When Not To Say "And/Or"

Looking for a good book about human/dolphin love? Well, consider your prayers answered. Wet Goddess is Malcolm Brenner's tale of his affair with an aquatic theme park dolphin. Thrill to how the tempestuous Ruby seduces the reluctant 20-year-old:

She began raking her teeth lightly against my arms and legs which was indescribably erotic.

Wow. I'm sucked in from the first page. That's one dude who wouldn't scream when I blew him. Naturally their relationship turns sexual, as frequently happens when one gets close to somebody who's already lubricated. Of course, it's not always fun and games, like when Brenner and Ruby are playing in the tank and she tries to put her snout through the wrong hoop. But it truly is a tale of interspecies love, as Brenner so succinctly says:

What is repulsive about a relationship where both partners feel and express love for each other? I know what I'm talking about here because after we made love, the dolphin put her snout on my shoulder, embraced me with her flippers and we stared into each others' eyes for about a minute.

Well, I'm convinced, even though this is pretty much what happened the last time I ordered fish in Chinatown.

Sadly, after nine months, the amusement park closed. Ruby was shipped off to another theme park. You can almost picture their parting scene at the airport: Ruby's eyes are welling up, and Brenner has krill on his pants. He heads to a nearby piano bar to drown his sorrows.

"Go ahead, Sam," he tells the piano player. "You played it for her; now play it for me."

The song? "Under the Sea."

Anyway, I just know you'll give the book five stars, like Amazon's average, though some reviewers don't seem entirely sincere in their critiques. (Really, Franklin, a flirty guinea pig?) And for all those readers who despair that they'll never find four hundred pounds of slick cartilage to love, be heartened by an odd little clue.

Yes, there's absolutely zero attitude. Well, except for the "I'm a fifty-year-old man who enjoys serially fucking strangers" thing.

Following a massive public protest, the Chinese government has banned a traditional carnival in which dogs are eaten after being chopped up alive in the street.

Goddammit. And I'd just come up with the most amazing scam. See, I walk up to a stranger and say, "I bet you $5 I can make your dog shake."

When asked for comment, the baby reportedly said, "Yo yo yo, it's all good."

Scientists Decide Bisexual Animals Don't Have A Sexual Orientation

A five-and-a-half-inch deep-sea squid that lives a solitary life up to half a mile down in the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean is the latest addition to the hundreds of species that are known to engage in same-sex sex.

[Dr. Hendrik J.T. Hoving, author of “A shot in the dark: same-sex sexual behavior in a deep-sea squid,"] was prepared for attention to the same-sex behavior and was ready for people to conflate squid and human behavior and announce the discovery of gay squid.

He fended off that notion, reiterating that the squid has no discernible sexual orientation, and that a tentacled invertebrate that shoots sperm into its mate’s flesh really has nothing to do with human behavior. -- from today's New York Times

Sigh. Plus ça change, blah blah. It's weird: Years ago, the entire scientific world announced that animals were straight. Every single one. Penguins mated for life. Geese actually bought each other engagement rings. On the odd occasion when a scientist would catch, say, a couple male dogs going at it, an explanation was immediately offered:

Those dogs are really confused.

I actually wrote to National Geographic when one of their articles declared that seahorses having homosexual sex were simply confused. "How did your esteemed scientists come to this conclusion?" I asked. "Did the seahorses back off when erections appeared, or did they go 'Oops!' afterward?"

Now creatures that fuck anything that moves aren't bisexual: they simply have no sexual orientation. This strikes me as petty. It's like if you show your Dooney & Burke clutch to a fashionista friend, and she says, "You know, if it isn't Louis Vuitton, it's not really a bag."

As we delve deeper into it, we realize these folks are being awfully petty. They raise all sorts of odd conditions to keep the squid from being homosexual. "The squid aren't actually fucking," they insinuate. "They're just shooting sperm onto each other." Oh. Okay. If that doesn't count as authentic sex, then I've been a virgin since January '02. "These aren't people we're talking about: they're tentacled invertebrates."

Dr. Hoving, meet Dr. E. C. Spada:


The Times is unattractively desperate.

[The male squid] pay no attention to the sex of other squid. Understandably so. They live alone in the dark, males and females are hard to tell apart, and only occasionally do squids pass in the night.

"We'd fuck a dude too if it was dark, and we were lonely," they're saying. I'm not sure how they can glom this generalization onto incommunicado invertebrates, though. Somehow they know that the squid aren't thinking, "Hey, here's a hot little dude!" but rather, "Well, at least I found something to fuck!"

In the end, we realize that nothing has changed. The scientists are nuts, the media is nuts. It's the same old story. Animals are hetero until we can't pretend they aren't, but that still doesn't mean they're gay.

They're simply nothing. Nothing at all.

Which doesn't exactly make progress towards gay equality, but I guess somebody's gotta be in the center of the Hollywood Squares.

It's an hour of yelling, screaming, and tears. Haggard totally thought he could trade his wife for a dude.

I'm not sure if you know this, but Bob Seger is an idiot. And you are too, if you hear the song Old Time Rock and Roll
and think anything other than, "Whoa, what a load of crap."

See, the musical statement that song makes isn't quite what you think. Bob Seger isn't standing up against bad music: he's standing on his porch, Hot Pocket stains on his ragged plaid shirt, shaking his fist at all those damned kids.

Old Time Rock and Roll was released in 1978, when there was a lot of terrific music coming out. You know who released records in 1978? The Clash, the Sex Pistols, the Jam, Isaac Hayes, Elvis Costello, Aretha Franklin, Black Sabbath, and Bruce Springsteen. But let's listen to the old man's whine:

Just take those old records off the shelf
I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself

This intro clues us in to the scene. An old man wants to play his records, but he can't reach them. "Please get them down," he's telling a relative or a home caregiver, "and then leave." You think about offering to make him a sandwich, but you're afraid it might start him ranting about the effects of lettuce on an antsy colon.

Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock and roll

I totally agree. You know what 1978 song is like audio Wonder Bread to me? Shaft.

Don't try to take me to a disco

Yeah, dude, you figured us out. We were jealous of you and your four thousand Yardbirds albums. We only played Clash City Rockers full blast on our car stereos because we wanted to scare you into Oil Can Harry's, where a gay dude with his shirt open to the waist would force you to do the Running Man.

Won't go to hear them play a tango

A tango. You know, that's all that Black Sabbath ever recorded, at least until their accordion player died.

Bob, better sit down for a minute. See, nobody's recorded a tango since 1812. Your radio isn't made of Bakelite, by any chance? Somehow it's still picking up signals from World War I.

Anyway, your worries are unfounded. No one's going to make you listen to a tango. Similarly, you don't need to avoid "Never Mind the Bollocks, It's the Sex Pistols" because the quickstep makes your legs sore, and you don't have to burn your nephew's copy of "Darkness on the Edge of Town" because you just can't abide a waltz.

And to everybody who hears this song as a passionate defense of great music, it isn't. It's idiocy. It's your grandpa watching The Wire and saying that no TV villain will ever be as scary as Eddie Haskell. You know the truth, but you're not heartless. You smile. You help him get his records down. If he's hungry, you heat up a can of pork and beans.

But you're always, always ready to go running against the wind.

I totally thought they were kidding when I heard there was a movie called I Don't Know How She Does It.

I mean, that's not a movie title. That's an expression of admiration. That's wishful thinking. That's what Gladys Kravitz screams on Bewitched.

I'm picturing Sarah Jessica Parker in the phone with her agent. "So," he says, "we got possible new projects for you. You interested in reading Fahrenheit 452?"

Sarah waits until the wrought-iron gates open and makes a left onto Beverly Drive. "That sounds like a total downer."

"Yeah, I gotcha. A Brief History of Time?"

Sarah slides up her sunglasses and glances at herself in the rear-view mirror. "I dunno. I mean, how important is my character if they're not even in the title?"

"Okay, maybe you'll like this one: I Don't Know How She Does It."

Sarah slams on the brakes, making the yellow Yugo behind her nearly swerve into a Bentley. "Get that messengered over to me now."

I've spent all morning on it, and I can't think of another opinion that also serves as a movie title. If You Put Catsup On Pastrami You're An Asshole turns up nothing on IMDB. There's no copyright on Dudes In Bow Ties Make Me Wet. No, this is a first: the most important thing to know about this movie is some anonymous person caught a glimpse of Sarah Jessica Parker and just had to express envy.

Yes, Sarah can do it all! She's that fabled woman who juggles a job, a family, and a beautiful home. And, for a short time, you can watch her! Pay thirteen dollars to admire somebody doing something you'll never achieve, before going home to your hovel and staring at the moldy pickles in the back of your fridge.

Sadly, I think this says a lot about chicks: like, they're masochistic. Dudes won't pay to watch somebody do something they'll never manage. There's not going to be a line for I Can't Believe His Fabulous Sex Techniques. No guy would go see He's Just 23, And Already A CEO. You know what movie would make less than Mars Needs Moms? I'm Just In Awe Of His Posture!

Still, it's grossing millions. The audience is totally there. I congratulate Ms. Parker on discovering a movie franchise that can follow her throughout life, and though I'll probably dodge She Actually Remembered Where She Put Her Car Keys, I wouldn't miss She Ran Two Blocks Without A Piddle.

A hunter was mauled to death by a 400-pound grizzly during a hunting trek through the remote wilderness ofMontana.

Steve Stevenson, 39, died after he yelled out to distract the rampaging grizzly from attacking his hunting buddy, Ty Bell, 20, who had shot and wounded the animal.

Bell thought the animal was a black bear when he shot it, he told authorities. Grizzlies are a protected species in the U. S.

The bear had a similar explanation. "I thought they were trout," he said.

Happy birthday to me.

I never really cared about Oprah protégé Dr. Mehmet Oz before, but now I'm his biggest fan. He's the M. D. equivalent of Entertainment Tonight, except instead of saying who looked like a whore on the red carpet he's going to tell you what fruit juice could kill your kids. Hey, I have a hard time tuning out ET when they promise an upcoming Marg Helgenberger story, and I don't know who the fuck she is.

I don't know why doctors haven't thought of this before. If they can make a small fortune peddling health care one-on-one, can't they make a huge one by selling it to the masses? On Tuesday's TV commercials he could easily have come out and said, "Don't drink apple juice!", but he didn't. He said, "Something is very dangerous. Tune in to find out what!" Clearly Dr. Oz isn't sharing his vital health-care information unless you foot the bill. You've got to watch an hour of his TV show, including eighty-four commercials where an animated bear has toilet paper stuck to its ass.

If public health professionals can do it, I think everybody can. Imagine a judge refusing to render his decision until somebody buys $400 worth of World's Finest Chocolate bars. Congress can refuse to vote on something unless eight million people subscribe to Grit. Even priests can get in on the action. "Of course I'll give you communion," they'll say. "But first, who likes my little black dress?"

Anyway, I look forward to more of Dr. Oz in the future. In fact, I hope one day I can afford to be a patient of his, because that's got to be amazing.

DR. OZ: I'm very sorry to say this, but the tests have come back positive. There's something horribly wrong with you.

ME: No. NO! Dr. Oz, what is it?

DR. OZ: You've got . . . to wait 'til I get back from lunch!

A wild foursome sparked the interest of an A-List crowd celebrating Nas’ birthday Wednesday night. Jay-Z, Carmelo and La La Anthony, Ne-Yo, Common, Andre Harrell and Mos Def marked the rapper’s 38th at new hot spot Catch in the Meatpacking District. “While everyone was celebrating, a foursome was going on at the Gansevoort Hotel across the street,” a witness told Page Six. “Everyone turned their attention to the lucky guy who left the shades to his hotel room open while he was all over three other girls.

Why is it always "Lucky guy!"? There were three chicks there, right? How come when you hear about these things nobody says "Lucky girl!" What, like the females didn't really want to have a four-way, but somebody told them if they went up to this hotel room they could make sandwiches?

HEALTH ALERT! HEALTH ALERT! RENOWNED DOCTOR FINDS POISON IN CHILDREN'S FOOD!!!

Dr. Mehmet Oz has found unbelievable amounts of arsenic in children's food. Don't let your children eat this deadly dish! It poses an immediate health hazard! Really, I cannot understate how important this health alert is!

If you'd like to find out what children's food is EXTREMELY DANGEROUS, tune into the Dr. Oz show tomorrow at 10 on ABC -- 11 mountain time. Your children's life could hang in the balance. Okay, we'll give you a hint: it ain't bananas!

I'm sure you've heard about the funding crisis facing America's postal service. Over the next month, Congress will be forced to make major decisions about the future of the postal service. Well, concerned citizens have banded together to fight back. Without our immediate help, our local post offices and their employees are in danger!

We all must do our part to ensure that the hardworking men and women of USPS are protected, and toward that end September 27 has been named "Save America's Postal Service" Day. All across the country, From 4 p.m. to 5:30 p.m., rallies will be held to send an unmistakable message to the nation and to Congress: an attack on the post office is an attack on us!

If you'd like to attend, find the right form and fill it out. It's in quadruplicate, and you have to use pen. No, I don't have a fuckin' pen, I'm a writer, not a stationary store. No, sweetheart, that's the wrong form. You can be smart and cute but not both at once, huh? And no, you can't just stand there and fill it out. You think I want to stare at your face all day? Go somewhere else. Go over there. What? No, don't come back over here: I'll be at lunch. No, don't go back to the end of the line. Just cut right back up front. Nobody will hit you. They're still sore from that fight yesterday.

Anyway, everybody please come to the rallies. Your help is desperately needed, or my name ain't Miss Simmons. Honey, I know my badge says EDNA but nowhere does it say you can call me that. Don't bring anything fragile, liquid, or perishable. Bottled water? Are you fuckin' listening to me? Oh, fuck it -- you all stay fuckin' home.

I almost don't mind that Nickelodeon is spamming me, as long as they're telling American parents to get their kids off the couch and get some exercise instead of just sitting around all day. Kids today are such crap-eating couch potatoes I'm surprised any of their bodily functions still work.


Oh. Never mind. Hey, kids, who wants more fries?

"This is what is so sad about Grindr.... This is what makes Grindr and the people who rely on it so depressingly mundane. Knowing who in your immediate proximity is similar to you or who is 'hot' isn’t exciting; it’s boring. Because if you need a phone to tell you what you need to know about someone as opposed to having the actual person who is 50 feet away tell you themselves using verbal communication (German or otherwise), you’re a pussy. A lazy pussy. And to those who tout the convenience and technological wonder of apps like Grindr and how it is 'the way things are' now, I would simply say that there is much more wonder ... in actually physically approaching someone who you think looks interesting and saying 'hello' without knowing a single thing about them beforehand." -- Zachary Sire at The Sword

I totally agree with Mr. Sire here. Log off Grindr! Dump Blendr! Delete your membership at DaddyHunt! Knowing something in advance about somebody is boring. You see in that guy's profile he's got a degree in math and loves animals? Bleahh. Think of the sparks that'll fly when you talk to a stranger and discover he's on a meth binge and thinks you're a raccoon.

Because it's all about wonder, you know. "Wonder" is what we need.

Me, I love approaching people with that sense of "wonder." I wonder if he's yet another dude with a foot fetish. I wonder if saying one word to him will be all the encouragement he needs to stalk me for the next forty years. I wonder if, after I mention going back to my place, I'll discover he isn't gay. And nine times out of ten, after I've proven to Mr. Sire that I'm not boring, I'll wonder how the fuck I'm going to get away.

A little-person porn star who hit the big time as a Gordon Ramsay lookalike has been found dead in a badger's den.

Percy Foster, 35 -- the spitting image of the foul-mouthed TV chef -- had the world at his feet and producers beating a path to his door. When Ministry of Agriculture experts were investigating badger habitats in Wales yesterday, however, they found Percy's body six feet underground.

Sigh; this is so sad. On the plus side, they can never take away our memories of him getting a blowjob while screaming, "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

To promote NBC's new retro Playboy Club, Playboy Magazine's October issue will be a special 1960s issue with a cover price of just sixty cents.

The centerfold? Shelley Winters.

Olympic rowing twins Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss, who sued Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg for allegedly stealing their idea for the social networking site, are following the footsteps of Rod Blagojevich, Snooki, and Jackass' Wee Man by appearing in a TV commercial for nuts.

Shortly after the spot was filmed, though, the Winklevosses filed a lawsuit seeking writing credit along with written acknowledgement that they created pistachios.