Wednesday News Round-Up

AIDS denialist Christine Maggiore died on Monday.

Ms. Maggiore started a group that challenges "common assumptions" about AIDS, and self-published a book that claimed the cause of AIDS is still unknown. the HIV virus is harmless, AIDS is not sexually transmitted, and HIV positive people die because they are poisoned by toxic antiviral drugs,

She was HIV positive and refused to take antiviral drugs.


"I'm not really dead!" she said in her defense.

Maybe some people are enriched by having siblings. Maybe they share experiences, form bonds, and enjoy each others' company, their affection growing deeper over time. My two sisters just taught me world-class selfishness.

I tried to hold onto a bare-bones civility, but it didn't stand a chance. If I caved in to a request for a sip of my soda, I'd get back an empty can. By the time the mashed potatoes got around to me, the bowl would be licked clean. I needed to do something desperate if I wanted to stave off scurvy, so slowly but surely I came up with the Three Commandments of Selfishness.

1) Eat when you don't feel like it or you probably won't eat at all. Don't feel like hot chocolate on a sunny summer day? Tough. It's now or never, bucko, so man up and suck those mini-marshmallows down.

2) Hide food the second you get home from the supermarket. Nobody can eat what they can't find. Plus, even if they eventually discover those Ding Dongs squirreled away in your underwear drawer, you're probably still home free.

3) Add something disgusting to everything you cook. Driven by desperation, I learned how to turn inedible crap like potatoes, melba toast and lentils into palatable foods. Rather than developing similar skills, though, my sisters just circled the kitchen while I cooked, waiting for me to turn my back. Just needs a little salt, I'd think, and when I'd return to the pot a second later it'd look like locusts had attacked.

My sister Jazz unwittingly gave me the solution. "This is disgusting," she announced as she spat out a bite of my enchiladas. "What is this horrible green stuff?"

At first I couldn't believe she'd criticized my cooking, but then it hit me. That's the key! I realized. Cilantro! I'll use that peppy green herb like Superman's foes use kryptonite. From that day on it turned up in everything I cooked, from soup to chocolate mousse.

I finally moved out when I turned sixteen. They hadn't broken my spirit, though I could slide through wrought iron fences without turning sideways. Though my selfishness was no longer needed it held on fast, morphing from a survival strategy to an anchor that weighed me down. It seemed like every guy I dated was raised by loving parents in a warm and caring home. They shared, shared, and shared some more. Everything they did was generous. Everything they had was up for grabs. "That's a gorgeous sweater," I told Ralph.

"Take it!" he said. "The blue looks amazing with your eyes."

My selfish brain, set in its ways since those formative years, strugged to process this new information. Generosity? Altruism? Attractive clothing being passed around for free? Holy Jesus, I thought -- what end times are these?

Ralph and I lasted three weeks. I loved my half of the relationship, but he wasn't totally happy with his. The final straw came when we went to a Starbucks that only had one apricot walnut muffin left and I was closer to the cash register than he.

After eight more nice, generous guys ran screaming from me, I decided I had to change, but I quickly discovered that I couldn't. I'd try to bring my boyfriend a sandwich but my body would literally shake its complaint. What the hell are you doing? it'd wonder. What about us? Sure, maybe we don't need that sandwich right away, but winter's coming, and it's going to be cold. Just shovel down half of it, dude, and I'll store it away for later.

I'd fight those little voices as best I could, but next thing I knew I'd be standing in front of my man holding a plate dusted with crumbs and a pickle.

Luckily the fates intervened when I met Raoul, because my selfishness didn't bother him. He didn't complain. In fact, he barely seemed to notice. I knew he was the one when I woke up next to him after our first night together. He had a whole huge spread of food covering the bed: pancakes, sausages, ham slices dotted with cloves and pineapple. Biscuits with gravy, croissants, muffins with cranberry butter.

This is what it's like to wake up in heaven, I thought. I couldn't believe my luck. I propped myself up with a pillow and surveyed the startling spread. "Is this breakfast?" I asked excitedly.

He shoved a forkful of French toast in his mouth, then glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. "You mean yours, or mine?"

According to a new poll, the celebrity most Americans would like to have as a neighbor is ex-VP hopeful Sarah Palin, with Oprah taking second place and swimmer Michael Phelps taking third.

The worst celebrity neighbor is Britney Spears, followed by Rosie O'Donnell, Joe the Plumber, and Lindsay Lohan.

The Palins would have been my first choice too. I mean, it's annoying to have to hop in the car every time I need crack.

Australian scientists gave cocaine to honeybees, and discovered the drugged insects act suspiciously like humans. They dance energetically, communicate more frequently, and get cranky when their supply is cut off.

Unfortunately, it took the scientists a lot of trial and error to determine an effective dosage, and several bees nearly OD'd. "OHMIGOD!" one screamed shortly after the drug was administered. "What's this yellow shit coming out of my ass?"

(Via Joe.My.God)

Well, in a desperate bid to make a little pocket change, I started up a bumper sticker business. Unfortunately, it's not doing so great. I printed up a generic version of a popular genre, but for some reason they aren't exactly flying off the shelves.

If you'd like one, they're only a buck apiece, plus postage. I'll go a lot cheaper if you order a thousand or more.

Ask RomanHans

Dear Friend,

Recently I celebrated another birthday. Every year there are celebrations in my honor, and this year was the same. I'm comforted to know that at least once a year people think of me.

My birthday celebrations began many years ago. At first people were thankful for what I did for them, but these days nobody remembers why we celebrate. People get together and have fun, but they forget to include me.

I remember last year there was a great feast in my honor. The dinner table was overloaded with food. The decorations were exquisite and there were huge piles of beautifully wrapped gifts. But you know what? Nobody invited me.

It didn't surprise me. In the last few years everyone has been closing their doors to me.

Though I wasn't invited, I decided to enter the party secretly. I crept in and hid in a corner. Everyone was drinking and joking and laughing. They were having a grand time. To top it off, this fat man all dressed in red with a long white beard came in yelling "Ho ho ho!" He acted like he was drunk. He sat on the sofa and all the children ran to him, saying "Santa! Santa!" like the party was for him.

At midnight everyone hugged. I waited for someone to come hug me, but not a single soul did. Instead, they exchanged gifts. When everything had been opened, I looked to see if there was a gift for me. How would you feel if on your birthday everybody shared gifts and you did not get one? Finally I understood that I was unwanted at the party, and I quietly left.

This season, I want you to bring me into your life. I want you to recognize the fact that I came into this world to save you, and that I gave my life for you. I want that you believe this with all your heart. And one day I will have my own celebration, a spectacular party like nobody has ever seen before. I'm planning it now. I'm going to send out millions of invitations, and naturally you'll get one.

Let me know if you want to come, and I'll reserve a place for you. I'll write your name with golden letters in my great guest book, and only those on the list will be let inside.

If you don't answer my invitation, you'll be left out, and then you'll truly miss a wonderful party.

Be prepared. I hope to see you very soon. I love you!

Jesus




Dear Jesus:

I know you didn't ask for my advice, but I'm guessing your email was a cry for help. You recognize that you're doing something wrong. You know change has to be made, but you don't know how to start.

Please, reread your letter, and spend some time reflecting on it. You sneak in to a party where you aren't wanted, then sulk in the corner. My grandma doesn't have this kind of nerve, and she's from Florida! Think about it: was the fat man in the red suit so popular because he's a fun-loving guy? Were you a little less well received because, well, maybe you whine a bit? The fat man was laughing and entertaining everyone, while you were cowering. Did you bring presents for anybody? Or did you just want them all to sit at your feet and listen to those stories about you and your Dad again?

Your party is a good idea, but I question your motivation. Writing names in a big gold book? Regardless what you hear, Paris Hilton is not a role model. Why not throw open your doors to everybody? No, everything has to be a production with you, Mr. Drama Queen. Something tells me that even if people RSVP to this alleged bash, you're going to complain once they're inside. Do they need to warn you if they're going to drink a cup of punch? Send you a fax if they plan to eat cake? Girl, you need to start giving freely rather than making your "friends" send you a telegram if they need a hook to hang up their coats.

I'm sorry to say, Jesus, you sound pretty self-centered. Somebody holds a party on your birthday and it's a personal affront? What if it's their birthday too? Still forbidden? What if it's a baby shower? Still bad? You've got to wake up and realize, dude, that the world doesn't revolve around you, Au contraire, you're like the high-maintenance chick in the halter top and skintight Diesels who begs a man to come over, then once he's there whines that he didn't bring Mickey D's.

You say you want us to enter your life this Christmastime. Why don't you try to get into our lives for a change? If people have forgotten you, do something to remind them! And this time around make us think, "Hey, I'd almost forgotten how cool Jesus is!" rather than "Oh shit, what does that dude want now?

If that fails, seek professional help.

Your friend, and a big fan of alcohol and presents,
RomanHans

News Round-Up

Those flying shoes didn't bother President Bush, but First Lady Laura is definitely peeved. "It is an assault," she declared on Fox News Sunday. "And I think it should be treated that way."

Looking on the bright side, she says, "this proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that what we're doing is working, now that the Iraqis finally have the freedom to tell us to go fuck ourselves."

Did you hear about this? Frankly, I'm horrified. I'm outraged. I'm disgusted. What has happened to us? This incident raises some very big questions that we as a society need to address.

Like, when did knives stop shutting people up?

Yesterday the New York Times printed absolutely the cutest, most colorful story. Seems this sweet little old lady buys expensive food at various markets, eats some of the stuff, then takes the rest back! Is that adorable? She's absolutely shameless, returning half-eaten salmon because it smells salmony, or holding onto cookies for a year and then returning them because now they've got bugs. She makes such scenes nobody can turn her down!

Once, after she broke a pot, she wrote a sad little letter in pitiful old lady handwriting, and the sucker manufacturer sent her double her money back!

This woman is an absolute delight. She's even enlisted her hapless kids to help her, now that she's in her eighties and can't swear and scream like she used to. What blessed kids they are. Free food -- and now one daughter gets a byline in the Times and a fat paycheck! I swear, if they'd given Ma a cute nickname, like Tina Returner, they'd be filming this thing with Jennifer Aniston by now.

Shit. And my useless old mother just does fuckin' volunteer work.

Readers, we're going to have a little change of focus here at World Class Stupid. I'm sick and tired of tearing my hair out, writing smart little stories in my blood, sweat and tears, only to get zero comments and zero recognition from all the fashionable websites. For the New Year I've resolved to take my writing to the big league, so with that goal in mind I'm going to start giving the people exactly what they want.

As of today, this site is called LOLplantz. Every day we'll feature another funny photo of a tree, flower or shrub with a funny headline in a lower-case font. Here's the first. Forward it to your friends! Heck, I'm already up to half a million hits, and six publishers have expressed interest. Stop by tomorrow to see an annoyed jacaranda.

A produce stand in Sussex, England has created a nativity scene using fruits and vegetables.


The Three Wise Men are made out of onions, apples, and squash. The animals are cauliflower, potatoes, and parsnips. Mary and Joseph are butternut squash, carrots, and lemons.

The baby Jesus is a carrot.

The owner of the produce stand said he thought a vegetable nativity scene would be a great way to get children to think about eating right.

And with that, kids, I wish you a happy holiday. Have fun, play safe, and eat five servings of the Holy Family every day.

P. S.: Go here and vote for me. Thanks!

The Meaning of Christmas from the New York Times

Got a dog? Why not buy him his own Mercedes?

I've been taking tennis lessons. This here's my coach. He's a pretty thoughtful guy. In fact, he'll even correct your stroke while you're in the shower.


His teaching methods are a little strange, though. For instance, his lessons in human anatomy mostly consist of wearing a jockstrap to class.



Maybe there's something to it. But then again, maybe it's just an excuse to make bad jokes about balls.



You know: fuzzy balls, white balls, bouncing balls. Here's one: Why are my balls like tennis balls? They both come in cans.



I never really liked tennis, but coach turned me into an athletic supporter.



What, coach? You want me to do your laundry? Well, okay. But I gotta tell you, that old lstrap is a little crusty. Tell you what: I'll pick you up a new one, and just stuff that one in my mou-- the trash.

(Balls Out: The Gary Houseman Story starring Seann William Scott opens next year. Full sized pix and more at Superhero Fan)

Last Sunday the New York Daily News published an article titled "Fast
Lane" that took a look back at fifteen people who got their fifteen minutes of fame in 2008. Being social climbers ourselves, we scrutinized the article closely, trying to read between lines in hopes of discovering some obscure pattern that might help us to achieve similar results in 2009.

Here's a random sampling of the men and five out of six of the women they featured. See if you can come up with anything.

Michael Forbes:  Scottish fisherman who refused to sell his family farm to Donald Trump
William Lopez:  Streaked Yankee Stadium during his graduation ceremony
Veeramuthu Kalimuthu:  Mechanic who jumped onto subway tracks to rescue a stranger
Alain Robert:  French daredevil who climbed the New York Times building

Kristin Davis:  Ran a high-end Manhattan prostitution ring
Laura Fay:  Slept with Vito Fossella
Rielle Hunter:  Slept with John Edwards
Mindy McCready:  Slept with Roger Clemens
Ashley Dupre:  Slept with Eliot Spitzer

Secret Millionaire stinks, though not quite as badly as Oprah's The Big Give. Oprah's show suffered from a bizarre concept, criticizing people for helping others. "You raised money for a little boy's kidney dialysis?" a judge barks. "Well, Sharlene found a home for a handicapped orphan. So. Get. Your. Lame. Ass. Out. Of. My. SIGHT!"

SM sticks a rich person into a poor environment, to show them how the other ninety-nine percent live and convince them to help out. Unlike Oprah's show, it's forty minutes of bragging and five minutes of charity. We meet our "secret millionaire" in scenes straight out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. There he is on his yacht! Look at his Bentley! He's got nine homes! Oh, how wonderful it is to be rich!

The producers obviously want a stark contrast with the selfless, thoughtful person the millionaire becomes at the end, so they paint him as a real asshole at the beginning. They did a Grade-A job with Gurbaksh Chahal, who's supposedly worth three hundred mil. His seven-million-dollar penthouse is so tacky it makes Donald Trump's gilded pad look like an Amish barn. His monogram is carved into everything but the upstairs maid. He calls himself "G," which naturally means that penthouse is called The G Spot.

We're immediately sucked in. It's the opposite of Peter Pan: clap your hands and think happy thoughts, kids, and we'll all see an asshole shot down! We're on the edge of our seats as he's shoved out onto the mean streets. To, uh, wander around.

Hey, I thought he was supposed to get a job! Dude's just wandering around San Francisco. What, is he going to buy clam chowder for a homeless guy? And wasn't he was supposed to leave all that luxury behind? He's got at least a hundred thousand worth of gel in his hair.

G isn't drawn into the new surroundings: we're drawn into his. We too are filthy rich folk slumming in a soup kitchen. Ohmigod! What hideousness! Here's a hundred dollars: just please stop touching my coat.

He breaks down in tears at one point, so we've got our fingers crossed. We can't wait to see how this catharsis plays out in cash. He awards thirty-five thousand to a soup kitchen. Uh, whaaa? He's got a quarter-billion and he won't even round off? Yup, it's an omen: another thirty-five thousand goes to a homeless shelter, and two people each get ten thou.

Ninety thousand dollars. (There's no explanation why he didn't cough up the hundred thou they require.) That's like a guy with thirty thousand in the bank giving away NINE DOLLARS. Judging by this criteria, my grandma should make the news every time she sends me a birthday check.

One $10,000 recipient literally says, "I can't accept this," because there's something distasteful in G's face. He's not even remotely involved. He's tossing a quarter to a cripple and waiting to hear "Thanks." Besides, it's hardly transforming. In San Francisco, it'll barely cover a month's rent and an iced latte.

With the help of this episode, I narrowed down exactly what I like about the program. Giving money to poor folk? Eh. Sticking rich people in cheap motels? Nope. No, it's making rich people work. Their money doesn't even remotely correspond to any effort they've made, so that's always the part that stuns them, that sends their plucked eyebrows sliding up their botoxed foreheads. If they strung together the middle bits of every episode and called it "Attractive People Do An Honest Day's Work," I think Fox would have a hit on their hands.

Still, the show teaches a valuable lesson. That's why G's rich and we aren't, we realize as he drives back to the G Spot in his white Bentley. We saw Secret Millionaire as a show about giving. He saw a chance to pay $90,000 for an hour of primetime PR.

Pope Benedict said on Monday that saving humanity from homosexuals and transsexuals is just as important as saving the rainforest from destruction.

Transsexuals, sure, but homosexuals? We're not chopping down anybody's wood.



Speaking at the U. S. Army War College in Thorpe, Pennsylvania last week, President Bush declared that one major success of his two terms in office has been spreading democracy throughout the world. As a direct result of his administration's efforts, he said, ''more people live in liberty than at any other time in human history.''

Then he sang "Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose" and flipped everybody the bird.





The New York post office has temporarily suspended "Operation Santa," the program where volunteers "adopt" underprivileged children's letters to Santa and then deliver presents to the kids.

Because the #1 most popular present Santa's helpers were delivering? Dick in a Box.





On Friday a clown wearing brightly-colored pants, giant shoes and a policeman's helmet was strip-searched by security guards at Birmingham International Airport.

Dave Vaughan, 60, who performs for sick children as Police Constable Konk, was with a crowd of 100 disadvantaged youngsters about to board a charity flight around Britain when he set off a metal detector. Guards examined his plastic scissors, toy camera, wacky glasses and bubble saxophone before ordering him to strip.

Guards were horrified to discover that his lapel carnation isn't the only thing that squirts.

Poem Made of Song Titles from Jamie Foxx's New CD "Intuition"

Freak'in me
Slow.

She got her own
Number one
Just like me.

I don't need it,
Weekend lover.
I don't know
Why.

New York Phone Call

ME: Hello. Do you have chocolate-covered cherries?

GUY: This is a florist shop. You looking for a chocolate shop? This is a florist shop. We sell flowers.

ME: On your website it says you sell gift baskets, and some of them have chocolate-covered cherries.

GUY: (PAUSE) Six ounces for fifteen dollars.

A burglar hit Paris Hilton's Hollywood Hills home at around five o'clock this morning. The crook forced his way through the front door and absconded with an estimated $2 million worth of jewelry and other belongings.

Paris stumbled upon the burglar in action but thought it was somebody she'd slept with, since he was wearing pants. He'd been gone for seven hours before she realized the duct tape and handcuffs weren't foreplay.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a direct descendent of Forrest Gump: an odd central figure who almost seems mentally stunted charts a timeline through history. Look, there's World War I! Now Pearl Harbor! Look, it's the Beatles, and hippies!

It's almost the opposite of The Wrestler: sprawling, epic, big budget. Where a writer could have rendered The Wrestler brilliant, in Benjamin's case we wonder what an actor could have done with the title role. It's calculated and mass-market, but somehow it's still got vision and heart. The diversions add texture and depth to the film, as opposed to the confusing, jarring tangents The Wrestler almost seemed to ad lib.

It's sweet, it's sad, it's sappy, it's terrific. One of the best films of the year.

Two small quibbles, though. One, my hopes for a finale featuring a giant fetus with boyish dimples and six-pack abs ascending into space à la 2001 were dashed. And two, Brad Pitt's supposed to pass for a middle-aged dude just by painting on wrinkles and tousling his hair?

Really, you need the incessant farting, too.