I am absolutely aghast. This week Germany took steps to outlaw circumcision, calling it "bodily harm," and actually saying it should be banned.

Is that incredible? I mean, you can't get any more anti-religion without smacking a nun in the face. Are these guys utterly clueless? They clearly don't realize that some of us will fight to the death for our right to cut parts off our kids.

Germany's Central Council of Jews protested the ruling, calling it an "unprecedented and dramatic intrusion on the right to self-determination of religious communities." Which is right on, as my metaphysical construct of Self consists of my id, ego, and offspring willy. The Central Council of Muslims also echoed the outrage, saying the court's decision was "blatant and inadmissible interference." But oh, no. Germany just had to get between me and my doctor discussing the body parts my son doesn't need.

This is sooo wrong-headed it actually makes me wonder about Germany. I mean, at first glance they seem so smart, using those giant mugs for beer. But circumcision is a long tradition, and long traditions have to be obeyed regardless of how crazy they sound. I don't know about you, but if my parents did something repeatedly, then I have to do it too. That's why I drink sherry at five o'clock every night, and sit real close to babysitters.

Circumcision also comes straight from the Bible, which is God's Honest Truth. These are the actual words of Our Lord, as transcribed by people who wore animal skins and thought thunder was the Giant Sky Leopard farting. There's no reason not to believe them, because everybody who was crazy back then was inventing Buddhism.

Besides, circumcision is actually a good thing. If we didn't circumcise boys at birth, we'd have to do it later, and then just try finding a towel that'll soak up all the blood. Babies hardly even feel it. Okay, they all start crying, but that's probably because we haven't given them iPods yet. Post-birth is the prime time for surgery: that's why I told my OB/GYN to check my daughter for a big nose and flat chest even before he counted her toes.

I guess it's the whole "pointy knife and healthy flesh" thing that makes people think irrationally. I've even heard circumcision compared to female genital mutilation. Sure, they're both parental-driven body modifications based on religious beliefs or superstition, but otherwise they're not even close. I found a graphic in one of my old medical textbooks that illustrates the difference.

So, I beg you to join me in this fight. At the very least, think of your own son. Imagine the snickers he'll hear from kids who see his uncut penis in the shower after gym class. And, well, imagine that he can't reply, "So, dudes, why the fuck are you looking at my dick?"

I know after careful consideration you'll join me in this battle. I mean, this is a Bible-fearing country! God's rule is law here, which is why there are eight thousand people with rocks outside Kim Kardashian's house as we speak.

The Short Answer

Try this: "I am currently undergoing inpatient counseling to determine why I'm an insufferable prick-tease."

"Sit in a chair with your legs crossed. Now, what do you see in that mirror? OK, pretend it is your Grandpa!"

Christians might mean well, but when their brains can't keep up with their words the result can be flat-out scary. Take the website Secret Keeper Girl (which clearly needs a hyphen). It exists to teach girls that God's plan for them consists entirely of covering their hoo-hah. In their modesty test, above, they instruct a girl to sit in front of a mirror with her legs apart. Then they tell her to pretend the mirror is her grandpa.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but as a writer I try to avoid situations where old men look up the skirts of little girls. Luckily, though, bad grammar has derailed their intent. Let's examine exactly where they went wrong with a simple example:

I met Mark through my uncle Silas. I'm going to screw him until the cows come home.
In English, it's a rule that the first noun in the first sentence becomes the "it" in subsequent ones. If you interpreted this example correctly, then, you're not picturing me with a lubricated relative. Rather than telling us to pretend the mirror is grandpa, Secret Keeper Girl is actually telling us to pretend that what's between our legs is grandpa.

Now, is that better than having an elderly relative stare up up shorts? I don't know. Speaking personally, though, it's a heck of a lot easier for me, since I've already got the bald and the wrinkly down pat.

Sigh. As today's New York Daily News says, "Avery Owen is all smiles with new pal and Yankees first baseman Mark Teixeira at Flying Manes Therapeutic Riding in the Bronx."

Isn't that adorable? It almost renews your faith in mankind.

One small blot on the landscape, though. As the accompanying article says, Avery is the name of the horse.

I can't wait to see the newest Woody Allen film, To Rome With Love. It sounds unlike anything he's ever done. Lots of rich white people with piddling little problems? Laugh riot! A milquetoasty married guy who realizes he's too good for his ball-and-chain wife? Brilliant! A gorgeous whore who loves being subservient to unattractive men? Genius!

The crème de la crème, though, sounds like the funeral director who's an amazing singer -- but only in the shower! Is that hysterical? He actually takes to the opera circuit in a portable tub. You don't need to brave the cineplex to see that inspired bit, though: thanks to your friends at World Class Stupid, here's an exclusive sneak peek.

Santa owns a Thomas Kinkade painting?

I guess that explains why he kept giving me jackets from Sears.

Bristol Palin's New Show Attracts Less Than Half the People That Wanted To See Roseanne's Nuts

I love love love George Lopez's new game show, Take Me Out. George is a charismatic host when he isn't serving as a flash card for the symptoms of alcoholism. Thirty "girls" are lined up at podiums, and one "man" comes out who they might win a chance to date. As the man gives more and more embarrassing information about himself, though, the girls can hit their buzzers to say, essentially, "Yeesh, I ain't getting in a car with that!"

Clearly there are some things the producers aren't telling us. Like, why would fame-seeking females hit a buzzer that kicks them out of a game? If the choice is between standing in the dark and possibly getting a free dinner with a Civil War re-enactor who collects Dolly Parton's used wigs, I'll go with the latter, thanks. It's like somebody on Jeopardy! saying Don Knotts was the eighth president so they won't have to endure the bonus round.

Ignoring the inexplicable, I love how the show defines American gender roles. See, men have confidence. We're goofballs, but we're gutsy. We can stand up and say, "Hey, I like dressing chickens in tiny suits of armor, and I don't care who knows!" We know what we like, and we just don't give a fuck.

Women, on the other hand, are shallow and judgmental. Why'd they ring the buzzer? Oh, I don't know, you know? He walks like a duck. His ears stick out. He reminds me of my sister's boyfriend's dad. Imagine an opposite-sex version of this show, where one woman is judged by thirty men. That show would be, like, eighteen hours long, because every time a dude declared the chick un-hot she'd burst into tears and go buy another pair of shoes.

Rest assured, the show is airy bliss. The best part is George's quips when he drags out the men for the ladies' critique. It's like Genitalia Euphemisms 101. "Let the sausage see the peppers!" he declares. "Let the hot dog see the buns!" he announces. "Let the clams meet the chowder!" he says.

I'm in love. I'm in heaven. I hope this fun can go on forever, but after the tacos find their hot sauce I'm stumped.

New York City's "Hipster Beach"

If this is what the crowd looks like on New York City's "Hipster Beach," I'll stick with the fat Russians in speedos, thanks.

You know why I'm an atheist? An all-knowing God wouldn't have said, "Hey, and then I'll move the sun reeeeally close to the earth for three months out of the year!"

After Killing An Unarmed Black Kid, It Appears George Zimmerman Has Actually Done Something That Will Get Him Into Trouble

After killing an unarmed black kid, it appears George Zimmerman has actually done something that will get him into trouble.

During preliminary hearings for the murder, Zimmerman and his wife claimed they were indigent. A sympathetic judge set his bail at $150,000, which is exactly how much you'd have to post if you were arrested for bothering Mila Kunis. However, stories soon surfaced that Zimmerman had received $155,000 in PayPal donations from people who support his right to shoot unarmed black teenagers, and the judge realized that Zimmerman had lied.

He ordered the kid-killer jailed.

Today prosecutors say they have proof of Zimmerman's deceit and more. In recorded phone calls, Zimmerman and his wife not only acknowledge the $155,000 in donations but also discuss transferring the money between bank accounts in a way specifically designed to avoid money-laundering laws.

Banks are required to report financial transactions of $10,000 or more, and it is a federal crime to make repeated transactions in smaller amounts to dodge this requirement. Mr. Zimmerman's banking records show numerous transfers of exactly $9,999.

With this new evidence in hand, Trayvon Martin's killer may actually find himself in hot water. If found guilty, he could follow in the footsteps of rich white Republican Tom DeLay, who received ten years of probation for money laundering.

Finally, Mr. Zimmerman's critics say with a sigh of relief, he will learn that there are some things you just can't get away with in America.

Day 972

On a totally unrelated note, New York also holds the world record for the most people going to the bank dressed as their grandparents.

A camera hidden in a forest to monitor the wildlife population photographed a politician with his pants down.

An employee of an Austrian hunting society was shocked to review the film and discover that the automatic camera, which takes pictures when movement is detected, captured an image of a politician romping around half-naked.

Something tells me if there's any wildlife actually in the photograph it's not going to be beaver.

The shark bites with his motherfuckin' teeth, dear.

Man Who Yelled "Your Mom's a Whore!" At Bristol Palin Sues for Defamation After She Calls Him Homosexual

Thus answering the question, "Hey, little girl -- you think your daddy wants to do me?"

I've got lots of friends who are British, and I've always known there was something wrong with them. They're timid, reserved, even squeamish. They don't have any of that American spunk that everybody admires. Originally I thought all of these folks were isolated instances, but then I realized they weren't. It was a trend; it was the entire country. I heard their national anthem and realized, whoa! You got eight billion people who go to sleep with the lights on.

You see it everywhere in England. There are long lines of people at every supermarket, post office, drug store. It's not that the places are that busy, but at some point in history two people showed up at the exact same time and ever since then they've been going, "No, you first!"

You'd think all the butchness they've conserved could have been stuck into their national anthem. See, a country only gets one national anthem, so they've got to make sure they get it right. It's three minutes of boasting, to mention everything cool about a place. How should Britain whittle it down? Hmm. Let's think for a minute. There's -- nope. How about -- no. Wait, I've got it:

Odds are we won't be raped behind a barn.

Sigh. You can almost see them faking enthusiasm. Sure, maybe our food ain't great, and we aren't exactly beautiful, but, um, we've dodged the shackles as of now. It's pitiful. Where's the pride? Where's the braggadocio? This sad sack little country is seconds away from saying, "I swear to God, you're not going to hit me again!"

Anyway, it's embarrassing, and these guys need to fix it fast. If they're looking for a role model, they could look at America. I mean, we aced it with that "Star Spangled Banner" song. It clearly says we stand for -- no. We manufacture -- nope.

Well, we can sure kick your ass.

Ohmigod, it's incredible taking the subway into Manhattan at night. I swear to God, half the women are dressed like whores, headed to their jobs as bartenders or waitresses at fancy restaurants. It makes me sick. Just a few years ago, if a woman was dressed like a whore, she was a whore.

Whine, whine, whine. Yes, I know: your high school boyfriend was gay. Who gives a fuck? We're the ones who should be complaining. Our high school boyfriends were girls.

This is sooo much cooler than that old way where you had to, like, go to some school or something and pull levers in a tacky little booth.

I honestly wish I hadn't bought this lamp. Now when people come over and say, "What a dump!" there's a couple of things they could mean.

On the plus side, now it's just white trash at the side of the road.

Animal researchers in China have discovered that flamingos have sex more often when there are mirrors around. "When flamingos are separated from their flocks they become depressed and anxious," said one, "and they don't feel confident enough to have chicks."

RESEARCHER #1: See? We put the mirrors up, the flamingos feel more secure, and they have sex more frequently.

RESEARCHER #2: That must be it. I mean, the only other explanation is that they like to stare at themselves in the mirror and think, "Oh, that's so fuckin' hot! I'm totally plowing that little pink ass!"

Yes, this weekend the cultural mecca that is New York City offers a dance about "the denial of the anus in dance."

O-kay. You know, maybe I'm weird: I kind of like it that way. I've been to a few dance events and not once have I said, "Gosh, I sure wish there was more anus in this."

Meanwhile, the exterior of the human body is a lonely world? I don't exactly have a Shriner's convention in my butt.

I think Obama's critics should shut the hell up. Sure, he isn't perfect, but he could be far worse. Gravity isn't doing great things with my balls but I'm not going to suggest getting rid of it.

Alternatively, look for their line of "Oh, just go ahead and slug me!" stickers for grade school and above.

Don't tell me; let me guess. Is she pregnant with her second child?

"Love Never Dies"? Well, maybe. When your partner starts pinning veil directly into cranium, though, it might take a break for a year or two.

Ohmigod. Is that unbelievable? These people have carpet on stairs.

Like A Silicon Robin, The First Sighting Of Lindsay Lohan's Breast Means A Bad Movie Isn't Far Behind.

There are two main reasons why I didn't become a famous basketball star. First, I have zero coordination. It seemed understandable, with my 6'8" body. My brain made decisions quickly enough: I mean, you don't need to be a rocket scientist to realize you should "run over there," or "bounce the ball," or "shoot at the hoop." After my decision was made, though, it had roughly eight hundred miles of nervous system to cover before it reached the relevant body parts. While my brain was getting the decision ready to send, it might as well have packed it some lunch, because it wasn't getting anywhere anytime soon. It'd run out of energy roughly four hundred miles down the road, realizing it should have stopped for refueling at Buttonwillow. By the time my head or hands or feet reacted as required, we'd lost the game and I was standing all by myself in a cold, dark gym.

The second reason is psychological. As I've said before, I was raised by wolves. There was no one around to explain even the basics to me: how to shave, how to shower, how to smize. I gathered bits of information from wherever I could and used my imagination to fill in the rest. That explains the years I spent convinced I'd have two deformed children because I'd gotten hit in the balls.

One of the theories I'd pieced together was this: if you have something that's hairy and smelly, you don't shove it in somebody's face.

Half the point of sex education, I think, was to teach you to keep your dirty bits away from other people. It wasn't particularly easy, because at puberty our count of offensive body parts roughly tripled. Random regions sprouted hair and started attracting mosquitos. We did what we could to keep them under control: we scrubbed them with soap, doused them with hygienic sprays, hid them under thick fabric. And we made sure to keep them away from other peoples' faces.

It made total sense to me. I mean, I knew I had to suck on eighteen Tic Tacs before I could talk to anybody, and I didn't pee out of my mouth.

That's why I never understood basketball. Really, after we tell women that their genitals require an entire aisle of sanitary products to keep in line, we flip on the TV and watch the Unregulated Armpit Parade? The high school basketball coach might as well have said to me, "Roman, we got a shot at taking the title! All you gotta do is keep focused, and keep loose. Oh, and drop your shorts and keep your anus pointed at Marty's face."

There was no way I could play it. In fact, I never really learned how. Maybe if I'd had parents, they could have explained the situation to me. Maybe we got special dispensation to jam our pits in other people's faces because we were athletes, and it was a game. Maybe our pits weren't as dirty as I thought, despite the fact that mine started to fester roughly eight seconds after my Mitchum dried. Maybe it was like marriage annulment in the Catholic Church: we got special dispensation to do preposterous things if we filed the right paperwork.

I guess being gay is part of the problem, too, because we think all those dirty male body parts are sexy. Imagine a female sport where the players keep their opponents at bay by the strategic placement of their pussies. Maybe the straight women wouldn't have any problem. Maybe they wouldn't get distracted. But the lesbians would say, "Hey, why don't we all get a drink somewhere, and forget all about this stupid game?"

I'm pretty sure they're motorcycles.

Performing at Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee Ceremony, Grace Jones Wishes Her A "Happy Birthday!"

If you don't want to see Grace sing while hula-hooping, fast-forward to 4:18. Can't blame her for being confused, though: she's been queen longer than Liz. (Liz's actual birthday? April 21.)

Taco Bell commercial:

Last year, Taco Bell released the Taco Supreme, with a shell made of real nacho cheese Doritos, in a few cities. None of which were anywhere near the hometown of Nat Christiana.

So, Nat drove his friends 965 miles to get it.

Well played, Nat.

The new Doritos Locos tacos. Now at Taco Bells everywhere.

The New York Times:

[Nat Christiana] is a real person, living in Clifton Park, N.Y., and last month he posted a video addressing the ad. He did eat a Loco Taco on a road trip last year, he said, but he did not go out of his way to do so, let alone drive 965 miles. The taco was good, he said.

Before you move to New York, realize there's a trade-off. On the plus side, we've got great culture and fascinating people. On the minus side, we can't make fruity vinegars. Or ginger ale, or infused vodka, because we just don't have cool, dark places. We used to, but that's where our roommate lives now.

First Mayor Bloomberg bans outdoor smoking. Then he tries to outlaw Big Gulps. I swear to God, he'll have to pry Taco Bell bean burritos from my cold, dead hands.

Sigh. I'm trying not to turn into an old man. The last thing I want to do is stand on my front porch and shake my fist at all the kids walking by, screaming, "You punks should be in school!" I've always hated all those boring old coots who talk about "the good old days," and it's one of my goals in life not to turn into one.

Still, I don't think anybody could deny that the world has taken a horrible turn. The problem is, kids these days just don't want to work. There's just no incentive any more! You turn on the TV and see some nobody from Bag O' Pretzels, Iowa sing two lines of a song and next thing you know they're a star. Without the slightest bit of effort, the kids are set for life.

I think it started with YouTube. Some twelve-year-old who took piano lessons posted a video of himself playing a Lady Gaga tune, and next thing you know he's on Ellen. Justin Bieber posted videos of himself singing even before he was big enough to reach a piano, and now his fans tear down shopping malls to see him. Where's the effort? What happened to all the hard work?

Reality talent shows were the final nail in hard work's coffin. That's all the career planning kids do these days: decide if they want to sing their hearts out on The Voice or just burp through a tune on America's Got Talent. Twenty-four hours later they're flying around in their private jet, boffing some tween actress from a Disney movie!

I can't help but shake my head. Back when I was a kid, you had to work for singing success. Simon Cowell wasn't going to be your mentor. You weren't going straight from your crib to TV. No, if you wanted to be a successful singer, there was just one long, painful path that was open to you.

You had to pretend to be gay.

Take Mick Jagger -- you know, the guy who was married for like sixty years to that supermodel/housewife Jerry Hall. Now that he's famous, he fucks every Brazilian model that gets within eighty feet of him. When he was starting out, though, did he post videos of himself on YouTube? No. His road to success went the hard way: he made out with David Bowie and said, "Hey, look, everybody! I'm queer!"

And then there's Lou Reed. Lou's been in a La-Z-Boy next to Laurie Anderson since man discovered chicken, celebrating the fruit of all his hard work. But back when he was starting out, could he just croon a couple notes in front of Christina Aguilera and get signed to a record deal? No! He had to wear leather jackets and write songs about getting blown by TVs.

Maybe I am old. Maybe I sound like a grandpa. But the truth is, I long for those days when a singer had to pretend he fucked dudes in dark alleys if he wanted to get anywhere. And maybe I'm a dreamer, but I think eventually we'll return to that America that I know and love. One day I'll fire up Spotify and it'll ask me to listen to some androgynous guy belt out a ballad about buttfucking. Sure, it's difficult. It's painful. But wasn't America built on hard work?

Today's Hit Viral Video in Two Acts and Eight Scenes

Act 1

Scene 1: Three guys discuss their Chevy Sonic and their plans for a prank: in the middle of the night they'll bury a treasure chest on a deserted beach, then they'll unearth it after the beach is full.

Scene 2: They bury the chest and wait. When the sun comes out and the beach teems with bathers, they break out metal detectors and pretend to discover it.

Scene 3: Somehow finding three handy shovels, they dig. A curious crowd forms. A shovel hits something, and the onlookers buzz with excitement. Could it be . . . buried treasure?

Act 2

Scene 1: The three guys continue to shovel until the top of the chest is completely exposed. The onlookers, now numbering in the hundreds, go wild. They chant, "Open it!"

Scene 2: The guys pry open the lid and discover the "ancient gold." The crowd goes berzerk!

Scene 3: Realizing it's just three wimpy dudes separating them from a fortune in gold, the bystanders attack the men and dive onto the coins, madly grabbing for anything they can steal.

Scene 4: They discover it's not really gold.

Scene 5: Well, but it's chocolate! Everybody laughs.

FIN

Doctors in India have operated to remove a live fish from the lung of a 12-year-old boy.

Anil Barela swallowed the 3 1/2" fish while playing in a river. Indian boys commonly swallow live fish - but this one went down the wrong way and entered the boy's left lung. After he started feeling short of breath, doctors removed the fish in a 45 minute operation.

Sigh. Yes, I totally believe this story. Because though x-rays can see through flesh and blood and organ and bone, they're no match for Mr. Flippy.

I usually don't tell my readers to buy stuff, but today I found an incredible offer I just can't refuse. For a limited time only, you can buy this little ride-on car from Groupon that's worth faaar more than $44 in technological achievements alone.

I mean, look at all those impressive words: Inertia. Centrifugal force. Friction. I don't think I've ever seen anything that was inexpensive yet totally obeyed the laws of nature. Why, I'll bet Isaac Newton is totally frictionless in his grave!

Now, okay, maybe if you think about it, it isn't all that impressive. Inertia: the tendency of an object at rest to stay at rest. Maybe the folks who wrote this are unaware, but this pretty much means, "If your kid weighs more than eight ounces, YOU'VE GOT TO PUSH THIS THING LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER."

Then there's centrifugal force. This is when something moving in a circle behaves as if it's experiencing an outward force. It might not be something you look for in a children's toy, as it kind of means, "Jerk the steering wheel hard and kid face hits pavement." Concerned parents probably don't buy toys because the box says they're like tiny Suzuki Samurais.

Still, those minor deficiencies are dwarfed by the fact that this amazing little car is powered by friction. Friction, you know, is the impedance caused by two objects in contact: in this case, plastic wheels and concrete. See, without friction, if you gave your kid a little push, he'd never stop. Two hundred years from now, there'd be a tiny skeleton puttering through Chinatown. Thanks to friction, though, he'll stop! This little puppy will actually zip along at nearly six miles an hour, provided you're pushing it while running sixty-five. I say thank god someone's finally harnessed the awesome power of friction, and I call on automakers everywhere to follow suit. I mean, think of how much greener the world would be if you had to push your Prius everywhere you went.

Last, I don't mean to brag but I've nearly got a degree in Physics from a top online university, and there's one force they forgot. Gravity! I'll bet if you push this sucker off a forty-foot cliff, it would really move.

In closing, my sincere compliments to whoever thought up the name. Really, PlaSmart PlasmaCar? The "Smart" and "car" parts conjure up thoughts of electric motors. "Plasma" makes me think of high-tech TVs, or selling my blood to pay for that online university. I'd never have believed that any of these words would relate to this thing. That's why I'm not in marketing, I guess. I'd probably have gone with "U push it and it might move, it's a big plastic paperweight on wheels!!!" though if I read something like that, I wouldn't be ordering six as we speak.

Who's the Douchier Hanks Offspring?

Sigh. Tom Hanks sounds like a pretty cool guy. He's politically correct, he supports lots of charities, he makes quality productions, and he's ecologically aware. Sadly, he's got a couple apples that fell quite some distance from the tree. Who's the douchier of his sons -- Colin (actor from "That Thing You Do"), or Chester (aka rich white rapper Chet Haze)? Let's take a thorough look.

	Colin	Chet
Any big breaks from dad's friends	Appeared in "Band of Brothers," executive-produced by Steven Spielberg and dad.	Appeared in "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," directed by Spielberg.
His famous relative noted on IMDB?	Nope.	Their top trivia item: "Nephew of Jim Hanks."
Weird moniker?	Not if your dad's name is Cecil.	No, it's pretty straightforward. It's "H to the E, and in between an aze."
Charity dealings?	Selflessly raised $90,000 to make a documentary about Tower Records.	Once tweeted, "No One Ever Got Anything In This Life By Waiting Around For Handouts."
A man of mystery?	A college graduate and friend of Jack Black.	Pensively asked, "Why arent there ... many tv shows about great artists, philosophy, legendary acts of history, spirituality?" but also pondered, "Sometimes I eat filet mignon. Other times I eat a big Mac. But u know what.... Either way I'm eatin."
Credibility problems?	Went to a college that's 2% black.	A theater major at Northwestern University, he went on to appear in a movie based on the Bratz dolls.
Loves women?	Married in 2010.	Once declared, "I'm straight lmao ok ThankYou,” and frequently tweets shirtless photos addressed to the "ladies."
Sports fan?	Loves the San Francisco Giants, Sacramento Kings, and San Jose Sharks.	Raps that his “balls served more than Serena playing tennis.”
Scandals?	Will appear as himself on "Happy Endings."	Allegedly called a hater a "faggot," probably on an iPhone purchased by dad's salary from "Bosom Buddies."
Musical talent?	Once played in a band called "Pontius Pilot" while claiming he didn't understand the name.	No.

We know, we know: it's not even close. The winner is CHET HAZE! Meanwhile, this one is strictly for the ladies.

The gay world is abuzz after Queen Latifah apparently inched her way out of the closet while headlining last weekend's 29th Annual Long Beach Gay Pride Celebration. Instructing her audience "to conquer hate with love" and to "let their inner light shine in the world," Latifah, long rumored to be a lesbian, said she was proud to be among "her people" and had been "been waiting to do this for a long time."

Fast forward to next week when Latifah's official spokesperson clarifies that by "my people" she meant folks who are drunk and outdoors.

Over the weekend I saw a woman with a tattoo that looked a little something like this.

For about the time it takes light to travel between two hipsters in Brooklyn, I thought it was fun. And then the rational part of my brain kicked in, asking

What the fuck is this girl trying to say?

This tattoo says she loves music. Some kind of music. She either enjoys or participates in the creation or reproduction of some form of musical auditory stimulation.

Unfortunately, that's as far as we can go. See, this isn't a song permanently etched into her back. They're musical notes. They're random notations derived from a systematic method of representing tones for the purpose of identification and reproduction. People who see this tattoo will think, "Gosh, that girl must really love Travis Tritt. Or Handel. Or the Shaggs."

Every time I caught a glimpse of the thing I couldn't help but shake my head. I mean, if you love music, can't you at least narrow it down to some type of music, or a composer, or a singer? Take this tattoo:

This tattoo says a lot more about the wearer. It says, "Gosh, I didn't realize you have to put the notes on those weird-ass bars to mean a single fuckin' thing."

In the end, I recommend avoiding tattoos about music. Frank Zappa said writing about music was like tap-dancing about architecture, and I think tattooing is just as dumb. So, chick, enjoy your tattoo. Me, I'd sooner get a tattoo of a dot on my bicep, because I love Paris, and that's what it looks like on a map.

Dear Lady Carrying A Yoga Mat That Says "Do One Thing A Day That Scares You":

I will definitely take advice about courage from somebody who won't lay on the ground without padding.

Thank you very much,
RomanHans

I found this chart online, and I think it's positively fascinating. What? No, it's got nothing to do with the stock market. It's the number of dudes who are suing John Travolta.

Movie Review: What To Expect When You're Expecting

[The book's] journey ends with the hopeful beginning of a new life, whereas the movie leaves you hoping for a swift end to your own. -- Eric Hynes, The Village Voice

This little quiz is circling the internet today, and I think it's kind of fun. What a time capsule! I mean, if it were written today, there'd be a picture of nosegays and limp wrists attached.

Still, in the years since it was written it's become absolutely useless. The world has gotten so manly they'd probably rank Betty White lesbian. Nobody has flowered drapes. Nobody likes to make slip covers. And dancing is feminine? Okay.

I'm not particularly manly, but I scored a 6. I'd have scored higher, but I refused to answer the "favorite star" question, because anybody who has a favorite star is a big girl's blouse. And really, manly men prefer female stars? Two words: ETHEL MERMAN.

Despite the dated questions, this test reaffirmed to me that I'm a real man. How? A real man will ask, "Why didn't they give 0 points for the manly things and 1 point for the womanly things so dudes wouldn't have to add?" And even if changing times have rendered it nearly useless, there's still one thing you can be sure of about somebody who takes this test. If they come up with a score of 1, like the guy who posted this on BuzzFeed, they're heterosexual.

Really? Really? Well, fuck you all -- I'm still not gonna swerve.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

Coming soon to your local bookseller. In the spirit of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters comes the latest thriller from Synergistic Publishing House:

The Diary of Anne Frankenstein.

This touching, fascinating, ultimately heartwarming achievement merges the unwavering optimism of a young Jewish girl in Nazi-occupied Amsterdam with the unfeeling fury of a monstrous, pea-brained hulk. Sit spellbound as you witness Anne's recollection of her birth.

Dear reader, I can hardly ask you to believe my tale, as I can scarcely believe it myself. All I know is, one dark winter morning, I opened my eyes to discover that my immortal soul was imprisoned in a grotesque, oversized body that lay fallow on a cement slab. My flesh was pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle of waxy carrion sliced from bodies of every color, shape, and size, haphazardly slashed together by ropy cords of animal tendon.

While every nerve cell in my body screamed, I struggled to my feet and staggered on unfeeling, tree trunk legs to the window. Rather than examine life outside, I stared at my own reflection in the rippled glass. Reader, I cannot convey the pain I felt. Though deep inside I was just like every other little girl, wanting nothing more than to drink lemonade and play with my dolls, on the outside I had iron bolts protruding from my forehead and a jagged flap of skin securing my rotting brain in place.

I screamed with the torment of the undead. "I'm HIDEOUS!" I yelled.

My creator, a white-bearded man wearing the traditional garb of the Orthodox, shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, "maybe you're smart?"

Cheer to this pastoral adventure:

Walking about yesterday I saw a young girl, perhaps aged four or five, tossing edelweiss into a stream. Though she wore a Nazi armband, I felt such delight at this sight that I decided to join her. I too picked a flower and flung it into the water, and the young girl and I both laughed. Then I couldn't find any more flowers so I explained to her my feelings about the corruption of innocence and then I threw her in.

Feel your heart pound as a desperate Anne eludes pursuers in the English countryside:

I couldn't believe this angry mob was chasing me. Though I was a head taller than any of the trees, and my creator's lack of surgical training had left me with deep-set eyes that pointed opposite directions and a gash of a mouth that continually poured rivulets of saliva, though I was burdened by the blind stagger of an absinthe-swilling drunk rather than the measured gait of a lady and my skin, rather than being scented by Parisian scents or rose-water, stank both of the grave and smoked ham, I still felt like a little girl. And yet I found myself the object of such narrow-minded hatred solely because I had a different name for my Creator than they did!

Well, or maybe because they saw me steal a sheep from a local farm and unhinge my jaw to devour it while it bleated for help.

Last, have your heart torn out of your chest, just like our heroine's friends, by the unvanquished spirit in the new, updated end.

Dear reader, I know not what will become of me, as nowadays even the most minor exertion has me dropping more fractured parts than a Fiat. Still, I believe that, despite it all, flowers are pretty, rabbits are fluffy, and that fire stuff is just crazy shit.

An American counterterrorism agent who infiltrated Al Qaeda discovered they have substantially improved their bomb-making skills. The Yemen Al Qaeda gave the undercover agent a newer, "sleeker" version of the underwear bomb, which he brought back to America.

The agent is currently being debriefed.

Let's Translate

"they raised near 2x as much $" = opposition included successful people

"had 2 presidents" = opposition included intelligent people

"had celebrities" = opposition included attractive people

"we had YOU" = just congratulate yourself and don't stop & think about it

The First Draft of "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend"

Is this unbelievable? Over the weekend a musical theater student looking through writer Jules Styne's archives stumbled across a long-lost first draft of "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend." Even if you aren't a writer, you may be interested in seeing the subtle changes that take place as a work is fine-tuned.

A date with a guy may be preoccupying
but it takes cash to make chicks fuck.
A date may be fly but it won't end up buying
those new Louboutins
or that beachfront cottage in San Juan.
Interest flags as our titties sag
and our tummies start needing a tuck
Unlike Fred or Curtis, our bank won't desert us
It takes cash to make chicks fuck.

This is the last straw. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, and Siri -- the new voice of iPhones -- is giving it one good healthy shove. This idiot little animatron listens patiently to whatever its overprivileged owner says and acts like it's the most sensible thing it's ever heard.

This is obvious in the latest iPhone commercial starring Zooey Deschanel. By politely responding to silly meanderings, Siri teaches young people today that they should be treated like princesses even though they're too lazy to leave the house.

Enough is enough. We hereby demand that Apple convert Siri from some insipid little enabler into a strong parental figure who will demand accountability and responsibility from our children. They are our future, and deserve nothing less.

Current Siri Commercial

CUTE & QUIRKY ZOOEY DESCHANEL: Is that rain?

SIRI: Yes. It appears to be raining.

C&QZD: Oh. Let's get tomato soup delivered.

SIRI: I found a number of restaurants whose reviews mention tomato soup and that deliver.

C&QZD: Good. Because I don't want to put on real shoes. (PAUSE) Remind me to clean up -- tomorrow.

SIRI: Okay. I'll remind you.

C&QZD: Excellent. Today, we're dancing. Play "Shake Rattle and Roll."

Suggested Siri Commercial

CUTE & QUIRKY ZOOEY DESCHANEL: Is that rain?

SIRI: No, girlfriend, it's sparrow turds falling from the sky. When was the last time you saw an optometrist?

C&QZD: I appreciate your concern. Hey, let's get tomato soup delivered.

SIRI: Sure. I know working that can opener can really make my wrist swell up.

C&QZD: Good. Because I don't want to put on real shoes. (PAUSE) Remind me to clean up -- tomorrow.

SIRI: Why -- because twenty-four hours from now you won't be able to see all the junk covering the floor of your room? I'm making an appointment with your optometrist while you can still find the front door.

C&QZD: Okay. But today, we're dancing. Play "Shake, Rattle, and Roll."

SIRI: Oops. I accidentally put on Death Cab for Cutie. Can we talk about your failed marriage now?

Thinking About My Last Few Relationships

ME: I thought you were going to come over and talk to me.

HIM: I thought you were really hot.

ME: I thought I'd just go out for a quick beer.

HIM: I thought maybe I could buy you another.

ME: I thought I'd make an early night of it.

HIM: I thought you might want to see my place.

ME: I thought we could take it slow.

HIM: I thought we might as well go for it.

ME: I thought that was nice.

HIM: I thought you'd be a little more aggressive in the sack.

ME: I thought you'd look good with your clothes off.

Why I'm Gay

Quotes from the male losers on Top Shot:

• It's all good.
• Oh well.
• Guess it wasn't my time.
• I'd hoped to do better than that.

Quotes from the female losers on The Bachelor:

• I don't know why I'm crying. I didn't even like him.
• It isn't fair. I really put myself out there, and it just isn't fair. OH GOD WHY OH WHY OH WHY?
• I had onions in my pizza. I shouldn't have had that onion and peppers and everything on my pizza. And I had four slices.
• I deserve better than, like, standing here crying right now. I feel like I deserve to be smiling and laughing and talking with Brad, not heading back to my crummy apartment.
• I came here to fall in love, not to hit another girl with my best shoes.