer in which he lists reasons not to vote for his opponent that include "advocating for gay rights" and living "54 years with no children."

5. California politician Marilyn Davenport's apology for labeling a photo of apes the "Obama family photo."

6. Cee Lo Green apologizing for assuming a critic was gay and therefore offended by masculinity.

7. Papa Johns apologizing for a receipt describing a customer as "lady chinky eyes."

8. Kobe Bryant apologizing for calling a referee "faggot."

9. ESPN apologizing for a Jeremy Lin "chink in the armor" headline.

Good friends are all alike; every miserable friend is miserable in its own way.

They borrow your car. They screw your boyfriends. They're convinced you won't miss all that E.

My miserable friend Gary had no boundaries. "I really, really like John," I tell Gary the last time we go barhopping. "He could be the one, so I want to take it slow. I want to take the time to develop a relationship."

Gary nods frantically in agreement. Half an hour later he's still nodding, but this time he's in his car and John's dick is in his mouth.

My miserable friend Honey wants to do me. Which, you know, is kind of understandable. I summarize all the relevant facts: she's supposedly a lesbian, I could not be more gay. When we go barhopping and I meet a man, I don't want her standing there with her fingers crossed saying, "Don't work out. Don't work out. Please God don't let it work out!" Still, I'm patient. "I'm not interested," I repeat. "There's no way."

"That's fine," she says. "I can handle it." And the next time we go out she "accidentally" leaves a razor blade in my car.

Me, I'm a miserable friend because I'm logical. I don't console. I don't comfort. When I hear about problems, I offer logic. I offer cold, hard answers.

See, there's far too many people dealing in fantasy, and I'm firmly rooted in the real world. If my friends build a castle in the air and then complain about the plumbing, I'm not going to play along. I'm not going to suggest using the powder room on an upper floor.

My friend Michael likes hot young Hispanics. Which, you know, isn't a problem if you're George Clooney, but Michael is fifty and poor. He watches Teen Mom to see what nice apartments look like. "What can I do to catch a hot Latin stud?" he asks me.

A good friend will say, "Just be yourself!" A good friend will say, "Don't look for him and he'll come to you!" Maybe that'll segue into thoughts about volunteer work, or exercise, or tips on how to dress well. Me, I'm not mincing words. I say, "Can you get a rope and chloroform?"

Luckily, being a good friend is no longer a good thing, at least in my neighborhood. "You're such a good friend!" always has undertones of, "I can't believe you actually picked up my dry cleaning!" and "Can you take my dog for a walk before you head home?" Everyone really wishes they could be a good friend, but they're making money and getting laid.

Still, I'm nostalgic. I've seen the ideal, and I'm aiming for it. I'm compromising. Now I meet misery with a few minutes of comfort -- but if the person keeps complaining, I'll swing straight back to the advice.

"I'm going to die single, aren't I?" says Maryanne.

"No!" I comfort. "Never." Pause. "You own a dog, right?"

Dude Who Sings "Your Teeth Are Breaking Loose/Crushed And Splintering Into Your Mouth/Like Broken Glass" Endorses Rick Santorum For President

Dave Mustaine, lead singer of heavy metal band Megadeth, has endorsed Rick Santorum for president.

The man who wrote the lyrics "Prince of darkness, your satanic highness/Prince of darkness, the most beautiful angel" said he was impressed by the former Pennsylvania senator's decision to cancel campaign events and visit his sick 3-year-old daughter in the hospital.

"I think Santorum has some presidential qualities," said the writer of "As the demons take their fill/An orgy's taking place/Human blood will spill." "And I'm hoping that if it does come down to it, we'll see a Republican in the White House . . . and that it's Rick Santorum."

Santorum is rather controversial in some circles, due to his suggestion that homosexuals should be regulated like child molesters, that legalizing gay marriage would pave the way for people to marry home appliances, and that children would be better off having jailed parents than gay ones.

Still, that doesn't bother Dave Mustaine. Taxes and regulations regarding "what you can say and what you can't say" have stifled creativity, and only Rick Santorum can help, declares the writer of Headcrusher, which goes "Death from Head crusher! Head crusher! Death from Head crusher! Wow!"

Meanwhile, entire world is disgusted by what recently happened at Shoegasm.

Overheard

"It's a scam. Happy Overpriced Restaurant Day!" -- some dude I'd never go out with

Let's Just Make This Perfectly Clear.

So it's perfectly okay to publish photos of any body part as long as it's shaved? Well, then, I can't wait for next year's Sports Illustrated: Roman's Balls edition.

A Summary Of Nancy Grace's Thoughts On The Whitney Houston Case

If we can brang criminal charges against the people who furnished drugs to Whitney, then we should brung them. They should definitely be broughten.

Quick Thoughts About the Grammys

I loved loved loved last night's Grammy Awards. Never before has the vast constellation of American musical stars sparkled quite as much, from the Giants' Mario Manningham and Victor Cruz to Neil Patrick Harris and Jack Black. Ordinarily I don't like Mr. Black, but at least he didn't make us pray.

Not that I'm against an event's emcee leading the audience in some random activity: I'd just like it to be the Hokey-Pokey for a change.

I know I took notes when the star of Kung Fu Panda, Year One and iCarly gave a Master Class on the difficulties of retaining one's indie cred. The Foo Fighters obviously listened, abandoning their repertoire to play a grunge remake of Ca Plan Pour Moi all three times they came up to bat.

Naturally I was brought to tears by the many tributes. The Band Perry saluted Glen Campbell by singing Gentle On My Mind, a tune written by John Hartford. Which is a little like paying tribute to Ashton Kutcher by reading old scripts from Two and a Half Men, but whatever.


Though the telecast seemed to proceed without incident, Lady Gaga watched from behind a police barricade.

I hope I don't sound "hipper than thou," but I live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is where all the hot new music comes from. Naturally I was thrilled when Best New Artist went to Bonnie Bear.

Another highlight, of course, was Adele. What a gem! And I say this as someone who still thinks "Rolling in the Deep" is about mudwrestling. It seems like just weeks ago the music industry's modus operandi was notorious: rich white men would take some skinny chick and manufacture a singer out of her. No, judging by the the sea of white male faces behind Adele, now they're doing it with fat chicks too.


It's like she's speaking for an entire generation when she sings, "You had my heart inside your hand, and you played it to the beat."

Still, one dark blotch marked otherwise pristine proceedings. Outside the Staples Center, Hispanic musicians protested the elimination of an award for Latin jazz. "The Grammy Awards are not what it used to be," said Bobby Sanabria, a Latin percussionist. "It used to be about excellence in music."

Bravo to Mr. Sanabria! I totally agree. Now let's give 1978's Best New Artist the last word.

If there's an audio player here, you can listen to me reading "Surprise."

I remember the first time I used Mitchum deodorant. It was incredible. I think I was more impressed than when I first heard about landing on the moon, or heart transplants. I mean, Buzz Aldrin never helped me with underarm wetness.

Mitchum didn't exactly work for days at a time, like the ads said, but it worked pretty damn well. Gone were the yellow pit stains. I didn't smell like I collected bottles for a living. It was a miracle!

After a week or so, though, the bubble deflated slightly. In the shower I discovered that I'd created a layer of the stuff in my armpit, and it just did not wash off.

It kind of freaked me out. I'd never had anything on my body that it wasn't possible to remove. I thought switching to Mitchum was a spontaneous, easily reversible thing. I didn't realize it was a commitment, like getting a tattoo.

I scrubbed. I went from Dial to Comet. I used washclothes. I scrubbed myself raw, but it still didn't come off. It felt slick, unlike skin, and it had hermetically sealed my armpits shut.

Can they do that? I wondered. Sell deodorant that you can't remove with lighter fluid?

I put up with it for, oh, maybe twenty years. Got used to it. I didn't sweat, didn't smell. So what if a significant part of my body didn't feel like skin, and repelled soap and water? But eventually my conscience got to me. Aluminum has been known to cause Alzheimer's, and Mitchum has so much aluminum in it I was slowly turning into a cookie sheet.

I went to the drugstore and bought lemongrass-scented deodorant by Tom's of Maine.

I noticed an immediate difference as I applied the soapy substance to my pits: Tom's didn't go on dry. In fact, as I sat there fanning my pits thirty minutes later, it appeared to be immune to that technological breakthrough known as EVAPORATION. Their deodorant wasn't some bizarre, unnameable substance that spread like a liquid but coated like a metal: no, it appeared to be part of the Rice Pudding family. In fact, I thought, they should sell their hydration secrets to Little Debbie, because whatever they put in that deodorant kept my pits moist for weeks. Every time I lifted my arms it sounded like somebody was yanking Rosie O'Donnell out of quicksand.

Rather than hermetically sealing my armpits, they covered the B. O. with the scent of lemongrass. Which, you know, makes sense, because when I play basketball I want everybody to stop and say, "Hey, you smell Pad Thai?"

After a week of having a Saigon rice paddy in each armpit, I switched back. And, though I recycle and reuse and watch what I eat, I realized something:

I like my superchemicals. I don't particularly care if manufacturers dump petrochemicals in major rivers in Mongolia, and I don't particularly care what they do to me. I like the way two weeks after I've brushed with Crest Butt-Crammed With Scope Effluvia somebody asks if I just ate a mint. I like having shields in my armpits that rival the ones surrounding the Starship Enterprise.

So, I'm back. My Mitchum is back; my pit shields are back. I forget that I have little muffin pans coursing through my bloodstream. I know petrochemicals aren't for everybody, but they're just right for me.

If you want deodorant that's safe to eat, get Tom's.

Me, I generally have something in the fridge.

Fill In The Blank

According to a spokesman for the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which supplies food to the public school system, all food served must be "_____________ regarded as safe."

1. occasionally
2. periodically
3. intermittently
4. generally
5. sporadically
6. usually
7. frequently


ANSWER:
Give yourself one point if you said 4. generally. Give yourself a bonus point, though, if you didn't write in "invariably," "typically," or "consistently."

"Ms. Borden, bring me that list of locations where cinematic serial killers have struck," barks Harlan Wilkes, imperious CEO of Screwdriver Films.

The prim Miss Borden shoots Mr. Wilkes a curious look. "Why, sir, it's right there on your desk."

"What?" asks Mr. Wilkes. "I looked and looked, and -- no. I thought that was a list of placid locations of bottling plants." Mr. Wilkes goes white as a sheet. "Ohmigod! I just booked our family vacation!"

Could you make a similar mistake? Can you tell which of the following are the sites of crazed celluloid killings, and which are the brand names of bottled water?

1. Clover Valley
2. Eden Lake
3. Harrogate Spa
4. Archer Farms
5. Camp Arawak
6. Wolf Creek
7. Deer Park
8. Placid Pines
9. Pocono Springs
10. Crystal Lake



ANSWERS:
1. Dollar General's brand of bottled water
2. Site of 2004 British slasher film Eden Lake
3. British brand of bottled water
4. Target's brand of bottled water
5. Site of 1983 film Sleepaway Camp
6. Site of 2005 film Wolf Creek
7. Bottled water
8. Site of 2000 film Bloody Murder
9. Bottled water
10. Camp in the Friday the 13th movies, also Rite Aid's brand of bottled water

I am totally on her side. Oranges don't just sell themselves.

I ordinarily don't like food shaped like buildings, but the men's room was utterly delicious. It's just too bad they had to tear down a fudge orphanage to build it.

Screw you, haters. Next you'll be slamming on my "Leaning Tower of Penis."

Policeman Arrests Policeman Arresting Ipad Stealer for Stealing Stolen Ipads

link

Well, sweetie, I guess it's a nice Valentine's Day present, if you seriously couldn't find a plastic bag that'd fit over your head.

State Senator Confuses Lie Made By Idiot With Laboratory Study Sponsored By The Center For Disease Control

Tennessee state Rep. Stacey Campfield was thrown out of a restaurant yesterday. Martha Boggs, owner of Bistro at the Bijou, recognized the homophobic Mr. Campfield and said she wouldn't serve him because of his repeated lies about gays, including the "fact" that they live, on average, 42 years.

Despite getting the bum rush, Mr. Campfield was the picture of tolerance. "I said in as calm a way as I could that I don't hate gays and the things I have said were backed up by the CDC," he says on his blog. "I offered to send her the links."

Helpfully, Mr. Campfield has posted these links. The gay lifespan "fact" is here:

http://theroadtoemmaus.org/RdLb/22SxSo/PnSx/HSx/hosx_lifspn.htm

Now, perhaps Mr. Campfield should have realized this isn't an official Center for Disease Control website, because the URL would have included stuff like "cdc" and "us" and "gov." Clearly he should have noticed that on this website the letters "CDC" appear less often than "sodomy" or "MTV." Instead, we're just given one curious line:

In 1994, an obituary study revealed that the median age of death for homosexual males was 42 and for lesbians was 49.

You know, just from quickly scanning this, one realizes that it's slightly less believable than a hunchback saying they've bedded Scarlet Johannson. Because we all know how obituaries disclose the sexual orientation of the deceased. I still remember the headline for the New York Times obit of Alan Ginsburg: "ANOTHER GAY ONE, DEAD!!!"

Those still on the fence can easily discover that Paul Cameron, the author of this questionable study, was thrown out of the American Psychiatric Institute. In his defense, Mr. Cameron claims he said, "No, I quit!" several seconds beforehand.

So, is Mr. Campfield a liar or just profoundly stupid? I'm thinking it's the former, but hoping for the latter. It would brighten my life immeasurably knowing one day soon he'll mistake his hat for a waffle iron.

Just once I'd like to see a crook on Cops tell the truth.

COP: We gonna find any drugs in your car?

DISHEVELED GUY: How good you gonna look?

Hi. You're good-lookin'. He's good-lookin', ain't he? Mama likes nice-lookin' men. Look at those dimples. You could crack a walnut in them dimples. Mmm. Is that a dill pickle in your pants?

You heard me. No, I ain't shy, and I ain't jerkin' no gherkin. No, I'm just joshing. I'm a married lady, so I'm not gonna do anything. Well, maybe I'll just say a quick hello.

Honestly, darlin', I think you're packing some heat, but it's like trying to pet a kitten in a bag. Can I pull it out? You mind if I pull it out? I'm going to pull it out. Ohmigoodness. I would never have thought a nice man like you would be packing a weapon like that.

Tell you what. You showed me yours, so it's only fair I show you mine. See? There's my oven for lovin'. Ain't she pretty? Ain't --

Oops.

I slipped.

Honestly, darlin', I'm sorry. I certainly did not intend for this to happen. I'd pull it out but it was red and swollen when it went in and I don't want to make it any madder than it already was.

HAW!!! Ain't I naughty. Ain't I a stinker. Mama gets what mama wants.

Well, long as we're stuck together I might as well make myself comfortable. Yeah. Mm. Sugar, stir that pot. Stir that pot, and after we're done maybe Mama will let you lick the spoon. Yeah, that's it. Better hang on tight, honey, because this blender got twenty-one speeds. You hanging on? Let's slide this sucker up to FRAPPE.

Yeah, that's nice. That's nice. You know how to make Mama's milkshake. Now, punch that button and let's move on up to FRAPPE. Whoa! You just might be my favorite Kitchen Aid. Okay, sweetie, Mama's ready. Mama's ready to LIQUEFY. Punch that button. PUNCH THAT BUTTON! YES! YES! YES! YES! WOOWEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! AIEEEEEEEEEE!

Three years later.

Hi. This is Paula Deen for Herpeez.

Immigrants are ruining English. For instance, people used to think Miralax was a contraction of "miracle" and "laxative." Now they think it means "Look! Laxative!"

As Hugo opens, we meet a cute little boy and his new friend, a cute little girl. Next we're introduced to a middle-aged gendarme who has a crush on a single female who's around his age. And then we meet an old man who's desperately trying to pitch woo with an old woman whose dog just doesn't like him.

At Minute Two of the movie, we know the question: Will these couples overcome the obstacles and end up together? Which is why I was screaming at Minute Three, "GET THIS SHIT OFF MY TV!"

NBC's new Smash follows the contrary construction. (How did I get to preview it? We slightly-popular bloggers don't adhere to the same tedious programming rules as you regular folks.) Instead of each character being paired with an eligible partner, though, they're all weighed down by one giant problem.

Debra Messing and her hubby want to adopt, which is why she's taking time off from writing boffo musicals. Her best intentions go awry, though, when her writing partner comes up with a brilliant new idea:

DEBRA: A musical about Marilyn Monroe entitled "Marilyn: The Musical." That's incredible. Clearly you've spent a lot of time thinking about this.

Yeah, because the best I could come up with was Some Like It Washed Down With Nebutal. Even before they've written the first song, critics proclaim the show a smash, and the next day it's in previews. But what about the baby? It's not like a rich white woman can hang around a piano all day and raise a child at the same time. (Take that, bitches who try to have it all.) If Debra comes out of retirement, will her husband finally reach his breaking point?

Dark-Haired Marilyn Wannabe (Katharine McPhee) has unattractive parents who think she'll never fulfill her dreams of stardom. Can she prove them wrong? The director has the hots for DHMW, but Iowa girls don't leap into bed until wedding rings and cheese curds appear. Will Blonde-Haired Marilyn Wannabe sleep with him and steal the lead?

All of this is just as artificial as Hugo, and just as unsatisfying. Totally unacceptable, though, is what they've done to Marilyn. Audition after audition shows they've morphed our shy little flower into an American Idol-style belter. She's got Liza Minnelli's self-confidence, and she's belting out songs to the rafters:

MARILYN: CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THE LAST ROW, FELLAS? I WAS SINGING, 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SKIDDLY-DADDLY-DWEE-BOP YEW-OOOO-OOOO!!!'

If that makes you cringe, just wait for the scene where Marilyn decides she wants to date Joe DiMaggio, so she visits the Cubs' locker room. Yes, because five minutes of a ninety-minute Marilyn biography should consist of guys in pinstripes carrying her around while she caterwauls about peanuts and the difficulties of getting to second base. This boisterous broad only gets breathless after she's rotated the tires on her Jeep Cherokee.

So, adios Smash. Ride your silly conflicts into the sunset. And good luck, Actual Marilyn. I hope people remember you like I do, all breath and restraint and shy smiles, before you became so loud and confident you seemed a cinch for a Der Wienerschnitzel ad.

"I haven't had anything done!" Paris declared. "I've just been getting a lot of sleep."

What I Was Thinking

I am the Fort Myers, Florida policeman accused of tazing a disabled gay man after hearing what I thought was gunfire. I know some people may believe I did something wrong, but after they hear my story I think they will understand. Here is how the scene underwent.

I'm outside a strip club about to serve a warrant when I hear a loud BANG. And then another. Then another! It totally sounds like a gunshot, except for the part that sounds like somebody opening a car door in between. I look over toward where the sound came from and see seven men standing in front of a gay bar, laughing and joking. They're closer to the sound, yet they are laughing and joking. In that split second I decide that they are probably deaf.

So, I yell "GET ON THE GROUND!" at them. The fact they remain laughing and joking in front of a gay bar after one of them has fired a weapon repeatedly but very slowly causes me to think they are a really badass gay gang to whom human life means nothing and who may suffer from arthritis. I run at them with my gun drawn, repeatedly ordering them to get on the ground. They all do, except for the overweight one with the cane I call "Mr. Badass." "Mr. Badass" refuses to drop to his knees. Instead, he keeps touching his throat, where there's a hole. I think he's telling me, "Hey, I'm going to shoot you just like somebody shot me," so I taze him.

At this point he collapses onto the ground, and I am informed that what I thought were gunshots were actually somebody slamming their car door.

I probably would not have tazed this man if I had known this, or if I'd known he's disabled and can't actually lower himself onto the ground, or if I'd known he'd had a tracheotomy and he can't talk without pressing his throat.

But I'd still call him "Mr. Badass."

I've seen some other claimers to the throne, so it's about time I made this official. I'm the world's biggest J. J. Abrams fan.

Super 8 was my super favorite movie of all time. In it, a small town is torn apart by something weird. Cloverfield was a close second. In it, a big city is torn apart by something weird. What other writer/director has that kind of range? True to its name, though, Lost lost me. So many details! If his fans were good with following plot lines, we wouldn't watch movies that are guaranteed to end with the line, "Whatever it was, I hope it never comes back."

J. J. Abrams completely reinvented the Mystery genre. Before him, they suffered from a fatal flaw: they were either too easy or too difficult to solve.

On the easy end is Murder She Wrote. Anybody with have half a brain realized that for 14 straight seasons the killer was the special guest star. Robert Goulet making an appearance this week? Well, you know, stars of that particular caliber don't sign onto projects just to be suspects. They're not spending four hours in makeup for one little scene:

JESSICA FLETCHER: What exactly were you doing when Colonel Parker was clubbed with a brass candlestick at Shady Penguin Cove?

SPECIAL GUEST STAR: I . . . I . . . I was selling postcards in my little souvenir shop. I didn't hear anything!

JESSICA FLETCHER: Oh. Okay. You're clear.

On the other end of the spectrum is Arthur Conan Doyle. He's a reasonably fun read, but he punishes those of us who have short attention spans. See, when I finish a book, odds are a year or two have passed since I started it. Seasons have come and gone; hell, my pets have come and gone. When I get to the end of Sherlock Holmes, rather than feeling a sense of relief, I'm pretty thoroughly annoyed:

SHERLOCK: The murderer is . . . Mr. Carstairs!

(MR. CARSTAIRS runs for the French doors, but a pair of burly policemen emerge from behind the curtains and grab him.)

MR. CARSTAIRS: Drat!

Maybe some folks will proclaim, "Mr. Carstairs! Of course!" but personally I'm saying, "Who?" I forgot who Mr. Carstairs was about eighteen kittens ago. Here's how Mr. Abrams would solve the problem:

SHERLOCK: The murderer is . . . a teleporting unicorn!

(A GIANT TWINKLING UNICORN materializes in the center of the room, where it hangs in midair.)

MR. CARSTAIRS: Well, fuck me with a rock!

I don't know why nobody thought of this before. It neatly solves the Mystery flaw: there's no way we can guess the culprit, and we don't feel any pressure to try. We can enjoy the spectacle, knowing that while we're watching New York City being destroyed by an oversized alien, no smartypants is going to leap up and proclaim, "I KNOW! I KNOW! IT'S A LEPRECHAUN FROM THE TWELFTH DIMENSION!"

Needless to say, I'm totally loving Abrams' new Alcatraz. Just before the island-prison closes for good, 300 residents mysterious disappear. Flash-forward fifty years later and they're back -- without having aged a day! This is classic Abrams: we get to watch supernatural entities rip shit up, and there's no chance in hell some brainiac will figure out why.

In closing, I'd like to address the idea that Mr. Abrams' work is sheer escapism. On the contrary, it helped shape my philosophy of life.

You never know when a time-traveling pony is going to get you, but you can be pretty sure one will.

Double-Chinned Fast Food Addict Brings a Fiery Lecture to the Fit and Healthy

New York's cardinal-to-be Timothy Dolan delivered a no-holds-barred sermon on morality Sunday, telling his flock to resist a sinful culture that seems to coerce young people into premarital sex.

"God-fearing Catholics are treated as outcasts for following church teachings," Archbishop Dolan said at St. Patrick’s. “We're belittled because we take exception to the rampant promiscuity that's overtaken our culture. Pop culture is constantly marginalizing us, labeling us with words like 'uncool' and 'uptight,' but this is one four-hundred pound man who won't shut up just to join the hip crowd."

Dolan didn’t mention any one show or star by name, but he clearly seemed to be targeting the bedhopping popularized by shows like Jersey Shore. “All too often today, the one who tries his or her best to be pure and chaste is often thought of not as a hero, but as a freak. But we will not retreat! We have the word of God behind us. If Jesus were here today I think he'd say to our youth, 'Listen to these men who are very wise despite the fact they cannot see their feet.'"

Dolan linked “sexual immorality” with society’s ills — violence, sex crimes, disease and broken families — and called on his fellow puffy priests to fight it with hard lectures and taut writings. "Attractive, hip youngsters will surely listen to reason, even if it comes from a guy who never dated and has more chins than the Shanghai phone book."

“Besides," he concluded, "it's not like there aren't alternatives to sex. Instead of coming across as a naysaying, puritanical nag who's always saying ‘No, no, no,' I suggest we say, 'Why not have a cannoli instead? How about a bucket of KFC? What's wrong with Cajun fries?' Because immorality will eat your eternal soul, but gluttony is no sin."

Dolan then exited the altar clutching a bag of Cheetos as a few well-sculpted arms shot up in the air.