Conservative website World Net Daily congratulates some American corporations for refusing to recognize equal rights for gays and lesbians. They applaud Harley-Davidson, Goodyear, and Advance Auto Parts, but single out one corporation in particular. "When it comes to automotive service in America," they trumpet, "Pep Boys may be among the best-known brands, but the company is doing absolutely nothing to promote the homosexual agenda."

"We sincerely appreciate the kind words," replied Manny, Moe, and Nearsighted Hitler.

Mitchell Tice, of Florida, was arrested Sunday for breaking into his boss' storage unit and stealing two laptop computers, a wig, and a bag full of dildos.

Is that incredible? That dude is employed.

Tice was linked to the theft after his girlfriend told detectives that her beau “had placed a bag of dildo’s [sic] under their bed.”

"I realize there ain't no emergency, 911 lady, but if somebody don't take these dildos there sure as hell gonna be."

The dildos were later shown to the restaurant owners, who “positively identified the items as theirs.”

"You're absolutely certain these are your belongings?" the detective asked.

"Well, if you turn around a second," the boss replied, "I'll make for goddamn sure."

"On the plus side," Lonnie's dad thought to himself, "at least he ain't playing with dolls."

Dear Idiot:

• "People That Talk To Pets More Than God" should be "People Who. . . . "
  
  
• "People that watch TV more than Study the Bible" should be "People Who. . . . "
  
  
• "The Jews That Are From The Synagogue Of Satan" should be "The Jews Who. . . . "
  
  
• I'm not sure why you used the adjective "child molesting," like just plain "child molester" wasn't specific enough. You're thinking the straight ones are cool?
  
  
• Unless you're referring to actual diaper-wearing murderers, you should probably change "Baby Killers" to "People Who Kill The Unborn."
  
  
• When you say "Ankle Biters" do you mean "children"? Because it's odd that you'd hate both children and the people who kill them. Do you mean "Pillow Biters"?
  
  
• "Sex Perverts" is redundant, like "Fundamentalist Christian Idiots."
  

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

P. S. Tell Sport his nuts are okay in my book.

Pull Over, America!

My fellow Americans, it's time. Time to stop our country's breakneck ride to hell!

Sarah Palin, America's brightest political analist, has said that the Obama Adminustration’s actions are driving us down the “Road to Ruin." Activist politicians have pushed the pedal to the floor, and now there's no way we can stop, like when little Jayden dropped that tube of Cajun Pringles and it got wedged under the accelerator.

Well, the time has come to stop that runaway car.

Yes, we've tried: God knows we've tried. We've signed petitions, and we've gotten hundreds of thousands of people to picket Washington, many of them holding signs that were correctly spelled. So far, though, all our efforts have failed due to entrenched political machinary and a corrupt lamestream media.

So how do we make our voices known? How do we send a clear message that cannot be twisted by the lamestream media? We have come up with a brand new way.

It won’t cost you any money. It will only take an hour. And it won't require you to ride on the devil's favorite transportation: an aeroplane.

We're going to hit the brakes!

Here is the plan. On Sunday, March 13th, 2011, we want everyone to get into their cars, trucks, RVs, and semis, and drive to your nearest highway. At exactly two o'clock, pull over onto the shoulder and park. Turn on your lights, turn on your flashers, and honk your horn until three o'clock.

Is that a great idea? We'll send the lamestream media a message they'll never forget. Do the math. If one-third of all Americans do this, and a car is 24 feet long, and we leave 10 feet between each car, and there's 7,000 feet in a mile, and a freeway is -- oh, how the hell are we supposed to know? We ain't Chinese. But imagine the traffic reports! On the evening news everybody will ask, “What the heck is going on?”

Of course, we don't want you to get in trouble. In most states, though, it's legal to pull over in case of emergancy, and going to hell in a handbasket must qualify! Hold a pack of Winstons to your ear and pretend you're making an important phone call, like some guy with a fancy job. Besides, they say we shouldn't pee at the side of the road and that's never stopped us before!

So, at two o'clock on Sunday, pull over, America. Park and wave banners and greet your neighbors and tell them, "Brother, we too are no longer driving down this road!" And when the inevitable occurs and somebody driving by gets a flat, the shoulder will already be crowded, so they'll be stuck right there, in the middle of the road. And when the hundreds of speeding cars behind them can't stop in time, there'll be a conflaguration even bigger than that Thanksgiving you tried to deep-fry a Butterball, and we'll all stand by our cars and waive our flags and say, "See? We told you this road wasn't safe. We told you it ain't smart to drive on it. And all of us good Americans are going to stay off it, even after they tow away all your ruined Volvos and put out the fire that spread to the nature preserve."

Newt Gingrich says his passionate hard work for his country contributed to his marital infidelity. "There's no question at times of my life, partially driven by how passionately I felt about this country, that I worked far too hard and things happened in my life that were not appropriate," Gingrich told the Christian Broadcasting Network.

Really, when you think about it, the American capitalist system is just too fucked up. All of us working dudes, either because we love our work or we're just trying to get ahead, find ourselves at the office at some godawful hour, and by then our penises are swollen so badly we can't get in the car to drive home and screw our girlfriends or wives.

I'm thinking even women can sympathize here. It's like when you're really hungry, and you wander around looking for an Asian-fusion macrobiotic vegan place that looks remotely clean. You know there's got to be one around somewhere, so you keep searching, but half an hour later you find your hands pale and shaking and cramming a Big Mac down your gob.

If we left work at six or seven we could make it, but any later and the deadline has passed. We can barely ride the elevator from floor to floor looking for some willing piece of ass without causing irreparable harm to our insides.

Luckily, in Newt Gingrich's case it worked out well. I can picture how that first hot, seductive scene played out, and how his current wife Calista would have been won over by those words. "Because I love my country too much, I've mistakenly stayed here too late," Newt must have explained, "and my penis will explode like a Mexican firecracker if I don't screw something before I get home to my legal wife."

"Then use me, dedicated patriot!" she must have replied as she pulled up her James Galanos shealth dress and exposed her ladybits. "I'll do anything to serve my country, and to save your Cadillac from requiring reupholstery."

"But what's in it for you?" Newt asks, exhaling the scent of coffee and peanut butter cups in her face.

"I feel that same sexual desperation, though -- to be honest -- I'm driven less by love of country than that goddamned overtime pay."

Frankly, since men own all the major corporations, I don't understand why they don't provide for our needs. Hell, at Google they've got a coffee shop, and a burrito bar. At Microsoft they've got masseuses, and basketball courts. But has some small part of a man ever exploded because he couldn't play a quick game of HORSE? I think not! All these perks pale in comparison to what we really need. We need a workplace where sultry fuckslaves lie around waiting to sexually service us, and we can't all work at American Apparel.

Needless to say, I'm supporting Newt in his run for the presidency. It's partly because I think that, as a victim of his urges, he'll bring these necessary changes to the American workplace, but mostly for the good of his third marriage. Obviously the man either needs his wife nearby at all times, or he needs a job where his presence isn't required. Which means either he has to work from home, or he needs a government job.

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

SHEILA: Oooh, Margie, isn't he a dishy one?

MARGIE: I like the way he holds a piece of cardboard in front of him so it looks like he's on a boat.

I just had lunch, and a big chunk of something went down the wrong way. I have no idea what that means, but I know it's what people say in this circumstance. It's one of those things that struck me as bizarre as a child but no adult ever clarified -- like the Shriners, or testicles. Over the years I've come up with my own explanation, but it's so nonsensical even I can't believe it's true.

See, we've got one pipe leading into our bodies, but somewhere along the way it splits into two: one heading for the lungs, and one heading for the stomach. Obviously there must be some kind of switching system, like on a train track, and I'm picturing a fleshy little flap.

Now, this is actually pretty cool, because that fleshy little flap moves into the right position without requiring any conscious thought. You don't have to concentrate to get it into position, or clap your hands like you're trying to get Tinkerbell off the ground. It just does it all by itself.

That is, when it works. When it doesn't, a big chunk of something edible goes into your lungs.

Which is one of the top two things that scared me as a child, next to thinking that getting hit in the balls meant my future children would be born with broken arms. See, I knew that lungs weren't equipped for food disposal. There's no stomach acid there. It's all puffy pink tissue, with delicate folds and bends so it can pull oxygen out of the air.

Then a giant piece of squash plops down into it, and -- seemingly a logical conclusion -- you are completely screwed. The food is stuck there as it slowly rots, while you exhale the air that circulates around it. "Nice to see you!" you say to somebody. "Is that rotting squash?" they ask.

With a bit of thought, this led me to the inevitable: really, there can't be a God.

I mean, God allegedly designed us, right? Could an infallible -- hell, even a competent -- designer have created a system like this? He wasn't on a budget. He didn't have a boss who nagged him about the schedule. He had all the time in the world, and he came up with a system that kills you if you try to eat too much steak.

Really, would it have killed him to give us two separate inputs? It's not like extra flesh costs extra. Then if the food pipe got clogged, it'd be no big deal. "That's a bother," we'd think as we continued to breathe normally. "Guess I'll have to get to a plumber some time soon."

Instead, it can be fatal. Which makes me wonder: every time somebody chokes to death, does God damn himself? He's responsible, just like the dudes who put the Pinto's gas tank under the driver's seat. If a car designer merged the radiator with the radio, even Kia would fire him. And this isn't God's only instance of bad design. Have you seen pigeons? "They'll look so majestic floating on air!" God said to himself. "And when they're on the ground, well, they can just jerk their heads back and forth to counterbalance their feet." When you look in a pigeon's eyes, though, you can guess his thoughts on the matter: "Holy shit," he's thinking, "I just dislodged my fuckin' brain."

Anyway, now I'm stuck with it. I can feel it in my lungs: my big hunk of squash is starting its slow descent into sludge. If you run into me in the next couple of months, be kind. Don't ask about the rotting smell, and whatever you do, watch out for my testicles.

They say with age comes wisdom, but Rosina Kovar is living proof that maxim isn't true. When the Senate Judiciary Committee in Colorado held open hearings before voting on whether to grant gays civil unions, the 76-year-old Denver grandmother exercised her civic right to stand before them and tell them everything she knows about assholes.

Which, sadly, betrayed a second-grade education. "The anus is an exit," she declared. "It is not an entrance. Unlike the vagina, nature put a tight sphincter at the entrance to the anus. It's there for a reason. Keep out!"

Dear Ms. Kovar:

I realize you don't know me and I don't know you, but you said something weird the other day and I just wanted to clarify.

You know you can loosen your butthole, right?

Just curious,
RomanHans

I mean, look at this subjectively: the anus is far better than the vagina for sex, because, for one, it's controllable. Anuses are like little round doors: we can open them, and we can close them. And yes, maybe a closed door says "Keep out!", but like our anuses we can easily swing them open in a welcoming manner whenever, say, the UPS man wanders by.

Meanwhile, nothing says "Howdy, neighbor!" like flinging a shitload of blood on innocent bystanders fourteen days a month.

"The anal lining is only one-cell thick," the simple-minded senior continued before the patient politicians. "There's no lubrication."

I'm not sure what grandma's point is here. Does she mean we're all fragile downstairs? Like the rest of us is made of bone and muscle but for some bizarre reason God stuck Royal Doulton up our butts? Yeah, babe, I've got a veritable glass menagerie down there. It's like crossing the Andes with a truckload of dynamite every time I take a nacho dump.

Really, there's nobody quite as stupid as the religious. First they tell us that God made us, and then they say he did a shitty job.

Meanwhile, the out-to-lunch old-timer doesn't mention that a lot of heavily-trafficked areas of the body are one-cell thick -- like parts of the throat. Yet somehow circus performers can jam two-foot metal swords down their gobs for three shows a day and somehow emerge unscathed. Which, you know, means a few jabs by six inches of hunky foreigner isn't going to require paramedics standing by.

Anyway, all of this just confuses the matter. Anal sex has absolutely nothing to do with civil unions, and it's patently offensive to bring it up. Gullible grannies shouldn't be allowed to spread their stupidity any more than I should be allowed to stand up at bingo night and tell them God is dead and, if their sad little anuses are as fragile as all that, after tomorrow morning's oatmeal they will be too.

Answering Somebody Else's Question

In the New York Times Real Estate Q&A column:

Q. We recently moved into a co-op in Scarsdale with our toddler. Are co-ops in Westchester County required to install window guards? If not, and our bylaws state that the building is responsible for the windows, can we compel the co-op to install the guards?

Oh, absolutely. Whoever owns your building has to ensure that it's safe for your little white offspring, Ms. Stay-At-Home-Mom, so you should demand that they kiddie-proof your home. Tell them you can't foot the bill: after paying your feng shui consultant and the Olive Oil of the Month club, hubby's hard-earned money is gone.

Meanwhile, if there's a rec room in the building, insist that there's an unwritten contract that they have to provide entertainment for all the residents, and your little beige addition is getting bored. Refuse to capitulate until you see bouncy castles and hourly puppet shows.

Next, you need to phone the dealership where you bought your car and tell them about your pale new issue. Your family is no longer safe in the car, and they need to do something about it stat. They need to buy you a safety seat, and maybe a DVD player, because if something doesn't amuse the kid, he'll start playing with the cigarette lighter. And call whoever sold you your dining room set and demand a booster seat, because your spineless little tadpole probably slides right out of the chairs, and if he gets one freakin' splinter in his chalky ass you're calling Johnny Cochran. Then let the mayor know that you need a stroller, because you can't just drag your limpid hellspawn down city sidewalks.

Of course, you've got exactly zero chance of getting any of this, but I just wanted to make sure more people knew about all the stupid entitled rich white folks around here.

Stripping Grammar Naked, Part Two

As you perhaps know, I learned how to write well by reading bad writing: specifically, online porn. After years and years of frequenting websites specializing in dirty fiction, I’ve encountered literally every mistake a young writer can make, and I’ve catalogued them so I don’t fall in the same trap.

If you’d like to improve your own writing, see if you can spot the errors in the examples below.

1. Mark really liked Stan, and he was determined to make him a boyfriend.

Unless Mark has been raiding graveyards, this statement is too ambiguous.

2. Ray was so glad Heinrich was the one out of the millions of people in the world who had taken his virginity.

I hope this is just a misplaced modifier, because, you know, probably the hundred thousandth person would have realized Ray had done it before.

3. It was just as I suspected! Phillip was burying the bone under my very own nose!

Avoid clashing colloquialisms. Here, for instance, it sounds like the writer is going to get a condition even Proactiv can’t cure.

4. Edwin put batteries in the massager and then rubbed the man with the tiny blue tool.

This is another misplaced modifier, unless my second husband is dating again.

5. Otto sucked greedily on his partner’s lips while his cock did the same thing down below.

I really don't have anything to say about this, other than Otto must be handy to have around when your Oreck breaks.

6. Carter was shameless! He blew me, the guy with the half-inch dick, and then Wolfgang.

Watch out when you're making lists, because from the way I read this, the author is only describing two guys.

7. When the security guard approached, Steve dropped his shorts and shot off due north.

Either the writer needs to use more concise verbs or somebody else uses a compass when they masturbate. Obviously the correct sentence is, "When the security guard approached, Steve dropped his shorts and evacuated."

8. The second time he asked me for a hand job I had to break it off.

What? What? You know, if you want to turn people off, just tell them his dick was so hard it could have knocked out a Nazi.

9. Wayne and Mike used to walk their dogs wearing tiny shorts that showed all their equipment.

Either this is a dangling modifier or my Snowflake ought to be grateful I’ve only bought him a little hat.

10. That night, Walter proposed, and soon he and Tadzio were planning their wedding reception. “We’re going to need some hors doeuvres,” Walter said. “After I take a dump, will you help me pick them out?”

I’m hoping the addition of an unrelated phrase horribly distorted somebody’s meaning. Otherwise, you know, if you want people to regret coming to your wedding, find a DJ who likes the Beach Boys.

Anyway, I hope you found this lesson fruitful. As I said, I recommend reading porn, if only for the writing lessons. It’s all those 12” dicks and gallons of cum that I find a little hard to swallow.

"Just put your arms out and think happy thoughts!" Peter says.

Wendy looks at him: at his bulging eyes, at his veiny legs, at his too-short tunic. "Actually, you know, I've got an early class tomorrow," so Peter says okay and flies home.

This looks like some weird Photoshopped joke, but I swear it's straight off of Google, and there's a thousand more images just like it. I saw it in an ad on Towleroad where it was being touted as the perfect side dish, and I thought, wait: I realize Americans are fat, but are we really considering butter a course these days? My sister eats it with a fork, but I thought it meant she was weird.

I've been staring at it for much of the morning, but I'm still mystified. I'm leaning toward the idea that these are microwave bags of mashed potatoes, except maybe they've added so much butter that they're legally obligated to call them "butter." But then what about the phrase "Made with 100% real mashed potatoes"? Obviously this is a bullshit line, like Taco Bell saying their tacos are made with 100% real beef. After you joke that yes, it's probably best they don't make tacos with imaginary beef, you realize it doesn't mean anything, because aside from that 100% real beef they could have added 100% real sawdust for all you know.

Essentially, it's saying it's made with mashed potatoes. Which must mean it's not mashed potatoes, because when you buy soup, it doesn't say "Made with 100% real soup!" on it. But this can't be butter because of the phrase "Tastes as good as homemade!" as the top. Surely they're aware that my sister is one of the few chicks around with her own churn. And if this is butter, what's the phrase "With butter" doing on there?

Just when I think I've decided, I slide my eyes down to the bottom.

To make this "Homestyle Creamy Butter" "With butter," you've got to add butter.

I decide to pick up a box for my sister's Christmas present, and think about something else.

A New Hampshire man has been accused of sexually assaulting his neighbor’s horse.

Police said they were sent out on a call concerning a man putting his hand and arm inside a horse’s vagina. They found Marian Wegiel, 63, in the corral and arrested him. He has been charged with cruelty to animals, fourth-degree sexual assault, third-degree criminal trespass and second-degree breach of peace.

Wegiel's attorney says he's a “decent human being" who has been “churchgoing all his life.” Wegiel denies abusing the horse, and says he was "comforting" it after it had been scared.

Ohmigod, this is ridiculous. It seems like every day there's another God-fearing saint in yet another preposterously bizarre sex scandal. Frankly, it frightens me to hear about stuff like --

Dude. No. NO!!!

Well, Okay, Then. I Guess It's Cool.

Mazda today announced the recall of 52,000 vehicles due to possible spider infestation. The Yellow Sac spider, whose bite is considered dangerous, has been discovered weaving webs in the car's fuel system, causing blockages which could eventually cause the gas tank to crack.

Asked why the spider was only infesting Mazdas, Communications Director Jeremy Barnes replied, "Apparently, the spider likes to go zoom zoom."

So, every few years the government does these sex studies to find out who's boffing who. I'm not sure why it took three years to release the report covering 2006-2008, but it's out, and it's interesting. Just judging from the data, though, it seems that maybe the government wasn't quite as interested in us gays as the heteros. For instance, take a look at one table detailing exactly who does what.


Let's reconstruct the instructions to the interviewer using the data presented here.

1. Ask "Are you male or female?" Record answer.

2. Ask "Are you sexually attracted (a) only to the opposite sex, (b) mostly to the opposite sex, or (c) other?" Record answer.

3. Ask "Do you identify as (a) heterosexual, or (b) homosexual/bisexual?" Record answer.

4. If interviewee replied "heterosexual" to 3, ask "Have you had sex with anyone?" Record answer. If yes, ask "Was it the kind of sex where a man puts his penis in a woman's vagina?" Record answer. Ask "Was it the kind of sex where somebody's genitals are stimulated by somebody's mouth?" Record answer. Ask "Was it the kind of sex where a man puts his penis in a woman's bottom?" Record answer. Say, "Those are all my questions for today. Thanks! You've been very helpful."

5. If interviewee replied "homosexual" to 3, ask "Have you had sex with anyone?" Record answer. Say, "Thank you, but I've heard more than enough."

Two dope-dealing Staten Island brothers have been busted for growing a groovy garden of illegal foliage so intense that cops who raided the place got stoned.

The marijuana farm run by Keith Harrigan, 47, and 49-year-old brother Craig took in $1 million a year. "You almost got a contact high by just going into the house," said a law-enforcement source.

Police handcuffed the two men and took them to Laserium.

Dear Sarah,


Hope this helps,
RomanHans

The good news is, John Galliano hasn't alienated all of his high-society clientele with his anti-Semitic outbursts.

The bad news: