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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Diary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIG: Snort!

FARMER: Is the mud okay?

PIG: Snort!

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

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

I can imagine it makes for some awkward scenes.

FARMER: I had the best pork chop last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New York Times Reporter Pisses In Sink For Two Weeks Straight

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

Dear Oksana Grigorieva:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your dearest fan,
RomanHans

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Gay Seniors,

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

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

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

From the latest Mel Gibson tape:

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

Dear Pringles and Bud Light,

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

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

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

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