"Hustler" publisher Larry Flynt told CNN that he's offered accused child killer Casey Anthony more than $500,000 to pose nude for his magazine.

Flynt said his offer came after men from coast to coast expressed interest in seeing the party girl get naked. The response from other quarters has been, shall we say, substantially less positive.

Well, call me a pervert, but I'd sure like to see her baby-feeders.

Oops. Sorry. How insensitive of me. Make that "bazongas."

I caught a sneak preview of Crazy, Stupid, Love, and I have to say it was terrific. There was sound and color and motion and I learned so much about women from the film.

(1) Women are totally interchangeable sex objects who spout inanities before they take off their clothes.

(2) Deep down, women just aren't interesting, so they're smart to stay in the kitchen or other places where guys aren't having fun.

(3) Women are turned on by honesty. Really, this was the funniest bit. See, Steve Carell isn't used to dating, so he doesn't know that dudes are supposed to lie to chicks. He tells Marisa Tomei exactly what he thinks -- and she loves it! Honesty is to her like gigantic tits are to men. Really, the way she squeals and shudders in response to anything correct it's like it directly stimulates her clitoris. It's hysterical. You think Steve Carell is being stupid, and he's going to drive her away, but to the contrary! Marisa can't control herself in the face of honesty. He says stuff like "My wife will shit a brick when she finds out I fucked you!" and "Christ, your butt is the size of a tractor-trailer!" and "New Tide with Zout gets tough stains out!" and before he knows it she's grinding on top of him.

Sure, it seems pretty crazy, but it makes total sense. Because as the feminist movement has told us, women are tired of being lied to. They appreciate honesty. And this film has apparently realized it's a fail-safe method to get a chick in the sack.

Anyway, have a good weekend. I think mine's gonna be off the hook. There's a chick outside gathering signatures for PETA and I'm pretty sure if I tell her granola bars look like turds to me she'll blow me right on the spot.

Humor for Daniel Tosh Fans

There’s a new doll entering the toy market called Breast Milk Baby. In addition to the doll, little girls and boys get a halter top that they can wear, with two flowers that symbolize breasts.

As the doll’s mouth is brought to the flowers, it makes a sucking sound, as if it is drinking milk. Afterward, the doll cries until it is burped.

“The whole purpose behind a doll is to pretend like you’re a parent,” said Dennis Lewis, a representative for Berjuan Toys. “The dolls are meant to just let kids play as mommies and daddies naturally.”

This is ridiculous. What kind of crazy message is this teaching our kids? Little girls don't have tits! And if you don't have tits, nobody's going to fuck you.

And yes, we want to teach our kids that babies suck on flowers. So ten years from now we'll have a whole generation of moms who just shove their kids in a rose bush whenever it cries.

But I absolutely draw the line at a boy having this doll. That's just insane.
I mean, if they want something to suck on them and then cry until they hit it, they should get girlfriends.

Artist's Renderings Vs. Reality

The Verdi boutique condominiums are a modern complement to the rich history and lush streetscapes of Fort Greene, Brooklyn.

All units have unique outdoor spaces including large terraces, oversized balconies and landscaped gardens. Rear duplexes feature stunning double height ceilings overlooking the landscaped gardens. The private floor penthouses have keyed elevator access that opens into the unit and large terraces. Located just three blocks from Fort Greene Park and in walking distance to the large and growing number of shops, café's, restaurants as well as BAM's cultural districts theatres and galleries. -- Artist

Wow, those condos is sure classy. I don't think I've ever seen such -- hang on a sec. DUDE, I'M NOT FUCKIN' TELLING YOU AGAIN. DON'T REMOVE THE 4 SALE SIGN.

Is love forever? Sometimes, but it'll never last as long as a tattoo.

In the season premiere of L. A. Ink, Kat Von D surprises fiancé Jesse James with a tattoo on her left side that is his face from a childhood photo.


Even before the show airs, though, the pair break off their engagement amidst rumors of his infidelity.

Of course, Kat's a spunky girl who doesn't dwell on the past. In a postscript to the show, we see she's already gotten a neat coverup.

Artist's Renderings Vs. Reality

The Borders bookstore in the East Liberty neighborhood of Pittsburgh has been awarded the LEED Core Certification by the U.S. Green Building Council. This project is one of the first LEED Gold certified projects in Pittsburgh and also among the first LEED Core certified projects in the country!

The Design Alliance Architects developed a number of green features in the project including:

• Rainwater from the building roof is piped to an underground cistern that eliminates the need for municipal water for irrigation.


• Nearly all of the construction waste was recycled.


• The development has strategically located bike racks around the site to encourage alternative transportation, and a shower room available to employees.

-- Artist


Bushes like being in pots, asshole. -- Reality

Trying to use the free WiFi at McDonalds? Here's a handy brochure.


The two pages on the left are packed with instructions for folks using Windows. And on the right, there's three simple steps for folks with Macs.

Isn't that ridiculous? Like people who eat at McDonalds would own Macs.

Well, I guess it was inevitable. I'm actually getting irritated at somebody preaching tolerance.

The woman behind Raising My Rainbow has a "slightly effeminate, possibly gay, totally fabulous son." (She remains anonymous to protect him.) C. J. loves pink. C. J. steals clothes out of Mom's closet. C. J. demands a Barbie doll instead of a G. I. Joe. Needless to say, C. J. gets a lot of strange looks when he's out in public. While strangers yell that Mom needs to butch up the kid, she defends him, applauding his unconventional choices and creating a storm of controversy that propelled her all the way to the Today show.

Needless to say, the gays have been cheering her along.

With the latest blog entry, though, Mom starts to wear out her welcome. Her tone has changed. Is she being supportive of a girly-boy, or is she, well, egging him on?

He liked the feel and fabric of this number. The long sash in the back sent him over the edge. It was originally the shirt from a boy’s Arabian Nights costume, but that’s not how C.J. prefers it.

He marched himself straight to the garage and found some rope. He cut it with blunt scissors and made me tie it at the waist. Hello belted shirtdress!

See, she loses me here. She's talking about an oversized shirt, tied with rope. Doesn't that make it a tunic? I mean, picture this scene in Sherwood Forest:

ROBIN HOOD: Okay, Merry Men! Methinks it's time to earn your keep. Yon fanciful carriage approaches: everybody put your belted shirtdresses on.

Here we have C.J. wearing a Valentine’s Day-themed dish towel as a stylish heart-flecked skirt. After sneaking a belt from his brother’s room he held the towel up to his waist and insisted that I belt it around him.

St. Valentine himself would be proud.

Oh, puh-leeze. It's a tea towel and a belt. How do you know he wanted to make a skirt? Maybe it's a big loincloth. Until he actually adds pleats, darts or ruching, the jury is out. Because, you know, it's not particularly easy to grab a tea towel and a belt and make pants.

My main complaint here, though, is that C. J. had access to anything in the house. And instead of going into Mom's closet and getting that glittery belt with faux-gold coins that all females seem to own, he went into his brother's closet to get a brown number from J. C. Penneys.

Sure, the kid isn't totally at the end of the Masculinity Scale, but he ain't making it into my Fabulosity Club.

Needless to say, now I'm second-guessing the whole situation. C. J.'s been finding all sorts of odd, effeminate things in the house. I was an effeminate kid growing up among heterosexuals, and I have to tell you, the pickings were slim. Unlike C. J., I never found a big pink pair of bath poufs to play cheerleader. I had to make my own pompoms out of discarded copies of Reader's Digest.

Which is probably why the whole thing strikes me as suspicious.

Anyway, I breathlessly await further chapters. Next week, will C. J. stumble upon somebody's metallic cone bra in the trash? Or will Mom continue to feminize behavior that could be perfectly male? Like, the first time C. J. tries on a bowler hat, will she scream, "Look out, Liza!" and teach him Jazz Hands?

Could You Write Country Music For a Living?

The band Rascal Flatts just released "an emotional tribute" to Caylee Anthony called "She's Going Places," and it's shooting straight up the country music charts. "Do they have some bizarre God-given musical talent?" you ask. "Did they sell their souls to Satan in exchange for superlative songwriting skills?" I say no! I say anybody can write a hit country tune, provided they know the rules:

1. Write about white people.
2. Write about America.
3. Wildly careen from happy to sad.
4. Make sure to include God!

In fact, I'll prove it to you. Set the timer: you have four minutes to write a hit country song about Caylee Anthony entitled "She's Going Places." I'm thinking Rascal Flatts probably whipped theirs out in under three minutes, but hey, they're pros.

Okay, time's up. Here's my entry:

----------

For nine long months this pretty white girl
made her plump white mommy sigh.
But then she was born and she became
the apple of her white daddy's eye.

She's going places, this pretty white girl
she's got a great future ahead.
She's going places, this pretty white girl
that's what everybody said.

Though her brain stem wasn't developed
her personality rang like an alarm.
She definitely would have waved the old red, white and blue
if she'd had muscles in her little white arm.

She's going places, this pretty white girl
she's got a great future ahead.
She's going places, this pretty white girl
that's what everybody said.

But one day she stopped tickling her Elmo;
her Barbie laid like a dead trout.
The courts couldn't decide what happened,
but maybe Nancy Grace will find out.

She's going places, this pretty white girl
she's got a great future ahead.
"She's going straight into my big white arms!"
our white male God just said.

-------------

So, whaddaya think? Thanks! Where's your song? What? You don't have little Caylee going to heaven? Look, it's called "She's Going Places" -- what'd you think, she's going to Disneyland?

Oh.

Well, you're not necessarily doomed to minimum-wage employment. Look for my forthcoming piece called, "Yo Yo Yo Could I Write A Hit Rap Song?" next time I'm in the hizzouse.

Rick Santorum and Oral Pleasure

Two seconds later somebody tweaks his nipple and he takes the whole thing in his mouth.

How hot is it? Even my boat is staying out of the freakin' water.

Arizonans Whacked By Enormous Haboobs

And they're not happy about it.

The National Weather Service has a name for particularly thick dust storms that sweep through dry, dusty states: haboobs. This year, though, the use of that term by Arizona weathermen has stirred up a storm of controversy almost as thick as the capricious haboobs.

Diane Robinson of Wickenburg, Ariz. says the state’s dust storms are far different from Middle Eastern ones. “Excuse me, Mr. Weatherman!” she cried in a letter to the editor. “Who gave you the right to use the word ‘haboob’ in describing our recent dust storm? While you may think there are similarities, don’t forget that in these parts our dust is mixed with the whoop of the Indian’s dance, the progression of the cattle herd and warning of the rattlesnake as it lifts its head to strike.”

Don Yonts, a resident of Gilbert, Ariz., hasn't read quite as many Harlequin romances. He just doesn't like Americans using Arabic words. “I am insulted that local TV news crews are now calling this kind of storm a haboob,” he wrote to The Arizona Republic. “How do they think our soldiers feel coming back to Arizona and hearing some Middle Eastern term?”

Just out of cultural sensitivity, I think we should address their concerns. It's easy enough to make up a new word that keeps the original word's feel while losing its foreignness. "Dustitties" and "sandumplings" spring to mind. I'm pretty sure our returning military men and women won't have problems with either of those. Besides, once they spot one of these massive parchachas aimed straight at their heads, I think they'll have other things to worry about.

I've been using Spotify for a week, and I think I'm ready to weigh in. I was sucked into the elitist hype and expected something really cool, but instead I think it's barely so-so. Their catalog is seriously lacking, with just one or two lame records by some important artists. (Really, nothing by Isaac Hayes over ten minutes? That makes some of his albums six minutes long. And, uh, no Led Zeppelin?) The free version has inexplicable time limits, and lots of inane commercials. And supposedly you can't listen to a song more than five times.

The program doesn't seem particularly smart, either. After I spend an hour telling it I like Camille Saint-Saens, Dinah Washington and Joy Orbison, their ads suggest I give a listen to Pitbull (featuring Enrique Iglesias).

On the plus side, it's kind of fun when they randomly interrupt the music with commercials. When Chris Brown broke in at the end of Madame Butterfly, I totally got why she wanted to stab herself.

A cartoon published today in a Rupert Murdoch newspaper is incensed about all the media coverage the Rupert Murdoch phone-tapping hearings are getting. Gosh, the Murdoch press wonders, why are people so ridiculously fixated on a tiny conspiracy that prompted the head of Scotland Yard to resign?

The cartoon, titled "Priorities...," thinks this relentless coverage is diverting attention away from more important topics, like African famine.

Really? African famine? Dudes, at least try to sound a little believable.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: chicks on the subway are nuts. A guy can't even floss his teeth in peace.

Bill Gates thinks the modern-day flush toilet isn’t good enough. Most of the developing world can’t afford to use it, and poor sanitation spreads diarrheal diseases.

So the Gates Foundation is challenging universities to build a better toilet—latrines that are hygienic, generate energy and don’t require running water or a septic system. The foundation is giving $41.5 million toward that end, and proposals include toilets powered by solar panels, heat, or microwave.

Supposedly the microwave method works pretty well but the spinning makes everybody sick.

Christ, why the fuck do ex-lesbians feel the need to share their stories? And why does the New York Times print more articles about ex-lesbians than current ones?

In Sunday's New York Times there's a miserable piece by Karen Hartman that's ostensibly about how Vermont lets any LGBT folks marry but won't let them divorce unless they live in the state. Which naturally turns Ms. Hartman's lesbian partner -- who I'm guessing at some point she must have loved, though she doesn't mention it -- into the ball and chain around her now-heterosexual leg.

With some effort, Ms. Hartman manages to break the doomed union, and she thoughtfully enumerates the happiest days of her ex-lesbian life:

1. Getting married to a wonderful man.
2. Getting a divorce from that bitch.

If you don't want to read this article -- and you shouldn't, unless you have problems with low blood pressure -- the first eighty paragraphs are about how much this heterosexual chick wants to dump the Sapphic baggage she's been saddled with and marry the answer to a woman's prayers named "Todd." You can almost picture the moms of LBGTs everywhere clutching their rosaries and squealing, "Oh, Wally, there's still hope!"

This sad sack ends her passive-aggressive brag by tossing pitiful little crumbs to all us non-reformed homos. We shouldn't be second-class citizens! she says. That's truly awful. She'd do something about, but she's busy getting boned by a real man.

Take comfort in knowing she's still on our side, though she's probably picking out china patterns as we speak:

At long last, same-sex couples across New York are picking out china and calling the caterers, preparing to plight their troths as soon as next Sunday. I am grateful, relieved and, yes, even a tiny bit proud to be just another hasbian with a husband, cheering them on.

What a great piece. What an interesting woman. And I'll cheer her on, too, even though I'm an ex-asshole.

Oh, for fuck's sake. You call that a deal? Gordon Ramsay's restaurants are failing just slightly faster than firebombed Yugos, and you're offering this miserable excuse for a meal for sixty-five bucks?

"Caper and shallot dressing. "Dressed rocket." Does dinner come in a cruet? Are plates prohibitively expensive on your side of the pond? If I bring a doctor's note saying I have teeth will you bring me some solid food?

And Cornish potatoes. Yum. As everyone knows, the potatoes from Corn are absolutely -- no, wait, I guess nobody knows what the fuck they are.

But Jesus, "Lyme Bay." What is that, a hospital for people who have been bitten by ticks? For fuck's sake. I don't want my plaice coming from there, whatever the fuck plaice is. And "line-caught." What was the line -- "Well, you're an ugly fish, but I'll fuck you"? What a load of bollocks.

Oh, like white folks aren't insulted by that "Ward, I'm worried about the Beaver" thing.

Health and environmental groups have mounted a campaign against Bath & Body Works, urging the retailer to stop selling its line of “Summertime Scent” soaps that contain triclosan, a chemical categorized as a pesticide.

Scientific studies have linked triclosan to hormone disruption, which could be hazardous to teenagers whose bodies are still developing.

Adios, Cucumber Eunuch and Undescended Tangerine.