Who dat say dey gon’ beat dem Saints? Well a third grade grammar book and some pretty bad rain. But NOT the Indianapolis Colts, and that’s so good it ranks up there with the dark haired girls winning in a nude wrestling match against the blonds. I may sound like a broken record here, but Peyton Manning is not clutch. He’s proven it time and time before, and despite his trophy, the rest of his team won him the last Super Bowl, and his MVP status was purely a customary tug job. This time he couldn’t even pull out a close game against a team he had every reason to expect to dismantle and sell for parts. I think this legally qualifies management to take him out back and put him down because now he’s just sitting around, eating the food, smellin’ up the joint, and doing Oreo commercials, and the neighbors are starting to complain.

Oh, and congratulations aging The Who holdout fan, your boys managed to beat the momentum of the night over the head with an aluminum walker. Who are you [uh-hah], people that halftime show was directed at? Are you real people, or is the marketing director over at the NFL the Grim Reaper? The nursing home entertainment shuffled around wearing dementia like a checkered fedora through an uninspired, overly indulgent medley of the tunes their record company assured them were hits, when honestly I have never met anybody that enjoys any of those songs save a drunk Anthony Zuiker. At least Prince had the grace to wonder why the fuck he was there, and played a Foo Fighters song in honor of the band that should have been playing the halftime show. You know what I flicked to, after literally 4 seconds of The Who’s garbage rambling? The fucking “Puppy Bowl” on Animal Planet featuring 8 week old canines and hamsters in a fake blimp with more of a concept of entertainment value than Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend combined. Puppeeee TOUCHDOWN! You know what makes for badass, timeless rock? A kid who can play pinball and a seriously loose reference to “my generation,” that somehow still dates itself despite its vagaries because most people of that generation had the decency to die.

Which brings me to a much larger point: when did the Super Bowl stop being about football? Was it necessary that I sit through the talentless Queen Latifah singing “America the Beautiful” with a chorus of bored children before I watched Underwood butcher the national anthem (albeit in the sexiest way someone can butcher something without their tits out)? Exactly how many hours of New Orleans footage did you have to show to justify dragging all those cameras down there, and is that number inversely proportional to how many gold teeth the randos you interviewed were sporting so stylishly? Was it necessary to have that chick interview the three Saints defensive heroes with dumbfuck questions like, “If you had a time machine, what period would visit.” Although in her defense one of them said The Dark Ages because we know what happened before and after but the Dark Ages are dark to us. Anyone dumb enough to make a statement like that should immediately be given the plague and forced to sit through an Everyman play. Mayhap if you asked him about football, we would have heard something half intelligent, and I wouldn’t be left wishing a slow, humiliating death on whoever’s call it was to let women journalists anywhere near a football field. We’ve gotten so up our own asses trying to make the Super Bowl a family event, with something to appeal to all audiences, that we’ve left actual football fans behind like Richard Dawkins on apocalypse day.

Speaking of football, some was played in between commercials yesterday. The Saints didn’t come out swinging, but they finished strong and clean. Drew Brees and his crew have been exciting to watch all year, and I admit to being one of those Saints-philes that would tongue metaphorical dingleberries from their metaphorical cracks if they got itchy. This is all not to mention that there is no greater pleasure in the entirety of the NFL than watching Peyton Manning straight up eat it, and that was reason enough to get out of bed at all yesterday. Man were we stirred up into a panic by what Tim Tebow’s mom might say, and beside that fact that airing it at all was an unethical statement condoning bigotry and intolerance, it was really kind of harmless in and of itself. People are rip shit that it aired at all, but then people need to get a job or a woman that shaves her legs or something. How do you get mad about something that can’t be changed? Well, Peyton Manning can’t change that he’s a wussy little bitch, and I’m alright with him being angry about that. He should bring his mom in for an ad where she wishes she’d had that abortion.

It’s February, and you know what that means: Greasy fried chicken Black History Valentine’s Day Bangin’! What? Didn’t you hear? Fried chicken and collard greens aren’t racist anymore, which is good because some assholes in white robes have been throwing buckets of Colonel at my house ever since I brought that black chick home, and it has been attracting coyotes, who have in turn been absconding with the neighbors’ cats.

Most black people were under the assumption that attributing a love of fried chicken to African Americans indicated a racist mindset. They were dead wrong, as it turns out. Over at NBC, the cafeteria is celebrating Black History Month by offering “fried chicken, collard greens, and jalapeno cornbread for lunch… every Thursday.” Questlove, whose band The Roots has been reduced to Eubanksing for Jimmy Fallon and would not, apparently, rather be homeless, got his panties in a bunch over it and NBC’s management shit kittens before taking the menu down. Some upper management dude Twatted: “The sign in the NBCU cafeteria has been removed. We apologize for anyone who was offended by it.” Anyone apparently meaning the completely irreplaceable band leader for a totally irreplaceable ultra-late talk show host. Anyone remember when being someone’s boss was fun?

However, in a twist you just can’t make up, the woman who actually chose and cooked the selection appeared in a video completely flabbergasted by the hullabaloo – - and she’s black! Awesome. Chef Leslie Calhoun says, “February is black history month, so we always been tryin’ to get somethin’ goin’ on,” and she been axin’ and axin’ and axin’ about it and finally dis year they let her pick a special menu in honor of you-peoples’ holiday… s. And she is surprised and disappointed “that someone would take offense of it.” Suck it, Questlove. Black people like their fried chicken, and they don’t have to hide it any more. An admitted black woman put fried chicken on the menu to celebrate Black History Month, and you pretended you weren’t excited. I must say the article didn’t mention if the drummer complained before or after he had three helpings. Still, it makes sense. You don’t hear the Irish bitching that every meal on St. Patrick’s Day includes mostly potatoes, even though culturally our very genetics are tired of them after not being able to eat anything else for a long time. We’re still working on watermelon, weed, and purple drink, Leslie, but maybe next year.

Speaking of shit black people love, February 14th is a very special day… for White Castle. Seems you can make a reservation at any of their multitudinous locations on cell-phone buying day to “indulge in a romantic candlelight dinner,” and never get laid again. Unless you move out of the state and change your name, maybe grow some facial hair. When you show up for this date, bring flowers and Sôcôla’s Beer and Bacon Chocolate Truffles, because if she agreed to any part of this, she’ll probably die over this if she isn’t disappointed she didn’t get to kill the pig herself. I don’t know what your girlfriend will find more romantic: getting their Valentine’s meal in individual boxes, or alternating with you all night on the can with stock-piled military grade Febreeze. The marketing department, in it’s defense, has probably never actually eaten at a White Castle (When asked, one said, “gross, dude”), so is probably not aware that a visit to the restaurant is an exercise in intestinal masochism. “We’ll even upload a photo of your romantic rendezvous to our website,” which, after V-day, will serve as The National Sex Offenders Registry website for undatable men*. After the ludicrous suggestion that you bring a Valentine’s date to White Castle, the website has the balls to suggest: “Get your sweetie some Craver Gear. And maybe they’ll slip into something a little more comfortable.” Like their car, to get the tits out of Dodge, and go to a place that recognizes the term “insult to rectal injury.”

For some reason, dropping Cosby’s kids off at the pool isn’t everyone’s idea of the spirit of the holiday, so how bout fuckin’ there? Mildred’s Temple Kitchen in Canada is a restaurant opening it’s stalls from the 12th-15th for “sexual escapades.” They’ll have a French maid cleaning up, and Karma Sutras in each stall for encouragement, so that will be fun, especially for the guy next door who just wants to take a dump and has to listen to you grunt your way to an awkwardly positioned climax into your unimpressed girlfriend. They won’t provide condoms, but they do offer to sell you a $55 “naughty love hamper” that includes fuzzy handcuffs, which definitely doesn’t have kidnapping disaster written all over it. Screw the hamper (how can a hamper be naughty?),  how much for the maid?

If you’ve already got your dinner plans for the Big Ripoff, it’s time to start thinking about dessert, nudge nudge. I meant bangin’. My plan is to get at least one of my girlfriends something sexy from ‘Ohh! La, La! Couture,’ the lingerie line with punctuation tourettes launched and modeled by BFFs… Noah Cyrus and Emily Grace. For those of you keeping score at home (I’m lookin’ at you NH RSA 632-A:3, III), these savvy entrepreneurs are 9. Not “so hot she’s almost a 10.” So excited she’s almost ten years old. Seems Billy Ray is betting that all the genetic talent went to his first daughter (and then some, sir) and gearing his younger daughter up for a socialite career, with a rich and otherwise useless best friend (she’s 9, what’s your excuse Richie?), a sticky-with-filth reputation, and entitlement issues that would make Tila Tequila piss herself. But the problem isn’t that she’s too young to be promoting, designing, and modeling lingerie, dressing up as a dominatrix for halloween, or have more hooker boots than Ninth and Benton. It’s that she’s ugly as sin. And don’t even try to tell me that’s unfair. If you or your legal guardian are going to put you out there as a sex object, I am going to judge you as such. And my judgment isn’t even a three. Chick’s got baby fat instead of tits, limp hair, I’m pretty sure her makeup artist is a coroner, and her face looks like someone lit it on fire and put it out with a rake. It’s like God had a bad day before making her and wouldn’t put down the potato masher, and sent the stork to Corky and Swamp Thing’s love nest. Seriously, she is so fugly she could make a theater full of black people scream until they puked fried chicken and purple drink.*

(Jesus diaper-shitting Christ, put it away! Sumbitch, now I’m going to have nightmares.)

*Parents, don’t go there. I just found 7 registered sex offenders in my neighborhood, one up the block named Dennis Hittler, which isn’t ominous at all. Don’t worry, Mom. All the offenders in your town live near Grandma.
** Just taking it for a spin, now that it’s all good.

So, winning my own contest would be unethical, not to mention ridiculous because I’m an artistic philistine. But I have to say, this is badass like naked chicks in space is badass, and it is going on some merch damned soon. It is also a pretty nice place for contestants to start, though like I said, there are myriad design options to choose from. Who wants to win $100, swag, and the chance to see your design on the chests of all the cool scumbags? There are weeks left on this bad boy, who’s going to take home the gold?

As a refresher, here are the contest guidelines, prizes, and deadlines.

(Also, Chicago blues sucks, and their pizza is awful. Detroit is full of ignorant grease monkeys, Boston is a bastion for drunken micks, and San Francisco is a big queer pig pile.)

Alright, cut the shit, Obama. Personages of my ilk (sexy, but relatively unimportant) have stood by waiting for you to get your reelection so you can do the things you promised us, like gay rights, retracting the retarded illegalization of pot, forced sodomy on Bush’s puppeteer staff. But another disparaging remark about Vegas? It is one thing for doucheyer world leaders to demonize Cuba, Russia, England, Romulus, and whatever for the sake of propaganda, but Vegas is a struggling city in your own country, and it isn’t like we’re Communists.* You can take your time with the good you said you’d do, it is a black stereotype to be lazy and you have to play to the blindly adoring constituents, but don’t start doing harm a mere three years before we have to vote for you instead of Sarah “Hostess Brand Fruitcake” Palin again.

“When times are tough, you tighten your belts. You don’t go buying a boat when you can barely pay your mortgage. You don’t blow a bunch of cash on Vegas when you’re trying to save for college. You prioritize. You make tough choices. It’s time your government did the same.”

Oh, you cunt rocket. This is the second fucking time in less than a year, and the fact that it was an offhand remark instead of intentionally damaging one doesn’t matter this time, considering your history. You know what the illiterate smallfolk hear when you say things like that? “My president’s go-to evil, when he really wants to reference a real issue he has with the populace, is Las Vegas. Off the top of the leader of the free world’s head, Vegas is the closest existent allegory to Satan, and I would rather suck off a Klingon** than bring my legitimate business there.”

True, the literally ignorant verbal diarrhea you spouted last year concerning Vegas was exponentially worse and cost a hard won (in the election) state and the companies that call it home — no exaggeration — millions of dollars. Demonizing corporate conventions in a specific city from the podium, calling it a taxpayer drain when, honestly, Vegas is arguably the most cost effective place to hold any event, means people will intentionally avoid the city, if only because the President of the United fucking States said to (I am also wearing an American Flag as an anal tampon. Suck it). “Profligate” is still a word, and you’re not helping to distance yourself from inflammatory and decularizing  Republican tactics like you say you want to with these kinds of statements. Companies that would normally have come to Vegas for their essential mass meetings for the right price, with no intention of using taxpayer money to gamble and see some titties, went to more expensive cities like Miami and New York instead. If the attendees philandered and partied on their own dime, behind their wives’ backs, off the clock, it would only have benefited Nevada’s economy. So, not only did last year’s scorched-earth dumbfuckery show a lack of class and leadership, it was downright uninformed, like Perez Hilton showing up at a glass art All You Can Blow fair with bells on his cock ring.

“I hope you know that during my town hall today, I wasn’t saying anything negative about Las Vegas,” Obama wrote. “I was making the simple point that families use vacation dollars, not college tuition money, to have fun. There is no place better to have fun than Vegas, one of our country’s great destinations. I have always enjoyed my visits, look forward to visiting in a few weeks and hope folks will visit in record numbers this year.”

Too little, like the amount of midget reality shows (there will never be enough “midgets doing real people things” shows), way too fucking late. After this second statement, there is no doubt that the city that pulled its overly religious (surprised? Try living here), redneck head out of its ass to help elect you is compartmentalized in your subconscious with slavery and WW3. And by the way, what are you coming here “in a few weeks” for? Is waking up next to your monster first-old-lady getting to you (death threats on Chachi!), and you need hookers? Gonna hit up Fremont Street for the last remaining nickel slots and cheap pizza? Can’t resist the urge to see the club where Jessie Spano got naked?

Obama is expected in the city later this month to raise money for Nevada Democrats… “There’s nothing like a quick trip to Vegas in the middle of the week.”

Indeed! When you’ve got Air Force One and a staff to do all your work for you, and there’s no chance of your being violated before boarding a $600 plane flight, there’s nothing better than a lazy Wednesday in Sin City. I have no idea why the liberal parties are called elitists, it must have something to do with a decent education. And “Raising money for Nevada Democrats” is so asininely vague, my head is wrapping around it at the pace of growing ivy. How about raising the money that your wild statements have already cost Vegas, a city that 90% depends on the hospitality industry you so callously tore up like so much Randy Quaid personal check? I understand you were referring to allocation of bailout money, but that just makes you the most well-intentioned Tazmanian Devil we’ve had in office in a couple decades. Look before you leap, dude, else you’ll fuck up the whole suicide.

*I can say “we” because I’ve lived in Vegas for a year and half, which is more than enough to learn the ins, outs, and the holes that go both ways. Giggidy.
**My girlfriend and I have decided, after billions of Star Trek viewing hours, that Klingons have barbed penises like cats do, so the victim lucky recipient can’t get away without injuring their vag. I declare us correct, and Michael Dorn the man.

(The consequences of using the term Booger Head. That is our word.)

Have you ever noticed that, when news sources actually get the point, it is an event? Some pundit, or parody of one, gets more than one solid point across in an interview, and the interviewee is declared “owned,” and political commentators and bloggers alike begin to publicly ponder why said new possession hasn’t yet fell on his sword from a thirty story building out of shame yet. It’s a real post-burrito circus, and kind of embarrassing for us as a country when we have to be shocked that one of our citizens said something smart on the tee-vee, so I’m pretty stoked Huffington Post wore a blindfold to the bazooka accuracy contest today.

Joseph Gullotta [mob] told two of his students, ages 9 and 10, to settle an argument with a classroom fight… [heh, one of those kids is really happy with that call]  One of the students suffered a cut lip, and the other sustained a bruised and swollen head during the Jan. 28 incident at P.S. 65 in the Ozone Park neighborhood… [blah blah blah, reading reading reading] After the boys began fighting, prosecutors said, Gullotta told a third student to close the classroom door… [Yes, yes, and...?] Gullotta then instructed the other students to back up to give the boys room to fight, prosecutors said. When Gullotta sent one of the boys to the school nurse two periods later, authorities said, he told him to lie and say he was hurt by bumping into another student while trying to pick up a pencil from the floor. [Yeah, more deception, but...] Authorities said they learned about what happened after one of the boys’ parents overheard him talking about it. [fair enough, keep reading] Gullotta and Abraham Fox, a teacher’s aide who prosecutors say witnessed the incident, are charged with two counts of endangering the welfare of a child, a misdemeanor. [You mean there's a law?] If convicted, each faces a maximum one year in jail.

Whoa! Reign that journalistic wild horse and buggy in! We’re jumping right to sentencing? Isn’t there a crucial component missing here? Like, did it work? Did the boys bro-hug it out after, stop at the cafeteria for some chocolate milk to talk it out? Can we stop children from bickering over Ghostbusters lunch pails and Velcro sneakers by making them beat the Christ out of each other? “The second rule of fourth grade is: no shirts, no shoes, no slap bracelets, cuz those things sting something awful.”

We see this kind of thing all the time when innovators come onto the scene, and Huffington Post is perpetuating it by jumping straight to sentencing without mentioning the outcome. Can you imagine if The Marinara Times or Track Suit Quarterly published a headline like, “Galileo Sentenced To House Arrest For Bullshit Heliocentric Theory,” and no scientists followed up? This is not to mention that the article also mentions nothing about the cause of the disagreement, which can sometimes be equally as important as the “whose blood is that” stage. Just saying, this Gullotta guy might be on to something with his Irish countryside meets gladiator concept of middle school justice. It took the entirety of The Quiet Man for John Wayne to work up the balls to hit his brother-in-law, but when they finally did pummel the bejesus out of each other, they ended up best friends with lovable drunken mick Barry Fitzgerald, a real Hollywood happy ending that is more than close enough to the point.

What’s needed here is a semi-controlled study, doing something similar in classrooms across the country. For instance: throw up some hidden cameras, give little Adam some bubble tape, and suggest it might be fun to stick it

Mr. Durden and Mr. King, reading and social studies, respectively

in little Caightlyn’s hair after it runs out of flavor in 20 seconds. If she doesn’t turn around and belt him on the spot, turn the desks into a boxing ring, and the row of computers into a bet analyzing pit. Teachers seem to be able to manipulate desks into any other ridiculous formation, like the Eiffel Tower for French Week, or a “Heads-Up 7-Up” conducive shape on Shut Up, Little Bastards Hangover Tuesday. My money is on Adam, because he’s bigger and less of a dweeb and pees standing up (does he pull his pants down at the urinal? Irrelevant!), but chicks get murderously angry over the stupidest shit, so this could go either way. So here, they are learning to resolve their differences without a learned, state-appointed arbitrator, who would just get in the way when fists would be so much easier, and – - bonus – - learning how to manage money at the same time.

And what if these classrooms are just a microcosm of our much larger society? Can we afford to miss the kind of opportunity that may end up benefiting all of mankind, by teaching us how to coexist? Like, how about, instead of whining and bickering over this pro-life Super Bowl ad thing, we just pit a fetus against a Clydesdale and see if a hate group or a beer company gets the spot? Or we could have Obama duke it out with the CEO of BofA for his billions in milk money. Those American bible-humpers that tried to abscond with Haitian devil-0wned children should be made to fight with the still existing parents and see who really deserves to have the kids. China’s new issue with sexual frustration causing social problems could be solved by fucking it out in public. Seemed to work for the Romans. The Gullotta Method, as we’re going to call it, has myriad applications. But yeah, throw his ass in jail for a year. That will teach him to take the ole noodle out for a walk and not scoop the poop.

“Stay tuned for “Randomly Selected Texan vs. Cartoon Cucumber” on Gullotta’s Justice! In this grudge match, each contender vows that winning with points is for pussies, and will make the mat his enemy’s burial shroud.” Ok, I’m done.

… and Monday morning quarterbacking is a Scumbag’s unalienable right.

(A young girl, ready to kick ass in the name of justice and Shiva, her hopes soon to be dashed against the rocks by her idiot parents.)

After a 27-hour operation and some physical therapy, little Indian girl Lakshmi Tatma, the girl born with eight arms and legs, is going to school with the right amount of appendages and a weird looking waist. This is a really good example of how most parents lie when they say they love their kids. Sure, before the operation she couldn’t sit or stand, but if you’re going to throw all that money and effort into physical therapy, why not raise her as a real-live super hero? Most 5 year-olds would cut off their own ears with a plastic knife from Wendy’s for a super-power as cool as that, and if their super power was super hearing, well, Darwin awards, right?

Her totally abusive and selfish mom Poonam, who will wear a hole to her ribcage if she pats herself on the back any more for using other people’s money to cure her daughter of Awesome’s Disease,  says, “I often try to think what she might be like today if she hadn’t had the operation – she couldn’t even sit up before and now she runs around like other children.” The answer is: tying the other children up with her Spider-Hindu webbing, claiming their seed to make young, and their milk money to drink milk, you bitch. I imagine the webbing comes with the package. I’m going on film cannon here, of course. Now all she has to look forward to is a life of unmarried, loveless, hamburger-less loneliness because you tried to make her just like all the other kids and failed by a wide margin.

“Born in a dusty farming village in India’s poorest state, Lakshmi was revered as a deity and worshipped (sic) from birth. Villagers… would seek her blessing daily and leave gifts at her bedside.”

… If ever there was evidence of the need for parenting licenses in this world, I think this case is it. This chick got

I fucking dare you to tell me kids wouldn't buy this t-shirt.

all kinds of lucky when she was born a monster. I didn’t know they gave you presents for that. After she spent her childhood doling out blessings for Lamborghinis, she could have had a full, illustrious life trying to slay Sean Astin and the kids from It. If this had happened in Africa, they would have burned her alive as a demon, or assumed her mother had sex with a fucking octopus, and sentenced her to more octopus raping, and then a lashing for getting pregnant. Hell, even in Europe the village people would hunt her down with torches. Man did Poonam drop the customer service call from fate on this one.

“Born to impoverished parents in the frequently lawless state of Bihar, in India’s volatile northeast, Lakshmi faced an uncertain future until a wealthy doctor heard of her plight and offered to operate on her for free.”

Man, that is straight out of a fucking comic book. Replace “Bihar” with “Gotham City” and “operate for free” with “Alfred” and this chick could go through her rebellious teenage years with enough time to come back and take revenge on the doctor that murdered her deadly, parasitic Siamese twin. The drama, the suspense, the bowel-rending irony. Instead we get this:

She loves playing cricket with her [under-attended future serial killer] older brother, has a tendency to boss around her newfound (sic) friends and remains firmly a daddy’s girl.

I’m sure her new-found friends find that adorable, not to mention her older brother, who probably has to let her win every game because she’s both a cripple and a deity. Her brother that spent his childhood making his own lunches and playing by himself and never winning a cow-damned game of cricket because his little sister was “special.” He may just be skinning cats in the shed now, but that little bastard is going to grow up. When he goes batshit on the Indian countryside, Poonam is going to regret taking away four of her daughter’s legs, leaving nobody alive to stop him.

(Eh, we should probably just let this one go. He’s going to be real disappointed when he gets out.)

So you say you want something even more stupidly polarizing than the newly announced Ipad release? You’re tired of hearing OS idealists, whose minds will never change, fight like girls, with one side saying, “OMG new Apple product, I hope I don’t piss myself in girlish glee,” and the other saying, “So I can insert my Ipod and my Iphone, how about my Inutsack?” while lewdly grabbing their crotches?* Do you just want to scream, “Then don’t fucking buy it!”? Or, “That sounds like an electronic panty-liner with headphones!”? Well here’s something you can’t avoid, because by law you are required to watch the Super Bowl, and the big game makes everything, even Dominos and beer that tastes like piss, as important as a yearly visit to the gynecologist.

The short of it is, Focus on the Family somehow gathered the 3 mil or so it takes to advertise on CBS during the Super Bowl, and used the opportunity to get Heisman Trophy winner Tim Tebow and his mom to talk for the duration of the ad about Focus’ pro-life message. Seems Tebow’s mother chose to give her son life in the face of some pretty tough odds, and as a result we have an guy who is over paid to play a game, so abortion is bad.  On the surface, it is a tad annoying that proselytizing is something you’d want to impose during the Super Bowl, but perfectly within the realm of allow-ability. Hey, they came up with the bones, and that seems to be enough for CBS, and therefore should be enough for the hundred bajillion people of all faiths and political ideologies that are going to be drinking heavily and getting really angry and competitive about things they see on television while watching the Super Bowl. Timothy McVeigh says, “Good idea.”

But if it were that easy, everybody could just relax, and we need to keep up our global lead on heart attacks and “having a cow.” The problem, according to the people who want the ad pulled, stems from a lack of precedent — indeed, a standing policy against — among those airing Super Bowls to allow commercial time to any political entity or advocacy group with nothing tangible to sell except their ability to whip their dicks out. They also like to throw around hyperbole and rhetoric like it’s food fight day at Tiger Woods’ sex rehab (I think I just grossed myself out). NARAL Pro-Choice America says:

Focus on the Family has an unmistakable anti-choice, anti-birth-control, anti-sex-education, anti-gay agenda. If that isn’t bad enough, its views on women are just plain insulting and dangerous. For example, its web site urges women facing an unintended pregnancy to seek “wise advice” because “the hormones and extreme emotions of pregnancy make reasonable decisions more difficult.”

Tell us how you really feel, NARAL. You’ve got the demonizing of the other side down pat, right down to the anti-buzzwords. After all “danger” is the number one cause of fear. But to truly be considered Hitler-esque, you should be more specific, like “Fetuses are taking over the banks.” And you might have to kill some bitches, though Christians already have you pegged for that. Oh, and that last bit, while probably a direct quote, was not given proper citation, so context goes the way of last night’s 3 pound burrito. No, you continue to be the spokespeople for that side of the debate. When someone on your side says, “Who died and made you advocate?” just say “Ted Kennedy.”

Read more ridiculousness after the jump.

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