I heard good things about a band called Lower, so I went to Spotify to check them out. I typed "Lower" into the search box, and got the following results:

LOWER THAN ATLANTIS
MARK LOWER
LOWER CLASS BRATS
"Lowering The Tone" by THE BRAD PITT LIGHT ORCHESTRA

Okay, I thought. It's an obscure band, and Spotify can't have everything. But just to double-check, I typed in the record name, "Seek Warmer Climes."

ALBUMS: "Seek Warmer Climes" by LOWER

Got that? The band was there. The record was there. Spotify just assumed I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT.

The same thing happens on Google. I type in "band lower" and the top five links are for Low and Lower Dens. Before the band Lower actually turns up, in fact, I'll probably see Flower, the skunk from Bambi, and a line drawing of someone's intestine.

All of a sudden it hits me. The internet thinks I'm dumb.

It's perfectly obvious in retrospect. Websites are ignoring what I type to give me more popular returns. They're thinking, "He typed in the name of an obscure, hip rock band, but he must not mean it. He's probably looking for this popular, lousy one." I don't know why nobody else is complaining about this, because it certainly wouldn't fly in person.

FRIEND: I got so sick from a chigger bite yesterday.

ME: That's interesting, but I'm pretty sure you mean a chalupa from Taco Bell.

FRIEND: I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art the other day.

ME: That's interesting. However, I know you inside and out, so I'm guessing you went to Mickey D's.

FRIEND: I'm so excited! I just got a copy of the London Philharmonic playing "Les Sylphides."

ME: Dude, I've been reading everything you've typed over the last fourteen years. You said syphillis wrong.

The last time I looked on my computer, I had 14,357 cookies. They contain everything from my name and email address to my height, weight, and how many dates it'll take for me to go down on a dude. (SPOILER: That cookie only needs to be one bit long.) Why, then, can't I have a cookie that says I'M NOT AN IDIOT? Something that says, "HEY, WHEN THIS DUDE TYPES IN A WORD, THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT HE MEANS"? Instead every website thinks, "I'll bet he spilled his Big Gulp on the keyboard. He's probably looking for the Frozen soundtrack."

It got me to thinking: there are thousands of cookies on our computers, all in the service of various companies. Why doesn't somebody write some GOOD cookies that'll be in service of US?

COOKIE     NAME	MEANING
NO SKIGOLF	User doesn't click on things that assume he has a retirement plan.
OWWW	Even twenty seconds of Seth Rogan getting hit in the crotch will not sway user to see one of his films.
NO SLIDES	Better put that shit on one page, because user isn't clicking through forty pictures to see Brooklyn's best pies.
NO PROACTIV	User spits up a little when he sees Young Adam Levine's faceful of zits.
NO PIRATE BOING	User occasionally downloads movies but never clicks on animated gifs of topless meth-heads.
NO RUBE	No matter how fast your ad flashes, user will not believe he's the millionth visitor.
CMYKNO	User knows the print cartridges are running low and doesn't care if everything is printed in turquoise, for fuck's sake.

"Holler If Ya Hear Me" In Five Minutes Or Less (SPOILERS)

A couple nights ago I went to see Holler If Ya Hear Me, the new Broadway musical based around the writings of Tupac Shakur. If you don't have two hours and a hundred dollars to blow, it went a little something like this.

SETTING: Five brownstone stoops, a vintage Cadillac, and lots of linoleum. JOHN enters.

JOHN: Hi. My name's John, and I'm just out of the slammer. Dudes around here know not to fuck with me, as you can tell from the way I barely move my mouth when I talk. Here are some of my friends in the neighborhood: Vinny, Benny, Ginny, Lenny, Minnie and Kenny.

VINNY, BENNY, GINNY, LENNY, MINNIE AND/OR KENNY: Yo, my man! Good to have you back. It's not gonna be easy to forge a new life here, because life in the hood is cheap. We're tough as nails, and we don't take no shit, because it's eat or be eaten. Here to sing about it is a fat white guy with an acoustic guitar.

JOHN: In the slammer I came to a realization. God has a higher calling for all of us, and it does not involve violence! We all have meaning! We all have purpose! Me, I like to draw. Look, here's a picture of a hamster on a pogo stick.

VBGLMK: But John, we're in trouble! The Four-Five Gang says they're gonna kill us all unless we pay them $3,000 a week. We need to start thinking about where we'd get that kind of money, but if that white guy is gonna sing another number, I guess we could dance around the car.

JOHN: Guys, I'd help you out, but I'm not going to back to jail. I'm gonna get a job and make something of myself. What? My paycheck is only fifty dollars? That's it! FUCK THE MAN! I'm not gonna take this kind of abuse, even though he specifically warned me that as a trainee my wages would be low.

VBGLMK'S MOM: We ghetto mothers are a proud and honorable people. Worrying about my children makes me tear my hair out, so it's a good thing he left $2,500 in the mailbox for a new weave.

JOHN: What can I do? I'm being sucked back into ghetto life. Once again I'm in the throes of hopelessless and despair. And once again I feel like it will be best expressed by the fortieth song Tupac wrote about his mama and God.

VBGLMK: Wow! This is gonna be one hell of a rumble. I'm gonna arm myself with a knife, a gun and another knife. They're gonna talk about this forever: The Four-Five Gang versus A Bunch Of Nice People Who Just Happen To Hang Out Together.

JOHN: Though the Man has done me bad, I refuse to debase myself by fighting. What? You too? And you? Wow. I'm so proud of all of you. Now nobody can say we're ripping off West Side Story, because this rumble is gonna be boring as shit.

VBGLMK: Though we dodged death today, we are certain to face it again in the future. But why are we forced to carry guns like this? Are all blacks doomed to be killed by the police, or by rival gangs? Because what kind of sad fate would that -- Oops. Sorry. Well, I guess that settles that!

Opera Singer Portrays A Woman Torn Between Loss And Liberation By Ripping Duct Tape Off Her Body

Story.

You know you're too nice when good deeds take up most of your life.

Yesterday Danny wanted a letter printed, because he's young and popular and has better things to do than make sure there's ink in his printer. Rachel wanted a photo of her cat scanned. It was a second in a series of favors for Anthony: first write up an affidavit saying his marriage to Mai Ling wasn't a citizenship scam, and then get it notarized. I asked if Tiffany, his lawyer/fiance, could do the latter, but he said she's way too busy.

Still, I drop everything when my neighbor David knocks. He announces he's getting a colonoscopy tomorrow, and though he made the appointment months ago, he didn't realize he should have prepared. The only thing he can eat today is Jello, and now he's too weak to go to the store.

You know, I nearly say, I'm weak too. I haven't eaten yet. It's a hundred degrees outside, and it's like walking through fire to get to the closest market. I get home and I'm too exhausted to do anything, so I haven't actually gotten anything done in a week or two. Sure, I'll go pick up Jello, but there's half the day shot because I'll need to spend three hours afterwards drinking water and mopping my head with a cold towel.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll make you some Jello. I'll drop it off in an hour or so."

New Yorkers don't publicize one of the problems with living in the city: you just can't own a car. Insurance is crazy, parking is a nightmare, and there are literally two gas stations in the whole town. The subway is great for getting us into Manhattan, but since the grocery stores there sell bread for twelve dollars a pop, we confine ourselves to our neighborhood shops. Unfortunately, they're fifteen blocks away, and since we can only buy what we can carry, we end up shopping every other day.

So, I go to the store -- the same store I'll return to later this evening to scrounge something for my dinner. I buy David a box of lemon Jello, and half an hour later I'm only semi-exhausted as I start making it. I dump the powder into a bowl and boil the water. I get out the measuring cup: one cup of boiling water, one cup of cold water. Since David is already weak, I thoughtfully add a tray of ice to a pitcher of water so the Jello will set extra fast.

There's a knock at the door, and it's David again. I've done so much, he says; he can't just sit around idly. He'll finish making the Jello. In a flash fourteen previous afternoons with him deluge my brain: "I can barbecue chicken!" he announces right before turning my chipotle-marinated boneless breasts to charcoal. "I can transplant thyme!" he says as he rips the roots off my year-old plant.

Still, I appreciate his enthusiasm, and like a parent with a child, I cede the counter to him. Isn't it an even bigger favor if he actually learns something? Won't I eventually be left alone if I teach my friends autonomy? I watch as he measures a cup of boiling water and adds it to the Jello powder bowl. "Stir for two minutes," I say, and I set the timer. I head off to my work table to sort papers as I pat myself on the back. That wasn't so bad. I'd done a good deed. And had it really put me out that much? No! Sure, it'd sucked up an hour or so, but it's not even two o'clock and I can still get my stuff done.

I sort and file and notice the kitchen is suspiciously quiet. Just to reassure myself, I circle back and see David stirring a piss-yellow liquid in my eight-gallon punch bowl. "Are you sure that was only a cup of water in the pitcher?" he asks, and I grab my sunglasses and go back to the store.

Steve Martin To Star in "Father Of The Bride" With Gay Wedding

I just heard about the next Father of the Bride installment, and I'm absolutely thrilled to announce that it will be gay-inclusive. Progress! According to Joe.My.God, in the second sequel of the series, George Banks (Steve Martin) is "thunderstruck and speechless" when his son announces he's going to marry another man.

Is that hysterical? I applaud the filmmakers for doing something so unconventional. I mean, usually Hollywood comedies feature people pooping in their pants, or tossing dogs out of windows, or spreading sperm in their hair. Needless to say I'm thrilled they're finally going to argue whether Gay is Okay.

In fact, I don't think I'm overstating this to say they're creating a whole new genre: Gay Blockbuster Comedies. I mean, this isn't just a straight comedy with the sexes changed: this is a whole new mousetrap. I don't know of any straight comedy where there's been a serious debate of world issues. Characters learn to love, or to share. They learn who their friends are, or they learn that the world is a nice place. I never saw either of the previous "Bride" films, but I'm relatively sure it included things like a French wedding planner whom no one could understand, a florist who delivered Calla lilies instead of roses, and a reception guest who ate tainted shellfish and projectile-vomited while doing the Chicken Dance.

I don't think Steve Martin's character declared that his future son-in-law was an abomination in the face of God who shouldn't be allowed to anally penetrate his daughter.

But Roman, you say, will it really be funny? How could it not be? I reply. I'm sure we've all laughed at smart, attractive people like Martin saying gay sex is repulsive. And who hasn't chortled at the whole "Biblical damnation" thing? I know I'll probably fall out of my seat when George's son announces he's getting married, and George's excitement turning to disgust when his son adds, "... to a man."

As a writer, I'm already making up scenes in my head, and laughing myself silly. I sure hope the real thing includes the title character saying gays always die by the age of 37, and the anus is exit only. And I personally wouldn't mind if this hot new trend spread to straight comedies, and they started tackling serious issues. I mean, just think of how much funnier those classic old comedies would have been if they'd had dialog like this:

"Gosh, Ron, you're a swell anchorman, but I have a hard time dating somebody who thinks Mexicans aren't good for anything but having kids."

"He's not just a 40-year-old virgin. He also thinks blacks and whites shouldn't intermarry."

Harry: You realize of course that we could never be friends.
Sally: Why not?
Harry: You don't have the blood purity I appreciate in the Aryan race.

Hitch: No matter what, no matter who, no matter when, any man has a chance to sweep any woman off her feet. He just needs the right broom and a diamond ring he bought from a Jew.

Reallly, RNC? Trying to sway voters with kittens? I don't think I've ever seen anything so hairball.

Catholic Moral Authority Wonders Whether It's Okay To Rape Children

Story.

After Years Of Having No Idea That Their Clothes Are Made At Sweatshops, Walmart Now Has No Idea That Their Truck Drivers Go Days Without Sleep

Story.

Poetry Corner

I am focused.

I sit bolt upright, as if waiting for a job interview.
I am alert to the smallest detail.
My peripheral vision shows me stories others would miss.

I can smell change coming in the wind.

My clothes are crisp.
My eyes are bright.
My smile is wide, with a nervous edge.
My mind patiently awaits my prompting, ready for any interaction.

I am the opposite of stoned.

Justin Bieber: "I Just Got Baptized So You Can't Touch Me, Bitches!"

Story.

I'm concerned about the devaluation of saints. In the old days, saints did impressive stuff. St. George killed a dragon. St. Joseph of Cupertino could fly. Even after St. Longinus had his tongue cut off and his teeth pulled out, he continued to preach the word of God.

Sure, maybe they didn't have the best documentation back then. The Guinness World Record folks weren't around to double-check. And God knows, people weren't particularly smart. They thought earthquakes were caused by armadillos that lived underground. They thought health problems were caused by demons rather than that eight-foot pile of poo standing next to their cutting boards. But the unlikelihood of these things happening was undeniable.

Over the years, though, miracles have been devalued. First, now they take place after the saint has died. Because even if dude is one of God's favorite people, how can you expect him to do something incredible in his life? We've got to add that open-ended infinity thing to give a guy a running chance.

And second, modern-day miracles just aren't as good, mostly consisting of nuns healed of health problems. Sister Bertrille had a stomach ache that vanished after she prayed to some guy. Sister Margaret had a bad cough that went away. Needless to say, these miracles are inherently questionable, because somebody who exists to serve God isn't exactly an unbiased observer. They go into the convent kitchen and see the dishes are washed, and they'll assume St. Matthew of Pecorino did it.

Besides, health-related miracles are the hardest to prove. Some people are hypochondriacs. Sometimes doctors make mistakes. And sometimes people, you know, get well.

It seems to me like the Vatican does it backwards. They don't see somebody who does saintly things and beatify them: no, they decide who they want to beatify and then fire up the old phone bank. They call every nun around and ask if they've ever prayed to the dude and gotten better. It's like an Avon lady going door to door selling cosmetics. Sure, a lot of people are going to turn her down, but eventually somebody will cave. "Oh, what the hell," they'll say. They don't actually want these products: they're just feeling sympathetic for the poor lost soul. "Put me down for -- I dunno -- do you sell hand cream?"

Of course, Catholics aren't alone in this field. I've never been impressed with the Jewish miracle of the oil. I mean, at least with Catholic saints either a doctor made a mistake or a disease went into remission. With the miracle of the oil, it's more like an accounting error. If I was expecting to find two chicken legs in the fridge but I found six, I wouldn't require future generations to recite this story over bad wine for eight days every year.

But mere facts won't stop the Catholics. They even maintain that miracles still occur, like the miracle of St. Januarius. Eighteen times a year his dried blood becomes liquid again, despite the fact it's scientifically impossible. It sounds interesting, but I'll reserve my actual praise for after they've set up a webcam.

Plus, you know, there are tons of possibilities for actual miracles that'd make skeptics like me believe. Somebody could produce another hit record for the Tom Tom Club. Somebody could make the Kardashians go away. Those are the kinds of things that'd get me wearing a medal around my neck. Instead it's always, "Oh, there was a nun with a blister on the sole of her foot, and with prayer and Gold Bond it's almost healed." Even St. Longinus would say, clear as a bell, "Oh, you can go fuck that shit."

Translating a Right-Winger

It's important for the gay community to keep tabs on their enemies. Unfortunately, their writing skills are frequently so inadequate the average reader struggles to grasp a point. To help you understand the beliefs of failed Senate and presidential candidate Alan Keyes, I've translated one of his recent word jumbles into English.

"Homosexuals may argue that the specially combined faculties of human nature have extended human sexual activities, in just this way, beyond what instinctively appears to be their natural limits."

Translation: Many millions of years ago, man invented the blowjob.

"Do we forbid people to fly because they were not born with wings? Do we forbid them to travel to the moon because they were not born equipped to withstand the rigors of being in space?"

Translation: But we need to ask ourselves: are we truly ready for blowjobs?

"Among all the various ways of being in the universe of our experience, isn’t this capacity consciously to extend our reach beyond the limits of our original nature the special quality of our human nature?"

Translation: I mean, you don't see animals blowing each other. I have never been on YouTube.

"Isn’t it the one that, above all, distinguishes humanity from the rest?"

Translation: I daresay it'd be difficult to differentiate humans from tree sloths if it wasn't for the mouth-on-dick thing.

"On the whole, homosexual activity epitomizes this dilemma."

Translation: Sure, straight people want to "extend their reach of sex beyond the limits of its original nature," but chicks freak out when you say "anal." Also, I have never understood double entendres.

"We call it sexual activity because it involves bodily organs and feelings associated with the activity for which the different sexes appear to exist."

Translation: We say it's "sex" because there are penises and ejaculation, but that's like saying there's been a "crime" just because you have twelve pairs of ugly jeans in your car and Sears has a broken window.

"Yet, in the strict sense of the term, it is not "sexual" activity at all."

Translation: It's not sex! It's just "shooting on somebody's face," or "cumming in their ass."

"The functional difference that distinguishes one sex from the other quite literally has nothing to do with same-sex activity."

Translation: No vagina, no sex. That's why there's no rape in prison.

"That activity abstracts from the functionally defined difference in order exclusively to focus on bodily feelings and emotions that are important to the individuals involved, but that are of no consequence, concretely, for the species as a whole."

Translation: Lost. But this thing's got more "wholes" than a lesbian wedding.

"As individuals, some human beings may find this activity intensely gratifying. But considered on the whole, in terms of its consequences, it implies the nonexistence of humanity."

Translation: Circle jerks are hot, but every time a man ejaculates outside a vagina, Frederick Nietsche high-fives Satan.

"The homosexual couple is not engaged in the act of human procreation. Their activity is not haunted by the possibility of human offspring."

Translation: Did I say "haunted"? Yes! For it to qualify as "sex," there needs to be a little spectre of a fetus in the man's brain occasionally screaming, "I NEED DIAPERS AND MONEY FOR COLLEGE!!!"

"Because it is, on the whole, of no consequence, homosexual activity involves no natural right – for every claim of natural right arises from respect for the law of nature, which in turn necessarily requires respect for the nature of law."

Translation: If it can't cause permanent damage, you don't deserve to do it. Eating? Only wild mushrooms and blowfish. Dancing? Only with retards. Hunting? Cool! Look, there's a wild tur--

Oops. Hang in there, buddy. Lemme see if I can go get help.

Thanks JMG!

Sigh. I'm not sure about this. I'm trying to write a book about sexuality and gender identification for children but it's a lot harder than it sounds. There's something about this paragraph, for instance, that feels awkward but I can't quite put my finger on it.

Chastity Bono knew for a long time that something was wrong. Finally she decided that she looked like a girl but she was meant to be a boy. After consulting with doctors and lawyers, she had reassignment surgery and had her -tity taken off.

Another big scoop today! Through my Hollywood connections and the power I derive from having nearly two dozen readers, I got invited to a special sneak preview of the movie Ant-Man nearly two years before its release. I mean, I love superhero movies, but Ant-Man is my personal favorite because of his "every man" aspect. In case you're unfamiliar with the plot, Hank Pym makes a scientific breakthrough in subatomic particles that enables him to communicate with insects, turning the mild-mannered biochemist into the feared Ant-Man.

Since I first heard about the project, my mind reeled at the possibilities that came with first-class writers like Jack Kirby and stars like Paul Rudd. Good news, readers: it is unbelievably suspenseful as well as moving and full of heart. I know the "Powers That Be" will be furious, but I can't resist: here are three of the countless scenes that had me literally glued to my seat.

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

ANT-MAN is in New York City's Times Square when he hears a frantic cry.

TOURIST: HELP! HELP! AIEEEE!

ANT-MAN's eyes swerve to where the voice originated. There he sees a sad, thin man frantically trying to maneuver past a chubby woman smack-dab in the center of the sidewalk, hands swinging like wrecking balls in an effort to propel herself forward.

ANT-MAN: Don't worry, tourist! ANT-MAN is here to help! [THROUGH MEGAPHONE HANDS] ANTS OF THE WORLD, HEAR ME! I SUMMON YOU WITH POWERS DIVINE: MOVE THIS IRRITATING WOMAN!

Suddenly it's as if the entire world rumbles and shakes. Onlookers run for cover as a stream of ANTS pours out of every crack in the sidewalk.

ANT-MAN (cont'd): BEHOLD THE AWESOME POWER OF ANT-MAN!

Acting as one, nearly a thousand ANTS hoist the chubby woman onto their alitrunks and lift her in unison. She moves a sixteenth of an inch into the air, then as if on a conveyor belt she slides off the curb into the street. Onlookers burst into applause.

TOURIST: Wow. Ants really are strong. Hey, is Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. this way?

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

After the ants learn of Dr. Pym's awesome powers, they call a meeting to discuss the implications.

ANT #1: Friends, we must leap at this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As we all know, Dr. Pym can communicate with us -- but, more importantly, we can communicate with him. If we hope to share our thoughts on politics, the arts, and climate change with humans, it has to be through him, so we need to do whatever we can to win him over to our side.

ANT #2: Gosh, you're right! [PAUSE] I have an idea. Why don't we build him the biggest, most spectacular house anybody has ever seen? And we'll just give it to him, no strings attached. Surely he'll feel so indebted he'll do whatever we want.

ANT #1: That's a GREAT idea!

The ants gather all of the tribes -- field ants, acrobat ants, even odorous ants -- and numbering in the millions they work twenty-four hours a day. Finally, months later, the house is finished. An ambassadorial group approaches ANT-MAN in his dingy living room.

AMBASSADOR: Ant-Man, the ant community would like to extend a hand in friendship. Toward that end, we've built you a house hitherto unparalleled in splendor that we would like to give to you.

ANT-MAN is shocked speechless. He follows the ants through the city streets while his eyes dart around in search of his fabulous new mansion. Finally the ants stop in front of a hole in the ground.

AMBASSADOR: Here it is! Complete with chandeliers, mandible-hewn marble, balconies, balustrades and billiard rooms. And all of it is yours!

ANT-MAN looks down at the hole. It's literally the size of a quarter.

ANT-MAN: That's really, really kind of you, but I'm not sure I can fit.

AMBASSADOR [shocked]: Really? You can't compact your pliable head and thorax into one-thirtieth of its regular size to squeeze into cramped spaces?

ANT-MAN: No.

AMBASSADOR: Wow. Bummer. [PAUSE] Well, then. Would you like a little bit of cheese?

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

And, of course, there's the breathtaking finale. I swear, I left the theater covered in goosebumps. If you're planning on seeing the movie, you might not want to read this part.

ANT-MAN and his human family are having a picnic. The sun is out, and the group are sprawled out on a plaid tablecloth under the spidery branches of a dappled chestnut tree.

GRANDMA (setting the table): ANT-MAN, you come here and help yourself. Honey, you've nothing but a skeleton! I made my famous fried chicken, green bean casserole, and a surprise treat just for you: my special potato salad, with little bits of celery and a dash of mustard, just the way you like it.

ANT-MAN's jaw drops open. He stands, holds his hands out to his sides, and points his face to the sky.

ANT-MAN: Ants of the world! Soldier ants, carpenter ants, fire ants. Leafcutter ants, honeypot ants, weaver ants. Fix your compound eyes on me and close your mandibles for one minute. Do NOT touch this potato salad! Do you hear me? Do not TOUCH this potato salad?

The ANTS shrug their scutellums.

ANTS (in unison): Oh, okay.

Eksclusive Kim And Kanye Koupling Koverage

Here's a guest arriving for the wedding. I think it's the ginger kid from Harry Potter trying to remember a spell that makes pants fit.

I'm not sure why this photo is in here. It's supposed to be in my folder on how to kiss if you don't want to get cold sores.

Here we are at the actual wedding. I'm not positive because the picture is fuzzy, but I think it's a priceless, one-of-a-kind carpet made by albino silkworms that leads up to the ladies' crapper.

This is Kim's dress. Isn't it magnificent? Everything about it is symbolic. The white means innocence, and the veil means modesty. I forget the reason for the splayed-out bottom.

This is the scene inside the chapel. On the groom's side, applause and well-wishes. On the bride's side, specially-reinforced bucket chairs.

At last we see the happy couple taking their vows in a cave of bleu cheese. It was a mammoth thing, all white with blue veins, and Kim remarked that she'd never seen anything like it before. I'm not sure why they had it built, but at least the pair will temporarily stop smelling of Gruyere. "Isn't that fabulous?" one wag in attendance remarked. "Now there's another reason to look at them and think, 'Crackers!'"

This is where the happy couple will be honeymooning. The maze is cool but I personally would not be thrilled if my new spouse took me somewhere specifically designed to lose me. A terrific afternoon is rarely presaged by the words, "Now see if you can find your way back!"

A wedding souvenir. These are really nice jackets, with the famous Navajo Stomach-Cramp Pigeon motif. When Kanye wears his, though, he should make sure he doesn't stand next to somebody whose shirt makes a reference to WEED.

I highly recommend Todd Terje's new record It's Album Time if it's 1972 and you need to score a movie where Don Johnson chases Irene Cara through the back alleys of New York.

Really, dudes? Of all the things to be afraid of at Dunkin Donuts, chicken apple sausage is your choice?

You got your english muffin. You've got flat, round egg. You've got the usual pre-sliced "cheese." They slap on a sliced sausage that has a little apple in it and all of a sudden you're freaked out?

Really? That's what does it? Not the fact that --

• This thing sells $1.99, and in New York you can't buy three ounces of wet newspaper and dog farts for $1.99?
• Two of the ingredients in this sandwich's artificial-butter-sauteed egg are Artificial Butter Flavor and Natural Sauteed Flavor?
• Some person in power at this chain has decided that orange and pink are wonderful colors to brighten up America's neighborhoods?
• Due to some analyst's demand that they serve meals as well as dessert, they've got frosted donuts sitting next to tuna melts?
• The "seasoning" in this tuna melt consists of six ingredients that sound less like food than Matt Damon films? (I'd pay to see him in Nisin Preparation myself.)
• Dunkin Donuts is a franchise, which means it offers roughly the same guarantee of cleanliness and quality as a yard sale in a cul du sac?
• A spokesperson for this chain is Eli Manning, who's earned buckets of credibility by tying his name to such prestigious brands as Papa John's, Buick and Gatorade?
• For many years the best slogan they could come up with was "You Kin' Do It", apparently applauding customers for being able to walk to a store and plop money onto a horizontal surface?
• They once stopped airing a commercial starring Rachael Ray because a crazy blogger claimed she looked like Yasser Arafat?

Dunkin Donuts is the culinary equivalent of a traveling fair set up in a Sears parking lot. So yeah, guys, have a great time on the Zipper. It took four drunk carnies nearly an hour to build, and they barely had any parts left over. It's been mostly stable since they got those new bungie cords, and you can hardly hear the screech of metal on metal when the music is turned on. For God's sake, though, stay away from the deep-fried tofu: that shit is truly weird.

Detroit To Resurrect Awesome Legacy Of Dodge Dart For New Generation

No Funeral Plans Yet For Second Wife Who Blamed Hubby's Violence on First Wife

Story.

OHMIGOD HOW MANY ACTIVIST JUDGES ARE THERE?????