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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laugh. Ha ha! Look at the Cheetos fighting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to my honeymoon.

Great News For House-Bound Drag Queens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Come On.

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

bellaandedward.com. Was crystal meth, not alcohol.

Thanks but no thanks.
RomanHans

Dear Polish People:

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

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

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

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

But that there is Mickey Mouse.

Minnie's got a bow on her head.

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

Your pal,
RomanHans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled and gave it to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sadly, it was.

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

Ike Turner even got a few votes.