One day soon, the Rapture will whisk all the believers to heaven while nonbelievers will be stuck on a tumultuous earth. The Anti-Christ will rise to power, and seven years later Jesus will lead his righteous army back to earth to fight the sinners in the battle of Armageddon.

Naturally, the good guys will prevail. Jesus and his gang will live peaceably for a thousand years, after which they'll head back to heaven while the nonbelievers will be cast into a lake of fire for all eternity.

On Tuesday, Sarah Palin's hometown paper The Frontiersman stated unequivocally: the Antichrist will be gay.


Which actually, you know, proves kind of helpful. Because a few inches left and down there's this ad:


Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'm thinking y'all better meet Chris, Danny, and Drew at Starbucks, just to be safe.

(Via Joe.My.God)

Last Tuesday, Bonnie Sweeten phoned 911 and told dispatchers that two black men carjacked her and her 9-year-old daughter, and stuffed her in the trunk of a Cadillac. Police later discovered evidence that the woman had emptied several bank accounts and stolen a co-workers driver's license before taking her daughter to Disney World.

Not even a year ago, Ashley Todd, a volunteer for John McCain's presidential campaign, called police to report that while she was using a Philadelphia ATM, a black, 6'4" Obama-supporter saw the McCain bumper sticker on her car and attacked her, actually carving the letter B (for "Barack") in her cheek. Charged with filing a false police report, Ms. Todd was sentenced to probation, along with mental health counseling.

And who can forget Susan Smith, who reported to police that she had been carjacked by a black man who drove away with her sons still in the car? The car was found in a nearby lake with the two boys inside and Ms. Smith is now serving life in prison for murder.

I don't mean to stir up a tempest in a teapot, but even the most cursory examination of these stories leads to an inescapable conclusion. Our society is in the midst of an epidemic that political correctness has forced us to ignore, and I for one am furious. It's time we break the silence and face the matter.

We simply cannot continue to allow our innocent white women to be violated by nonexistent black men.

Now, I know: all you bleeding heart liberals are immediately going to launch into debates of whether it's nature or nurture that drives these imaginary black men to crimes against white society. I'll tell you flat out, I don't care! I'm not going to spend another night tossing and turning while wondering if another fine, upstanding white woman is beaten senseless by another imaginary black man!

I've thought long and hard about this, so I'm just going to throw my thoughts onto the table.

I think we should urge our police to use racial profiling. Whenever they see an imaginary black man on the street, they should quiz him about his intentions and frisk him for imaginary weapons. Yes, it's harsh . . . but how easy is it for our poor white women to live in fear? If that doesn't work, I recommend creating an imaginary world in which imaginary black people would live, with imaginary schools, stores, and roads. Only then would I be able to sleep easy, knowing our fair flowers are safe.

Sure, the imaginary black community will call these measures extremist, but what have they done to solve the problem? Instead of bellyaching, maybe they should take some responsibility. Instead of feuding, we should join together knowing we're both working toward the same goal.

It's only through addressing this matter, though, that a solution will be found. With all of us working together, I'm confident we will prevail. Call me a cockeyed-optimist, but I know one day soon we'll turn on the TV news and hear about a nonexistent black man doing something good.

Maybe I'm pessimistic, but my first instinct is not to trust real estate developers. I mean, their power is pretty much dependent on their ability to lie -- e.g., Donald Trump -- so I've always discounted pretty much every word they've ever said.

Thor Equities, on the other hand, has shown me to be a total fool. Sure, they set out from Day One to destroy a landmark. They wanted to bulldoze Coney Island, New York's historic seaside playground, and replace it with luxury condos and a mall. After finishing the bulldozing, though, they realized the city wasn't going to bow down to their zoning demands, so their grand plans came to an abrupt halt.

Realizing New Yorkers weren't entirely thrilled with vacant land where an amusement park used to be, they decided to build a replacement attraction. "This summer we're proud to present a hip new approach to the old school open air market! Festival by the Sea is a totally new and exhilarating experience -– an exciting and festive place to buy handmade crafts made by local artisans, eat great food, hang out and see and be seen. Heck, we'll even have a tent devoted exclusively to gourmets called the Foodies Festival. Come on down and see: Coney Island's looking even better than before!!"

A month ago the flyers went up, and I started to get excited.


"Wow!" I thought. "Four tents! Gay banners! How festive! How fun! I can't wait!" Somehow I held off until the second weekend, to give them time to find their footing, and last Saturday afternoon here's the fest I found.


Yup, that's the grassy circle at the bottom left of the poster. Whee! I know people would have been meandering around the area just above the circle except it's really, like, a road.


This photo was taken from one end of the green tent, looking through to the red one.

I didn't take a picture of the blue or yellow tent because I don't like climbing over cyclone fence.


Is that a festival or what?

Sure, it doesn't look exactly like the poster. I mean, those are just big aluminum frames instead of tents. But aren't those balloons festive? Two of those frames are empty, behind fencing, and two are nearly empty, housing a total of maybe fifteen booths. There isn't any handcrafted work, and no local artisans, but they're fun booths! One sells wacky t-shirts. One sells Tupperware. One sells toys you'd otherwise have to go to Chinatown to buy. And one sells a gasoline additive that's guaranteed to quadruple your mileage. Heck, at gas prices these days, that's even better than some chick who makes purses out of felt.

I know there are some naysayers who'll whine that a lady selling homemade Caribbean food on a card table and a dude selling pickles isn't exactly a Foodies Fest, but it looked like a fine lunch for folks who like to eat stuff that a stranger made and then transported in the trunk of her car.

Anyway, in closing, I would like to add my voice to the thousands who have visited the Festival of Fun over the past few weeks
and say, New York politicians, let Thor Equities build whatever they want at Coney Island! They don't draw up preposterous, impossible proposals and then actually deliver a giant pile of crap, like the unscrupulous developers we all know. No, with this marvelous new festival, Thor Equities has proven that their ability to deliver quality work is more than a match for their vision.

Paleontologists Discover Proof of First Gay Dinosaur

Ladies and gentlemen, continuing in the I Love Lucy tradition of passing off burlap sacks as high fashion, I give you the Wearable Towel.


He's a confident young clubgoer. She's a fashion model. And they're both wearing the new trend that's taking America by storm, A Towel With Holes Cut In It.

Personally I prefer last season's Rubber Band Stretched Around Your Privates, but it's not scaring off the sharks like it used to.

Here's an American Idol scandal you can get angry about. Last week AT&T, the only mobile phone network you can use to text in AI votes, announced that 38% of the votes for the winner came from Kris Allen's home state, Arkansas.

And this week comes the announcement that AT&T held two parties in Arkansas specifically for Kris Allen fans in which they were given cellphones, taught how to "power text" -- send ten votes with one button press -- and allowed to text for free.

Stupid marketing, or conspiracy? Beats me. But throw this in with the gay-bashing judges on So You Think You Can Dance and you've got the gayest network on television acting pretty anti-gay.

The hardest part of a protest is trying to act pissed off. I mean, it's unbelievable how far gay rights have come in the last five years. We've got gay marriage in five states. Jay Leno advocates gay marriage. Arnold Schwarzenegger thinks Prop 8 will be overturned next year. We all know it's just a matter of time, and that time might just be a year or two.

Which means personally I find it hard to be angry. It's like being handed a sundae with 500 scoops of ice cream in it, but trying to frown and go, "Okay, but where's the cinnamon-rhubarb?"

You're walking down the middle of one of New York's busiest streets. Helpful policemen have stopped traffic for you. You're surrounded by handsome, politically-active gay men holding witty signs. (My favorite? "I'll go back in the closet if you go back to the bronze age.") In every building you pass, people spill out onto the streets to cheer you on.

Everyone is such fun it's honestly a delight to be there.

RABBLE-ROUSER WITH MEGAPHONE: WHEN I SAY "MARRIAGE!" YOU SAY "EQUALITY!"
BYSTANDER: MARRIAGE!
RABBLE-ROUSER WITH MEGAPHONE: EQUALITY! (Pause.) Hey, you messed that up.

Needless to say, acting irritated is a chore. What do we want? Maybe a frappuccino. When do we want it? Now.

I don't want to look stupid so I focus on the negatives. I can't believe Obama has betrayed us. I can't believe idiot voters in California passed Prop 8. I can't believe the country is letting tax-exempt institutions like the Mormon church get involved in politics.

Still, it doesn't really hit me until I go home and watch the news. "Hundreds" of protesters? How could "hundreds" of protesters stretch all the way from 5th to 6th Avenue? Why do they always focus on the dude with the feather boa? And who's that grinning, skinny idiot with the lousy posture?

Oh. Okay, now I'm mad.

The opposite of Twitter? 725 drunken, rambling stories about how people's lives have changed due to one sweeeet t-shirt. Spoiler: lots of trailer parks, lots of chest hair, lots of complaints that this bitchin' chick magnet deserves way more than five stars.

Well, I guess it was inevitable. Somebody named Tim Collins has written something called The Little Book Of Twitter which summarizes classic works in 140 characters or less.

Great Expectations: Orphan given £££ by secret follower. He thinks it's @misshavisham but it turns out to be @magwitch.

Ulysses: Man walks around Dublin. We follow every minute detail of his day. He's probably overtweeting.

Waiting for Godot: Vladimir and Estragon stand next to tree and wait for Godot. Their status is not updated.

I'll give you one off the top of my head. The Bible: Omniscient, all-powerful being decides to communicate via foliage.

A senior Chinese health official complained today that his country was being unfairly blamed for a flood of counterfeit drugs that have hit the world market.

He said his country is often misrepresented by the media, who ignore China's side of the story or intentionally seek to blacken their name.

"We're doing everything we can," the official told a news conference. "Now, everybody just chill out and take a Xanacks."

Oxford's First Female Professor of Poetry's Last Official Poem

I romp the boggy heath whilst the honeybees frolic
and the daisies' golden halos bewitch;
I'm hitting the road after just six days in office
because I'm a first-class mega-bitch.

A Man Does What a Man's Gotta Do To Avoid Becoming the Next Mr. Kate Gosselin

Bus Carrying 400 Abercrombie & Fitch Models Crashes in Spain

On the fence about attending one of the concerts in New York's upcoming Pride Music Series? Well, get a load of this, girlfriend: $1.50 of every $102 ticket to Sandra Bernhard is donated to the Heritage of Pride.

We're here, we're queer, we're throwing our spare change at charity.

Is grandma getting tired of penciling in those crazy eyebrows? Finding it too hard to get that perfect McDonalds arch? The eyebrow-transplant specialists at the Natural Hair Transplant Medical Center have the solution for you.

We'll slice a thin strip of hair from the back of your head and stitch it in above your eyes. Throw away that mascara! Throw away those eyebrow pencils! Finally medical experts have made a breakthrough you can use.


Unhappy with what God gave you? Come to us. St. Louis will die of jealousy after they see your arch!


We can even satisfy the craziest fan-chick. Carla will live long and prosper with the eyebrows of her favorite TV star!

God, I thought the day would never come: Bush is cleaning up shit instead of causing it for a change.

We win battles and we lose battles in the war for equality. There are now five states that allow gay marriage . . . but then all three judges on So You Think You Can Dance nearly puke up their tacos when two dudes ballroom-dance together.

Michael Jensen writes about it beautifully here. I'll just reinforce the part that made me scream ASSHOLE! at my TV set.

The judges waiver on whether the pair are good enough to continue in the competition, so they send them to the choreographer to see how fast they learn. Judge Nigel Lithgoe says they'll have to dance with girls now, though, and he adds "You never know, you might enjoy that, too."

That's pretty damned homophobic, but it's particularly offensive when you realize one of the two dudes is straight.

There's one fatal flaw to democracy. Since it takes time to research the issues, compare and contrast claims, hop in the car and drive to the polls, the vast majority of voting will be done by people who have absolutely nothing better to do.

College graduates? Busy. Corporate executives? Busy. Your grandma? Heck, she'll be at the polling place at 7 AM serving Ovaltine to her friends in line.

It's a sad fact that people whose daily plans include denture-clicking and shaking their bony fists at local youngsters have so much control over the world. This is why more politicians come out against gay rights than Medicare: because gay people are too busy making a living and building a social life to complain, while Grandma's had zero on her calendar since Mickey Rooney died. Mr. Politician isn't standing on principle: he just doesn't want to spend eight hours on the phone with a woman whose vocabulary consists solely of the words "Ya whippersnapper!" and "Whazzat you say?"

When American Idol offered one finalist from California and another from Arkansas, then, we could have predicted the result. California has six hundred Michelin-starred restaurants, twenty-six art museums, three Disney parks, and four Six Flags. Arkansas has a drive-thru Quiznos and the world's largest rubber-band ball.

Take a wild guess: the residents of which state had four hours to spend on the phone?

AT&T tells us this is exactly what happened. Almost a hundred million votes were cast last night, with 38 million coming from Arkansas alone.

More than a third of all the votes. From one state.

I hate to go out on a limb here, but I'll guess exactly zero of these folks thought, "I really enjoyed the gender-bending, envelope-pushing Adam's soulful interpretation of Tears for Fears' Mad World." Nope, we had half a million people think, "Hey, Kris! Kris Allen. The Krisster. Tha's ma boy! Hoo-WEE!" and hit the redial button with their PBR can.

If all this seems familiar, think back to election time. There's a suave, cool city dude in one corner, and a swaggering doof in the other. Kris knows he's got nothing going for him: heck, he only went to the audition to support his brother Dan. Like George W., you can see the fear in his eyes when his mouth moves faster than his brain. It looks like he has to concentrate to get both his eyes pointed in the same direction. He just sits back and lets himself get carried to the finish line by down-home folks who love the Lord and have nothing else to do.

So yup, it's no big win for democracy. We didn't get the qualified guy. We didn't get the talented guy. We got the regular guy. We got the church-going guy. Today they're putting up a "Mission Accomplished" banner in Kris' hometown. They're arranging a parade past the Dollar Tree, past where the Curves used to be. Of course, it'll be no vindication when Kris drops his first record and it lands with a thud. Because nobody cares about his singing. All that mattered was that he won.

The good news is, those of us with brains can commiserate. We can remind ourself talent endures while pretenders fade. We can thank our lucky stars that the Constitution only lets idiots vote once, or right now VP Sarah Palin would be urging Congress to dub tomorrow "Kick a Jew for Jesus!" day. Heck, even the American Idol producers seem to be on our side. Seconds before the show went black, they cut to Justin Guarini, a first-season finalist from Georgia. "Yo, bro!" Justin's thinking. "Hooray for the South! See you onstage in my dad's basement in about two weeks."

Right now Melania Trump is wondering, "What, is there a show called I'm Married to a Big-Haired Asshole -- Get Me Out of Here!?"

There's a big article in the New York Times today about readily-available plants that can kill.

The expert they quote recommends the nut from the suicide tree. "You can grind it up and put it in a pulpy kind of dessert — they use it in India — or conceal it in a curry." But if you don't cook, just dump it into coffee and it'll work fine.

And this morning the line at the garden center is six million people long.