I'd rather have a relationship with a sexy guy than a smart guy. With a sexy guy, your day may be dull, but you go to bed with a smile on your face. You think, "It took us a while to get here, but it sure was worth it!"

With a smart guy, though, the day ends with fake enthusiasm and pitiful coitus. Regardless how intellectual you are, you're not going to sigh happily to yourself and think, "Well, we sure had a great conversation about Kirkegaard!"

While Michael gets his botox, Dina Lohan exercises her facial muscles for the very last time.

Really, this is smart. It's good for a pastor and his same-sex congregants to sit around a table with a trained ombudsman and iron out whether he fucked them or not.

Why Christians Can't Wait for The Rapture

1. Ever since Richard Dawson left "Family Feud" life has seemed like a trivial sham.

2. In heaven, straight people get to be interior decorators.

3. They love you, mama, but they just can't face another dinner of Jeno's pizza rolls and Hot Pockets.

4. Every Sunday it's "Go to church, go to church, go to church." Isn't it about time somebody came to them?

5. Hey, sweatpants don't last forever, you know.

6. That vague empty feeling deep in their souls will be filled when they're finally reunited with their schnauzer, Buffy II.

7. After breakfast at Dunkin' Donuts and lunch at Cinnabon, they're pretty sure they can't get out of their cars by themselves.

8. It's about time all the God-fearing Christians were rewarded and the popular people were burnt to a crisp.

9. If they have a spare second between the sky opening up and Jesus lifting them off the ground and floating them up to heaven, they can finally put on their "See, Assholes? I Told You So!" t-shirts.

10. Really, c'mon. Jews?

I'm moving to Sweden.

Now, I went to school in California, so basically all I know about Sweden is that they invented porn and furniture that collapses if you have any hardcover books. I just read in the paper, though, that there's this guy named Julian Assange, and the Swedish government is spending literally millions of dollars and thousands of hours of police time to extradite him from Britain so he can be tried on two counts of having condoms break while he's having sex.

Is that incredible? Millions of dollars, thousands of man hours. The country must be a paradise. In New York, if somebody rapes you, you call the police and they refuse to write up a report. They say, "Hey, count your blessings! Just be grateful he didn't shoot you in the head!" Something tells me if you call them up and say this guy wouldn't stop fucking you when the condom broke, you shouldn't actually go outside and listen for sirens.

In Sweden, though, this serial condom breaker is Public Enemy Number One. You can imagine his photo tacked up at the post office, next to a photos of this year's yodeling contest. Under "Description" it'll say, well, part of his dick is kind of beige.

It makes you wonder about the Swedish penal code. I'm picturing undercover policemen in the public restrooms waiting to catch a dude who leaves the toilet seat up. You can picture the scene outside jail on Monday mornings: "Say goodbye to your sister, Bobby," a tearful mother would say. "She used her teeth when she gave her fiancé a blow job."

Of course, this no-crime wave could be a temporary anomaly. They might totally forget about Mr. Assange if, like, some kid steals a tulip out of his neighbor's yard, or somebody's grandma gets a flat tire on her Schwinn. Maybe Mr. Assange will stop making the news when some senior citizen announces he's going to build the world's largest cuckoo clock. But this just means I've got to head there at the earliest opportunity.

Now, I'm realistic. I know life in Sweden isn't going to be some glorious heaven with all-you-can-eat gravlax and lingonberries. I shudder to think about living in the same country as this lawless monster. Still, I believe in karma. I know that while I'm with the law-abiding Swedes discussing recycling in some cement sauna left over from the sixties, the police will be searching the penal code day and night to find something on the dude to justify the bucks they've spent catching him.

And I have faith. At the very least I know they'll lock this bastard up and teach him the basics of sexual lubrication before setting him on his way. I think that'd teach him. He'll get no high-fives, no "Yo, dude, when you're chillin', sounds like the women be willin'!" No, just set him free amid a barrage of judgmental glares. Because even if there's no legal way to justify more than a few minutes in jail for Mr. Assange, I think we can be content in knowing that for the rest of his life he'll stew in his own private hell where the whole world knows he's got a giant dick but isn't entirely sure how to use it.

A Michigan woman is suing a restaurant after her hand was broken while she was reaching for toilet paper.

58-year-old Sheri Schooley says the cover on the dispenser fell on her right hand, permanently disabling her, and she's asking for damages.

She's asking for half a million dollars because she can't type any more, a quarter million because she can't bowl, and eight million because now she has a crippling fear of homemade kazoos.

Another mistake? Asking her husband what was up with all the short, curly hairs on their phone.

Dear Republicans:

You were angry. You were so angry you told the Democrats "No more!" and voted a bunch of Republicans into office.

And the first thing those Republicans said was, "You're not getting this

until rich people get these."


Anyway, you fixed it. Congrats. Thanks to your keen political intellect, Candy Spelling won't have to disable any of the Glade Plug-Ins in her Scotch Tape Room.

Keep up the good work,
RomanHans

Is this crazy? The New York Times prints a totally innocent headline using the abbreviation "mo" for "moustache" and every gay blogger in America freaks out. God, some people really need anal.

What? Oh, you are fuckin' kidding me! We can't abbreviate analysis these days?

Rock singer Pink and her husband Corey Park love whiskey so much they may name their forthcoming child Jameson if it's a boy.

"Sounds like a plan," says my friend Boodles Schwartz.

"We don't have the advantage -- the animals have the advantage." -- Sarah Palin on hunting

And that's exactly why I don't go hunting. Goddamn caribou with their night-vision riflescopes.

"I don’t think I have ever met a homosexual who didn’t inform me of his or her homosexuality within minutes of our introduction. " -- Pamela Grothaus, columnist for the Naples News

Dear Pam,

Let me get this straight. If they didn't tell you they were homosexual, then they weren't?

Curious,
RomanHans

P.S. You need to introduce yourself with the word "pretty," because otherwise nobody's gonna suspect.

Ohmigod, San Francisco has gotten so ruined. It was heaven when I lived there, with the Castro and the clones and the Jefferson Starship and free love. And then I went back, just for old times' sake, and south of Market consisted of eighteen tangerine and teal Marriotts and a dude selling bongs.

The heteros had moved in, and everything good had been paved over. Now, apparently, there's one last vestige of freedom left -- it's legal to walk around nude -- and according to an article in the SF Weekly the residents want to squash that too.

"What about the children?" they scream, like seeing a full-sized penis would make their tiny heads explode.

I don't get this. San Francisco means freedom, right? It's like moving next door to Mario Batali and then freaking out when you smell cheese. They get the cops to harass the naked dudes, but since it's not illegal there's nothing they can do.

Really, how hard is it not to look at these people? If my brain can identify and ignore anything wearing Uggs, I'm pretty sure it can skip past six feet of wrinkled orange flesh.

One boy broke into tears after seeing a man's Prince Albert piercing. "He wanted to know why [the man's] peepee was broken," a cop said.

Kid, it's not broken. It's called a "piercing." Dude caught it from your mommy's ears.

A 7-year-old girl called the city's service line to report a nude man. "I don't know why they're doing it — shock value or what?" she asked a reporter. "The Castro's a place that's supposed to be for everybody, and if you're excluding the kids, that's not being accepting of everyone."

Uh, girl, who's excluding the kids? Feel free to slip out of those Garanimals if you want (though I'd prefer it if you'd stay clothed until you've got Tom Selleck's chest). Note to her parents: yeah, that "Palin 2012" t-shirt will be the perfect Xmas gift.

Anyway, I just wanted to (1) complain about the cliché that there's an inverse correlation between public nudity and attractiveness (it's about freedom, and if only attractive people can be free then the Tea Party will have won) and (2) piss off the whiners by offering an alternative headline to this article.

San Franciscans Complain That Children Can't Handle Large Penises

Yeah, that's why I'm anonymous.

Police in Pittsburgh mistook a blood-splattered movie set for a real life murder scene -- for eight hours.

One officer labeled the room "the most grisly murder scene" he'd witnessed in 35 years in law enforcement.

Firefighters responding to a call at the George Washington hotel happened upon the room. They saw blood splattered everywhere, bottles of alcohol scattered about the room and "a piece of a scalp with hair still attached."

Eight hours into their investigation, police realized the "blood" wasn't real and they were dealing with a set left over from a film shoot. According to the hotel's owner, it had been left untouched in case the filmmakers needed to come back for re-shoots.

"You are kidding me," said Helen Mirren from Death Row.

Two weeks later you had a corn on your lip.

Really, it's not my fault. Through sheer willpower I can pace myself so I'm just mildly drunk when the club closes, or the open bar shuts down.

Last night, though, there were two open bars.

The first -- the one I knew about in advance -- was at the screening of "The Vice Guide to Everything," which premieres on MTV December 6. I downed three or four Dark & Stormys, ably fortifying myself for an hour in a quiet theater. Introducing the screening, though, Vice founder Shane Smith announced the afterparty, and said there'd be "complimentary drinks and co-- . . . . I almost said cocaine."

C'mon, like you'd just go home afterward.

I was absolutely knocked out by the two preview episodes. The show is fascinating, intelligent, and manly, like Spike TV with a brain. Unlike Spike TV, though, the show offers substantially more information than just the odds that you'll be killed by a woman's cleavage. Jackass and Punkd pale in comparison: their stakes are way too low. So Steve-O gets punched in the balls. So Ke$ha gets humiliated. It's definitely not educational, and in fact it's totally erased from my brain the second the screen goes black.

Now imagine Steve-O sneaking into North Korea.

You wonder why we've got thousands of boring news programs (Hi Katie!), yet nobody's thought of doing this. It's 60 Minutes in American Apparel. They confirm our suspicions that organized crime rules Naples, Italy, and its pop music. (Unbelievable, right? I mean, Nicki Minaj is clearly famous because of her talent.) We get visible proof of the craziness of Kim Jong Il, who puts on a stadium show of Olympic caliber, with a cast of 150,000 and an audience of several dozen. We visit a Mexican theme park where you pretend to sneak into the U. S. (Look out for Lou Ferrigno!)

A couple segments veer into Spike TV territory. They imply that DIY strip clubs are a real trend yet show us only one, run by a disabled dude in his mother's basement. A Yemeni skateboarder talks about the dangers of dating women in burqas. (Avoid the ones with really pretty eyes!)

Still, it's entertaining, informative, and consistently outrageous. The segments are over long before they wear out their welcome.

At the afterparty, at trendy Lit nightclub in the East Village, there was no mention of cocaine, but the alcohol overflowed. The crowd was attractive and diverse, like where you had to spin people around a couple times before you could take a stab at gender. Thank God for the facial-hair trend. Downstairs was a live band, and upstairs the DJ played a time line of hard rock, offering golden oldies like X's "Johnny Hit N' Run Pauline" and Plastic Bertram's "Ca Plan Pour Moi." I chatted briefly with Mr. Smith, who's quite charismatic on TV (emphasize the last two words there; still, he explained that he was drunk and had just flown back from Afghanistan) and absolutely adorable cast (and team?) member Ryan Duffy, who introduced himself by name despite the fact I'd just watched him for an hour. He confirmed that his lap dance was "epicly sad" and appreciated my praise for the show.

I stumbled out three hours after my mouth stopped working, and this morning can't put together a thought. As always, Vice has a work of genius on its hands. Its ambitions have thrown it into bold new territory. Once again they've proven that they're the folks to watch, offering the template that the middle-class media needs to follow, and shown that there's a reason why reasonably mature people squeal like Ned Beatty when they spot Vice invitations in their Inbox.

Vacation Snaps: Istanbul

Despite his owner's best attempts, cat refuses to have gay old time.

We all know how it happens. You're sitting around the campfire and notice Clem has something a'danglin' in his muttonchops. You slide over to get it, and just then you notice his blue-as-the-Montana-sky eyes, his rough, bee-stung lips, the way Wrangler jeans steadfastly refuse to flatter his manly form. "Whah," you say, "iz jez a bean, left over from -- from -- MWAH!" And before you can say, "Git along, little dogie," the two of you are on the ground naked, rolling past tumbleweeds.

This photo is heaven for us butch-loving gays. It's like Britney kissing Miley. It's better than any of that celeb porn we've seen recently, like "80 Wangs Up Paris" or "Kox, Kox & Kardashian: Two Lawyers and a Whore on the Loose."

Of course, these aren't real cowboys. On the right, that's the we-sure-thought-heterosexual Terry Richardson, photography's equivalent of American Apparel. On the left, that's fashion designer Tom Ford.

For some reason -- while discussing their collaboration on the upcoming French Vogue, I imagine -- they decided to kiss.

We look. And look. And eventually we say to ourselves, Terry, we forgive you for being a skeeze who's existence centers around photographing naked hipster chicks, and Tom, we forgive you for Chanel's plaid dickeys from Fall of 2003.

And we smile, content that such small parts of two nice-looking guys can awaken such large parts of us.

According to a new study of Norwegian business productivity practices, some bosses draw a hard line when it comes to using the bathroom. Two-thirds of the managers surveyed kept the bathrooms locked, one-third had the bathrooms under video surveillance, and one boss made his female employees wear red bracelets during their periods "to justify more frequent trips" to the bathroom.

Apparently the women always complain about having to wear them, but, well, you know.

Beauty pageants are a rich part of the culture in Colombia. Some prisons have their own pageants, and one town in northern Colombia takes it even further, putting makeup and wigs on its donkeys then parading them for its annual Miss Burro celebration.

Hey, call them ugly, stubborn, and stupid if you want, but not one of them made a speech about finding the Iraq on a map.