(”Dot attributes her longevity to pretending to swim at the gym, all her friends in her mahjong circle, and a barely disguised disdain for the daughter-in-law that has changed her bed pan with minimal complaint for the past five years.”)

In a reckless and unnecessary display of the disregard the Sunshine State media have for its main import, the staff of Florida Today woke up with the collective goal of reminding old people how close they are to death. Of course they veiled it with what would be considered news if the whole world was a shopping mall at 6 a.m.

Two of the oldest people in the world have died on the same day. Mary Josephine Ray, who was certified as the oldest person living in the United States, died Sunday at age 114 years, 294 days… just hours before Daisey Bailey, who was 113 years, 342 days, said L. Stephen Coles, a director of the Gerontology Research Group, which tracks and studies old people and certifies those 110 or older, called supercentenarians.

Or, in layman’s terms, “burdens.” Gosh, what are the odds that two people, clinging disgustingly to life a good 30 years longer than the contracts of nature stipulate, would die? Well, considering they were pushing it already, and this was probably their year to buy the prune farm, the odds are about 365 to 1. You’d have much better odds of winning a monopoly game against your retarded neighbor and your narcoleptic uncle, but I think we can safely take this out of the “holy shit” column.

What’s with the day count there, Broshua? Six year-old spawn have that annoying tendency to break their ages into the smallest fraction their abortive brains can fathom, and even they don’t give a shit exactly how many days they lived. The Rat’s Ass Line Graph on age versus caring has to bell deeper than Kathy Bates’ tits in About Schmidt (etiquette demands you warn a brotha before you unleash that shit on his eyes). I am amused by the thought of “tracking” gerries, though. We tagging these blue hairs before releasing them into the wild? Is the process humane? I don’t care, I just want to know if in my daydreaming the old lady should be screaming.

“She just enjoyed life. She never thought of dying at all,” [granddaughter] Katherine Ray said. “She was planning for her birthday party.”

Of course the dementia was so advanced she was planning her Sweet 16, but you know. Just once I want to hear a survivor say, “She was a hateful old cunt, and her diapers needed changing thrice daily. She ate two pounds of red meat a day, by the way, slathered in that canned Frito’s cheese dip. We would use the diapers as missiles to keep the gangs of skinheads at bay, and you know what? I’m glad she’s gone.” Also, as Willard Scott deteriorates into mega-senility, I think we should give him a new segment called Smucker’s Jam Presents Finally: Televised Obituaries For the Criminally Long-Lived. Let’s take a look at the back of the Smucker’s jar, eh?

Smucker's Brand Spiritual Jam Bouquet: $75. Now in Boysenberry!

• Edith Booker finally made the pearly escalator trip at the age of 103, so ripe she fertilized her tomato garden by leaning out her second story window. Sharp as a tack ’til the very end, she could tell you how to make a sweet potato pie without even looking at a recipe, how about that? What’s her secret for looking so great in the casket? Welp, she used Crisco baking grease as facial cream, just one example of her addled sensibilities paying off in the end. Some 63 years ago, Edith told her family, “Life begins at 40,” and I, Willard Scott, have the honor of finishing that sentence for her.
• Millionaire George Vasquez was famous for saying, “You can have my life when you pry it out of my cold dead hands,” and folks, his inheritors finally managed it. Aged a whopping 111, he enjoyed riding his exercize bike every day and insisted on cutting the family turkey every Thanksgiving right up until his last, even after he lost a testicle to the electric knife his palsied hands couldn’t hold back in 2005. What. A. Trooper. Am I right?
• Leonard A. Garfield soiled his last diaper yesterday, ubiquitously completing the 108 year cycle he began in infancy of sitting around ineffectually with a shit-sack strapped too high on his waist. Garfield was first seen in the Macy’s Day Parade in 1984, and he’s still earning his lasagna to this day. Where am I? “Just read the – -” what teleprompter? Oh. Well, rest assured, the late Leonard Garfield will never have to “do mondays” ever again. Where’s my free Goober Grape? You hear about this stuff? You get the peanut butter AND the jelly in one jar! What’s next? Flying cars?

Well, they certainly did warn us, and now it’s all over. The most impenetrable fortress of good and light in the entire world, the epicenter of spirituality since it’s owners said so, the Vatican itself has been infiltrated by none other than the Father of Lies and the Son of Perdition, the Great Deceiver, Apollyon himself.

What has 2 thumbs and more aliases than a cross-dressing old west outlaw on stilts?

Or so says the Vatican’s chief exorcist Father Gabriele Amorth. Usually they have cooler titles for the big positions in Rome, but they probably figured that a surname that could easily have been a Tolkien mega-baddy was enough badass for one man.

Father Gabriele Amorth, 85, who has been the Vatican’s chief exorcist for 25 years [was ordained in 1954 and became an official exorcist in 1986] and says he has dealt with 70,000 cases of demonic possession, said… “When one speaks of ‘the smoke of Satan’ in the holy rooms, it is all true – including these latest stories of violence and paedophilia.”

For those of you not playing with your home Catholic Calumny Calculator, that’s a whopping 823 exorcisms a year, assuming Captain Saniclean Soul started in his infancy.  And since he was made a priest, which is when one is technically allowed to perform exorcisms, he would have had to perform 1,250 a year, roughly two a day, every day for 56 years. Sonofabitch was working on the Sabbath! Either that or he doubled up on Mondays, which breaks one of the 6 Davis Directives (”Thou shalt not do Mondays”). Either way, I believe a stoning is in order.

Still, you’ve got the Vatican’s chief Hellblazer soiling his soutane, seeing Satan everywhere he turns. In choirists, slap-happy relatives of the Pope that hit kids even though “they don’t like to,” priests with tiny oral fixations, American dioceses that cut off charity work for political gain (wait, that one’s me). See, in every other country, this is the stage of treatment called, “Not even close to ready for group therapy,” otherwise known as, “Crazy old knucklehead.” But this guy has been trained, he’s a global VIP (let that sink in, Catholics), and we should probably trust him because he’s an expert that has been doing this for years. He witnessed Hitler, Stalin, and some rando from the Swiss Guard who killed his commander and his wife because he didn’t get a medal… and because he was banging his commander. All possessed by the Devil, as were the attempts on the last two Pope’s lives, and

He said it sometimes took six or seven of his assistants to to hold down a possessed person. Those possessed often yelled and screamed and spat out nails or pieces of glass [because you were holding them down?], which he kept in a bag [por que?]… He was among Vatican officials who warned that J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels made a “false distinction between black and white magic”.

God damned fiction and it’s lack of truth about magic! Also, those damned kids who keep losing their Nerf footballs in his yard were definitely possessed by Satan. And the Nerf company, come to mention it. What motherfucking era do we live in? Wait, before we do this, let me buy a shitload of indulgences in advance, because this whole room is going to need some industrial strength spiritual TP.

He approves, however, of the 1973 film The Exorcist, which although “exaggerated” offered a “substantially exact” picture of possession.

Stop! No more! Jesus, we’ve heard enough to convert to Scientology just to tone down the crackass a couple notches. Demons? Possessions? Falsities about magic? Magic, I ask you. This isn’t some crusty fossil back from the early bird, harmlessly yelling inanities from his front porch. This is one of the guys you Catholics call one of your honchos, one of the men you trust to lead you through life safely and sanely to your final reward. That makes him a crusty fossil yelling inanities from a pulpit, and you‘re still a member of the organization that makes him the chief of anything but Cream of Wheat and bird feeding. (The punchline of this paragraph has been bolded).

It doesn’t matter whether you believe him or if you think he’s a nut. No, the pedophile priests are not possessed by Satan, they are at best confused by the complete lack of sexual outlet provided in your closed-minded culture, at worst sick deviants who demand swift chemical castration. The priests and nuns who hit kids are not possessed by Satan, they are incompetent care-givers that should not be trusted with children just because they wear a funny hat. The priests and Cardinals buying male hookers are not possessed by Satan, they want their nut without having to deal with your insane bullshit. Why? Because Satan doesn’t exist, but what do exist are scandals that are ripping away the absolute power you’ve enjoyed since you instituted the Dark Ages, and the Church needs a scape goat. What do exist are the sick fucks in your employ that don’t disappear when you play musical dildo-chairs with them, no matter how good Italians are supposed to be at making that happen. And those around the world that still call themselves Catholics are as guilty as if they boinked a choir boy themselves, because there is no good goddamned reason you shouldn’t bail and worship how you see fit. You can still make yourself a nuisance to the rest of us without literally, 100% being an accessory to hundreds or thousands of vile crimes and the outright lunacy evidenced in the psychotic babbling we just witnessed from the still-employed Father. And don’t give me that, “I’m not the one who blew little boys, I just love jesus and my neighbor” bullshit. That’s the same kind of misleading statement as “I was just following orders.” You’re still wearing the swastika. Let me leave you with some fun…

Were I Father Amorth, I’d check my GPS of Evil, and then crap my cassock (I had one more) over the Devil doing his work Down Under, with the release of AussieBum’s Bannana Skivvies for Men.

Left: The God-intended use for Bananas. Right: Satan's Shit Streak

Hunky AND Banana flavored? The Church needs to know about this. I’ve held your hand long enough, I think you can manufacture your own slew of jokes about underwear made from bananas. Otherwise, I have failed you.

(”Trust me, it’s sterile. The only raping here is Marlboro prices. Criminal! Hahaha! Bend over.”)

Pinch my perineum, because there is no way I’m not dreaming this news story out of New Jersey from NBC NY: NJ Officials Investigate Botched Booty Boosts. That’s some spiffy alliteration for what the video news report goes on to say is a medical concern of Kim “Badonkulous” Kardashian proportions. I’ll let Religious Programming Emmy Award winning correspondent Lynda Baquero revive and refresh an old standby:

The new Jersey health department is trying to get the word out about someone who is offering to enhance women’s rear ends, by using an injection that includes, believe it or not, cock.”

She went on to say, “Too late, bitches, you already forked over the Emmy.” Wait, hold on. OH! “Caulk.” See, you went with the antiquated and misleading medium of video reporting and we, the humble transcribers, come off as so much low rent closed captioners with tourettes.  Don’t crucify her yet, because the only excuse for irresponsible journalism is if it makes immature people do a spit take and feel good about the fact that they bothered to wake up. As far as I’m concerned, the report did not last even half as long as it should have, but the interviews yielded some goodies:

“Have you ever heard of caulk being used in someone’s body before?”

Did they say how the caulk felt in their bums? Was it something of an uncomfortable, full feeling, like you have to drop a deuce the size and shape of a walrus with elephantiasis? Well, Lynda, it was a miracle they could handle all that caulk in their rear ends, there was an awful lot of it. It’s a good thing this didn’t happen in the Middle East. You can get buried alive for having that kind of injection. Whachu gonna do with all that junk?

“Authorities say these women survived because they got swift medical attention.”

My word, that’s some powerful caulk. Hospital grade shit. Isn’t “medical attention” what got them into trouble in the first place? Some people never learn. Listen ladies, as a professed ass man, I was reticent to bring this story to the masses, because I would never want to discourage the Mix-A-Lot treatment. The report goes on to warn that you consult real physicians before offering your ass up for slicing in the back of the corner liquor store (it’s right next to the hardware store, dummy), as that was the mistake these Jersey sluts made, but that seems like a lot of work. I say: Just go for it. When the moment comes, and you hear your doctor/meth dealer giggling, it’s a good possibility that he’s about to turn your pooper into a living, jiggling pun. That’ll be your cue to take your business elsewhere, like a Mexican bait shop. Glad we had this talk.

"your waist is small and your curves are kickin, and I'm thinkin bout stickin" - Baby Got Back, circa 1992

By this, the good Sir was not, in fact, referring to industrial grade adhesives. But you should sue him for misleading women anyway, so he has to do another dumb Burger King and Sponge Bob cross-promotion for permission to sift through the dumpsters for food for another six months.

(You can strap me into the elaborate torture chair from Monsters Inc, but you can’t keep me from shitting my pants!)

It is incredible how little I care about a bunch of old dudes telling me what movies I should think are good. For a while the world forgot other things were happening, outside of the annoyance of the documentary category the Academy insists on televising. We get it, Flipper genocide and Burma is last on the Girls Gone Wild sites of interest list. Both things we knew. In the meantime, we’re looking at some fabulous news here, folks; a popular myth is about to be dispelled, so strap yourselves in like a retarded toddler learning to go potty. Anne Harding over at the CNN reports:

Some women avoid drinking calorie-filled cocktails, wine, and beer because they’re worried about packing on the pounds. Now, a new study suggests that women who are moderate drinkers actually tend to gain less weight over time than teetotalers.

SCIENCE! What Mrs. Rutherford B. Hayes is trying to say is that booze is good for you, ladies, in copious amounts. You can trust it too, because a chick wrote it, albeit a time-traveling she-dictionary of prohibition-era colloquialisms. What she failed to mention is that a lot of leading doctors agree, but would caution that less, looser, or even no clothes at all ought to be worn during times of consumption, for the sake of unfettered breathing and continuous blood circulation…

IN MY PANTS!

The study also goes on to state that nobody likes a sober prude, and temperance is the leading cause of ugly friend, designated driver cock-blockery. Don’t be that girl. Get wasted and settle, for everyone’s sake. As if now is the time to start worrying about that pink camisole bulge of laziness you call feminism, you can be reassured that there are corroborating studies.

“Many other studies that are not nearly as well done or as large as this suggest that calories from alcohol are metabolized differently,” Ellison says. “The alcohol calories probably don’t count as much as calories from a Hershey’s bar.”

If that isn’t enough for your bulimic ass, wait until liquor comes out in pill form. The rest of you can stop pretending your vodka cranberry is good for you because the clear liquor offsets the horrifying amount of sugar and preservatives in the kind of cranberry “juice” that “tastes good.” That shit is nasty, and CNN just said you can move on to real actual liquor and still keep your lumpy girlish figure.

As a public service, Scumbag Style would like to remind you that the hooch can be a lubricant for one kind of weight gain: unwanted stomach parasites, affectionately known in the medical community as “babies.” An unassuming moniker for a hateful, body-shredding drain on resources and the reason everybody will hate you on Facebook. Seriously, we were responsible enough to not knock you up. Go tell the jizz donor; you’ll find him in the bedroom crying because you made him sell his Xbox.

Although recovering alcoholics and people with uncontrolled epilepsy shouldn’t drink [unless they are really dedicated to physical comedy], Ellison says, moderate alcohol consumption can have health benefits for people middle-aged and older, especially when it comes to heart health and stroke risk.

Also, a couple more drinks will benefit those that find improvised peeing just fucking adorable.

Hee hee. I have like a couple hundred of these on my hard drive. Kittens tottering around on gimpy legs with Cool Whip on their whiskers couldn’t be more adorable than a chick with no choice but to squat in places unintended for their urination needs.

Here’s one more bit of motivation from Johnnie Walker.

(The part of daily mass Father Palmieri dreaded most was the queue to kiss the Holy Cock Ring. It creeped him out how Benedict always took of his goofy hat and got all confortable. )

Last week, Scumbag Style instituted “Jugularity,” a columnal outlet for when the world seems to be coming up boobies. In the interest of balance, and in celebration that the names of naughty bits fit really well into spooneristic word replacement puns, here’s some dick jokes that prove real life has the sense of humor of a 12 year old, and so do we.

A patient claims the producers of CBS TV show “The Doctors” tricked him into appearing before a live studio audience to undergo laser surgery for “pearly penile papules,” then broadcast his penis operation without his consent. (Courthouse News)

Oh, Jesus Danza Slapping* Christ, save us from that entirely gratuitous, unholy alliteration. This guy wants to sue CBS for airing his lumpy lester on the TV, and I want to sue him for making his god-given anal bead condition a five second music video that will play over in my head all day. I’d call Will Smith down with his flashy cancer stick from MIB if I didn’t enjoy breakfast so hard. We’re going to pretend that story didn’t happen and move on to a couple of dudes who would eschew the lazer prescription for something resembling the treatment for a snake bite.

Like Senator Roy Ashburn from SoCal, who was nailed driving his Tahoe about 12 hours ago with a blood alcohol level of .14%. Growing up in Boston, the Irish cops used to call that level of intoxication “not fucking around.” We all make mistakes, though, right? The difference between a drunk driver and a passable one often comes down to how big your lunch was, and the margin for error there is pretty high. Don the orange vest for a hundred hours, and we’ll forget about this one – -

[Ashburn] was arrested for allegedly driving drunk after leaving Faces, a gay nightclub in midtown Sacramento… A male passenger, who was not identified as a lawmaker, was also in the car…  Ashburn, a father of four, is a Republican Senator… with a history of opposing gay rights. (CBS, who just cannot seem to stay away from the cock)

Sometimes it seems people are born to gauge how far milk can shoot out of my nose. My  disappointment that a gay club pilfered the name of my favorite Rod Stewart vehicle notwithstanding (you bastards make him the next Liza, and I swear…), this poor bastard could make a documentary series on TLC about the next couple of years of his being his own punchline. This thing is going to play out in long, grueling stages, like AA where nobody believes in you. Divorce, disbarment, Roy’s Runty Rod: All The Dirty Details, promo spots for Preparation H, the whole nine.

Ashburn has particularly yummy timing when you consider that, at the time of his arrest, the news outlets of America were preparing a piece about a dude in Rome who will have it way easier:

The Vatican was today rocked by a sex scandal reaching into Pope Benedict’s household after a chorister was sacked for allegedly procuring male prostitutes for a papal gentleman-in-waiting… Angelo Balducci, a Gentleman of His Holiness, was caught by police on a wiretap allegedly negotiating with Thomas Chinedu Ehiem, a 29-year-old Vatican chorister, over the specific physical details of men he wanted brought to him… “I saw your call when I was in the Vatican, because I was doing rehearsals … in the choir … in St Peter’s.” He then suggests Balducci meet a man who he describes is “two metres tall … 97 kilos … aged 33, completely active.”

If ever there was secret code for “not above a blumpkin,” that’s it. For those of you who didn’t grow up Catholic (bullet on steroids dodged), words like “Vatican Chorister” and “Gentlemen of His Holiness” and “metres” aren’t just bandied about in Rome like so much altar boy. A Gentleman of His Holiness is like a made man in the Mafia; he’s earned the right to be an usher at masses performed by the Pope, goes to all the fancy dinners, can put a hit out, and is technically part of the surrogate Papal family that could never be with the Holy Nutsack in mothballs…. or, apparently, other dude’s mouths. In their strange, metric system babble, you might call him a Royale with Splooge. Similarly, there are but 2 choirs at St. Peter’s, this Ehiem being in the Pope’s preferred, and just like a job in a tollbooth, you have to know somebody. To do a job you’d get a wedgie for in grade school. Just sayin’.

The thing is, these guys are off the hook, because the Vatican unwittingly provided the perfect out in their own despicable policies. As early as the 1970s, so far as can be proved now, they started shuffling among dioceses  those priests accused of diddling little boys. Alls they have to do is trade the priests that have moved on to the cougars of the male gender (give ‘em some kudos for waiting for their balls to drop, by the way) to those parishes tired of kiddie-pucker sacrifice, and the pedophiles to Rome, which most reasonable parents view as a sanctified Neverland Ranch. We’ll lob softballs at them like we always do until the scandal is over, and crucify GOP Senator Ashburn because we still need a whipping boy, but have the rod of PC so far up our asses we don’t want to criticize religious people for their own hypocrisy.  It’s such a primal instinct, to make a sacrifice of one for the sins of the community, like Joey Fatone doing Rent so the rest of Nsync could have real careers.

What is curious is why these guys shove themselves so deep in the closet they’re trading makeup tips with Mr. Tumnus, going out of their way to make oppressive laws and religious edicts concerning the very thing they enjoy doing. Chalk it up to masochism if you want, but it seems to me they could just move to P-town and free their manwhore budgets up for antiquing, and be much happier for it. Is there really such a leap in imagination from “Glory of God” to “Glory Hole of Rainbow Road Bookstore”? If you have to look at it from the Christian perspective, what if you get to Heaven and God asks you how you liked that free will he gave you, and you’ve treated it like Aunt Mildred’s itchy reindeer sweater? Ashburn already womaned up and apologized between mouthfuls of man gravy, but it isn’t too late for the rest of you Narnians to give a press conference saying, “Dick is great. Preferably several at a time. Have you tried this shit? Cuz it’s the cat’s pajamas. If your queer little club doesn’t want me in it, then peace the hell out, and I’m taking my Judy Garland records with me.”

Scumbag Concordance: “The Danza Slap,” noun -  A dick slap used as a finishing move during ejaculation, during which the slapper demands of the slappee “Who’s The Boss.” The term is mistakenly attributed to Tony “Nadz” Danza himself, who was rumored to have starred in pornography himself before Taxi. This rumor was refuted later when people got off the coke and realized the anachronistic replacement of a “z” for an “s,” and that the cast-member with adult entertainment on his resume was actually Judd Hirsch, who patented the now famous “Hershey Hirsch.” (Urban Dictionary’s myriad definitions)

(”And thus did the tanks of Seaworld run red with the lifeblood of the Orca, and the Israelites were blessed by God for putting the Killer Whale to death with a season and a half of great harvest, until a Rapist Chinchilla in San Diego had its way with a toddler.” Book of Eatme 12:31)

The controversy over killer whales doing their eponymous job has gone Old Testament, and this connoisseur of the overblown is grinning like suicide bomber heaven’s millionth customer. Let’s start with how Huffington Post presented the story, then go on to the site that called the following cetacean jihad.

The American Family Association, a religious right group, is urging that Tillikum (Tilly), the killer whale that killed a trainer at SeaWorld Orlando, be put down, preferably by stoning.

Do they even make bongs big enough to give that monster an overdose? Please say yes… Oh, you mean like the deadly community circle jerk and lentil festival. Fair enough. Nothing better than a brutally slow, torturous death if one is called for. If only old Tilly had the forethought to yell “God wills it!” before mangling his bipedal friend, they might have granted him a subaqueous fiefdom. No seriously, I’m in. Haven’t been to a good stoning since I was in Haiti teaching a village what “poetic justice” meant, and out of nowhere Pat Robertson decided to visit. Remind me real quick, AFA, why are we dusting off the oldest form of execution by committee for a marine mammal, and not William Wallacing it?

“When an ox gores a man or woman to death, the ox shall be stoned, and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner shall not be liable.” (Exodus 21:28)

As a creative person, I get a little disappointed when a god tells me how I should kill something, when I have all these ideas floating around in my head. The god of the Hebrew Scriptures is like a grade school math teacher; it’s long division, not competitive ice carving, I’ll show your mom my “work.” No, this time I’m all about the literalistic scripture interpretation (though where whales fit into a story specifically about oxen I’ll leave the convenience scholars to decide), if only for sheer entertainment value. Sea World should sell tickets to this thing, fill those uncomfortable bleachers with sticky human spawn. Get a couple hundred devotees  of this group, and let them go to towns. They might kill the thing, but not before those pebbles bounce off the whale’s rubbery hide and piss it off enough to take at least half of them out. For all we know, old Tilly will just wait under water until they’re out of ammo, learning to spit them back at the bastards. Those plastic ponchos will sell for at least a hunsky  in those conditions.

Exodus is so helpful it even goes on to say what happens if further incidents occur: if your ox kills a second time, “the ox shall be stoned, and its owner also shall be put to death,” (Exodus 21:29) because this time he should have known his ox was a slasher film villain. But how to smite, God? You can’t hold my hand up to this point and then leave me to my own murderous devices. Take me to murder school!And how does one go about killing “Seaworld.” Does that include the guests? What about the harmless rays and fish in the naughty touch tank? Screw it, kill ‘em all, just to be sure. Not the penguins though. They’re nature’s retards, and Seaworld isn’t in Texas.

It doesn’t matter anyway because:

Chalk another death up to animal rights insanity and to the ongoing failure of the West to take counsel on practical matters from the Scripture. The Sentinel recounts that Tilly had killed a trainer back in 1991 in front of spectators…  Then in 1999 he killed a man who sneaked into SeaWorld to swim with the whales and was found the next morning draped dead across Tilly’s back. His body had been bit and the killer whale had torn off his swimming trunks [actually, it was underwear, but i know that's a dirty word in Christendom] after he had died. [How do you know that?]

Can you imagine what would have happened if those animal rights psychos had their own way from the beginning and these murderous sunzabitches were allowed to live in the wild? Then who would we stone, fags? Because that’s illegal still, right? All the fun ones are.

I see your point on the first one, though: according to Exodus the whale should have been pelted with prehistoric hand-grenades in 1991. But the dude who sneaked into Seaworld in the middle of the night to swim with a killer whale in his tighty whiteys? Tilly only removed the dude’s “trunks” to get at his genitals so the world, should he survive an Orca attack, could be free of his dumbfuck genes. Give the whale a pass, guys, it was doing us a favor.

Huffington post helpfully chimes in: “SeaWorld has no plans to execute Tilly.” Because, as the seriously misinterpreted Jesus said about stoning, “Let he who is without sin pack the first bong.” Man, is Aramaic ever hard.

(Sean Duffy: Leave him alone, Liberal Media, because he will lumberjack your ass then celebrate by banging his hot wife. She’s had 5 kids, and the rest of you ladies are straight slackers. Also, if you look like retards for questioning his past, it gets a lot harder to slam his iffy politics.)

What qualifies a man to run for higher elected office in this country? Might as well ask what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting Real. That’s right, it’s happened:

Eighteen years later, “The Real World” now holds the distinction of being MTV’s longest-running program. It may soon hold another claim to fame If Republican Sean Duffy has his way: It would be the first reality television show to launch the career of a future member of the United States Congress. (Politics Daily)

What about The Sarah Palin Show? That one’s fun because you never know what time and channel the next episode will be on, but something ridonk is guaranteed to happen. She’s never had to run for Congress, but to be fair, why bother when you can just be President, doncha know?

So what you’re saying, Politics Daily, is that the country has officially moved to TardCon 1 and is ready to elect it’s first Congressman from the industry that brought it mobster worship, homicidal British chefs, the Paris Hilton Pooper-Scooper Hour, and ugly girls getting punched? That’s what 80% of your article implies, with more than half of the paragraphs mentioning the Real World connection. Can’t be that much worse than those that gave us Junior* and Bedtime For Bonzo though, right?

The show deals with hot-button issues… abortion, race… (”Let’s not get ghetto”)… AIDS, and, of course, sex. It also forces young people to confront people with opposing views, all the while doing so while walking the high wire of public scrutiny.

It’s worse than we thought! He got laid on the grainy green night-vision of cable television, and now he wants to be a lawmaker? Somebody hide Nancy Pelosi before he gives her an abortion! Nobody touch his Axe Body Spray, man, because he’s going to start yelling and breaking shit in the Capitol, all stabbing people with the big pointy thing on the top. And what will we do when he decides to turn the marble bathtubs into jacuzzis for his many, big haired floozies?

Duffy is the district attorney for Ashland County, where he has been elected four times. He’s also a lumberjack and a three-time 90-foot speed climb champion, an accomplished log-roller and ESPN commentator. He’s also the telegenic father of five with a pregnant wife at home. Duffy and his wife, Rachel Campos-Duffy, are both “Real World” alums.

And don’t get me started on those people’s proclivity to wear viking helmets – - wait. So you kind of buried the part about him being Captain America** between mentions of The Real World. Still married to a chick he met on a show he was on 12 years ago, with 5 1/2 kids, a successful political career, and three very disparate, respectable jobs in the private sector outside of that? A motherfucking lumberjack? Holy shit, can any president since Jefferson even begin to boast that kind of legitimacy? You’re right, he should have thought harder about becoming a C-list celebrity before mutating into the ultimate American. He should have had the forethought to see what idolizing, pandering, scandal-mongers the American public would grow into after 12 years, and how media outlets would play into it to further their own political agendas. His bad. I mean, what viable candidate has ever distorted the concept of “reality” in order to achieve political gains? – -

In a posting on her Facebook page, Sarah Palin [oh, forget I fucking said anything] promoted a fundraiser for Duffy, writing: “On this first anniversary of the stimulus, let’s send a message to the big-spenders in Washington by helping Sean Duffy unseat the author of the stimulus. Let’s put government back on our side and get to work revitalizing America!”

Calm your tits, honey, the cameras are off. Little tip, Duffy, because you have a good Irish name and you seem like a reasonable guy, despite your party affiliation: distance yourself from Palin like MTV from its namesake, because when I get rich, I am going to buy Sarah Palin. I am going to buy her, put her in a clown suit, and build her a podium, with a plaque that says, “Projectile Produce Preferred.” Next to the podium will be a refrigerator with magnetic words like “revitalize” and “Washington” and “our side” and “moose,” and no matter how the magnets are arranged she’ll have to read them in that Hitler-got-kicked-in-the-nuts idiom of hers as dinner entertainment before sleeping in the barn with the dogs. Do you really want that kind of base humanity attached to your burgeoning political career?

Duffy is running for office in Wisconsin’s 7th Congressional District, which stretches from the central to the northern counties of the Badger state.

Why are we even talking about this? He’ll shake some hooves, kiss some calves, and maybe he’ll get elected to represent Farmer Joe and his three beautiful daughters. First order of business, change the mascot from “badger” to “guido.” Demographic: everyone.

*Junior is among my favorite films, a paragon of deliciously absurd comedy, and I do not mention it to slight it, but to offer context. When Aliens land on the scorched, smelly terrain that used to be our home planet, they will find a copy, and know that we were good.

**That link is to the truly astute Worlds As Myth and it’s article on the casting of Captain America for the new film. It ignored my suggestion of Mark Valley, which is the correct answer, but it gets the link anyway. My objection is on record, and that’s enough for me.

(Like most women, way less fun than advertised upon closer inspection)

Welcome to March 2010, nuckas! March is a righteous month, in the parlance of the incomparable 1980s SFNT (Stoner Film and Ninja Turles, same thing really) movement that sought to wrest the term from churches and put in back in the Pizza Hut where it belongs. The obvious centerpiece to the month of awesome is St. Patrick’s Day, which celebrates the removal of snakes from Ireland by a dude with a flute or something by getting shitfaced, which is the only state of mind that the tradition makes any sense. The whole world can be Irish for a day, and the Irish get special dispensation to be uber-Irish, the privileges of which include indecent exposure, kisses for wearing instructional T-shirts, destroying sissy parade floats, and the unlicensed possession and deployment of potato cannons.  March also features the Steak and BJ Day holiday on the 14th, exactly a month after the headache that is Valentine’s Day for boyfriends. Steak and BJ Day could also be titled Man’s Turn or Sweet Justice Hootenanny, and is the perfect way for girlfriends and wives to show their appreciation for having chocolates, jewelery, and (apparently) cell phones thrown at them because a bunch of Christians got eaten by lions some 2,000-odd years ago. Ladies, if your man performed his Hallmark Day duty admirably, fire up the grill and get down on your knees. It’s only fair.

We are also declaring March Twatted Month, in recognition of all the support our fans have provided on the social networking phenomenon that is Twitter (follow SBS here).  This month will celebrate all that has been twatted in the past with occasional updates concerning Twitter, and highlight some of the daily cock-baggery the site seems to pitch like your local gay bar’s celebrity bear. We’ll start with the most disappointing Twitter-related headline I’ve seen all day:

Angie Jackson Live-Tweets Her Abortion (VIDEO) With video!? Talk about cutting edge entertainment! I would so buy the six-dollar Twizzlers with my ticket to that. I don’t know who this Angie Jackson is, but let’s give her the YouTube equivalent of an Emmy, right? That headline is a spoiler-free promise of action and suspense. Does she use the coat hanger or the vacuum? Will there be one of those prostate cameras involved, and will she have one of those spontaneous orgasms I hear so little about because of the unbelievably sexy shame that comes along with it? Is Angie a squirter? Will Bill Murray have a bitchin’ cameo?

Awww, bullshit. I haven’t been this let down since the first time I went to a nude beach with a backpack full of condoms and a baseball cap with a hidden camera in it. The only thing worse than someone who makes up their own self-defining term so their enemies can’t categorize them is someone who misses the point while doing so. Calling yourself an “Anti-theist” is like calling yourself an “anti-ployee”: if you’re so sure you’re not being controlled by your boss, why are you defining yourself with his terms? Because you’re just another useless reactionary that puts her eye shadow on with a putty knife, and is the proof that, indeed, if you keep making that self-satisfied, superior sneer, it will stick that way. I wonder if the medical condition that won’t let you be pregnant is the same one that won’t let you have those mutant, sentient polyps lanced… To be honest, I’m just ranting out of some sense of betrayal. Your cause, demystifying abortion so it’s not a terrifying experience for those in need of it, is a noble one, to be sure. I just feel like your taking RU486 robbed me, personally, of a cinematic extravaganza of sharp implements, battery acid, mutilated nethers, and projectile climaxes of mixed bloody placenta and cum. Next person to video/tweet their back-alley, equally illegal and dangerous hack job depregger gets a prize from me personally.

More Twitfoolery after the jump. Bring provisions, and a box of Magnums, unless you want to do outdo Angie while you’re there. I’ll help.

Continue Reading…

(That means you, bitch. You know who you are. You and your booger-eating spawn.)

February 25

Dear Diary,

Jenny was being a bitch today so I got drunk and taught the kid to replace the word “and” with “cumburger” every time he talks. She thought I was playing army men with him in the sand box, the twit. He’s autistic, what is he going to do, rock them to death? Win a decisive victory with his astonishing statistics skills? God, Cuervo is good, though it is starting to affect my pratfalls. I know nobody is paying me to do those anymore, and my dumbfuck wife says it’s pathetic like air guitar to do it alone, but it’s a hobby I don’t care to give up, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that, when I get a little spastic watching Ace Ventura, that I not gash my melon on the corner of the coffee table. The old lady knew what she was getting into when she bought this sssmokin’ cow, and so did the tequila. Man, remember “smokin’”? I know you do, Diary. You, Jose, and Jeff Daniels are the only friends I have now.

I had to get out of the house today, if only to put some aural distance between me and super-mommy. I thought we could finally get on with our lives after the Lancet finally admitted that bodega medicine man Wakefield was letting his bullshit show to a felonious extent with that autism crap a dozen years ago, and maybe I could go back to making seizure comedies again. Then I see this headline, and my rubbery face twists into a grimace so antithetical to the laws of physics, the rest of my body interpreted it as being late for a round of crippling constipation, and is just about done catching up.

Jenny McCarthy In ‘Time’: I Fixed My Son’s Autism

You might imagine, Diary, the Andy Wakefield news would have made her shrivel up and dissolve like a salt-water doused wicked witch of the slugs, but Jenny is made of heartier imbecility than that. In a way, it’s admirable, not that it makes me want to drink any less. She designed, built, and captained the USS Dummy in some performance art expression of postpartum, and she is determined to go down with it. She’ll have to turn it into a submarine if she wants to keep playing doctor, all curing kids of incurable diseases and putting down the Rubella epidemic she’s trying to unleash. I asked her to play doctor with me, and the cunt didn’t even look at me before reading the part of a medical journal that told her what she wanted to hear and declared me an incurable retard. Hold on, let me take another shot.

She won’t give it up, dude. Every day someone asks Nurse HawthoRNe over there her thoughts on the connection between vaccines and autism, and she says something like, “Come and see our kids. Why won’t the CDC come and talk to the mothers, talk to the families? Then tell us there isn’t a link.” Because the CDC has better shit to do than interview a gaggle of knee-jerk diagnostic hystericals marshaled by an insufferable celebrity who is so devoted to the lie she drags her visibly despondent husband by the scrotes to any event she can wear an airbrushed dress to, despite all evidence to the contrary. Sometimes I envy Matthew Broderick; at least he knew what he was getting into with that banshee, eschewing the attentions of millions of spread legged Ferris Bueller devotees. I think I’ll become an activist against the vaccine directly related to buyer’s remorse.

“Evan couldn’t talk — now he talks. Evan couldn’t make eye contact — now he makes eye contact. Evan was anti-social — now he makes friends.” I didn’t even know that, I had to read it in the article. Great, now he can make eye contact with strangers int he park when he takes his little pecker out and plays with it because everyone lets him since he’s so retarded or whatever. And the little bastard can talk? Then why am I getting him Cheerios when he grunts and kicks me in the shins? I think she taught him to do that, that she’s turning my life into one big Truman Show that ends with me dying regretting I didn’t just do it myself, but she wants me to furnish some “proof.” Here’s proof: you’re an attention hungry castrating psycho who makes up for the fact that her cellulite won’t let you whore it up for the cameras any more, so you have to make up for your lack of talent by being the god of all parenting.

I’ll let you in on a secret, Diary. The kid doesn’t even have autism, and it wasn’t the vaccine that made the baby all cuckoo for claw hands. Jenny was just worried about her cooch stretching, and crushed his head a few thousand times doing these super-kegels she read about in a Susanne Somers grocery store impulse buy book. I have a theory that they’re the same person, because you’d think they’d be bros, having celebrity advice Tourette’s in common, but I have never seen them in the same place. I told Time Magazine, “She’s a mom. That’s what she is. That’s her truth.” So you know, Diary, that’s code for, “At least she’s quiet once a year when she gives me half a beej before giving up because it’s too much work.” Sometimes I wake up and catch her diddling the kid looking for hemorrhoids she can blame on margarine or seesaw paint or something. If there’s one unspoken law in America, it’s that showing your cunt in Playboy is the equivalent of an honorary doctorate.

They’re looking at me all weird for writing in a diary in the bar, and some hairy biker just asked if I fall like a sissy with epilepsy when I get hit in real life too, so I’ll have to put you down now. I’m going to go drink until Morgan Freeman and Horton the Elephant visit me in my happy place.

(When Georgia O’Keefe met Courtney Love, the painter went into a horrified stupor. When she awoke, she found she had painted this. The artistic release failed to soothe her.)

The Widow Corbain has recovered from a two week bender and, for the second time in as many months, crawled out from under her rock to contribute her eloquence to a subject we’ve all already forgotten about. Seems Courtney Love  just got around to reading John Mayer’s playboy interview, in which he praises Jess Simpson’s “sexual napalm” and said his dick was a “white supremacist,” and she has… thoughts? An unreasonable facsimile, at least. From her Twitter:

“do you ever feel like spite hate fucking @johncmayer just to put hi in his place, hes a better guitarist than me but not better in bed !… but like say your fucking @johncmayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times”

If you can’t shut your mouth when nobody is talking to you, I’m going to find something else for it to do. Like gnaw on a Milkbone. What? I’m not sticking my dick in there. Might as well tell the doctor to fire up the ole circumstraint and set it to 3 inches, and don’t skimp on the battery acid. If she could see less than three of everything, she might have thought to say, “I’ll show him sexual napalm!” and then squat, dripping steaming holes in the carpet.

First of all, we have to do away with the terminology “hate fuck,” given the circumstances. Just like crime. All violent crimes are hate crimes, and adding extras to the sentence falls squarely into the category of most asinine legal moves in this country’s history. Just so, any fuck from Courtney Love is a hate fuck, engineered to apply the greatest possible shame, pain, and self-loathing imaginable. Kurt’s shotgun was just one big dildo designed to bring about the ultimate masochist climax available. Contributions to the Batman & Robin soundtrack was Billy Corgan’s, but to be fair, he found Jesus or some shit. Hint: He hides in the dryer, because He has the mind of a child.  “Let the children come to me, and pick sides for dodge ball!”

“BAM punch him in the face”? Mayer would probably embrace a punch from Tyson if it would blur his vision of that toothy, hair-lipped hell-maw you call a chatch for a few blessed seconds. In the past, I too have expressed a brand of hatred for the musician, though never to the point of arousal. My problem with him before was that he wasn’t using his demigod blues guitar powers for good. It’s like when Hulk Hogan turned bad, and still kicked ass, except Mayer’s bad was channeling the spirit of Mississippi John Hurt to waste on shitty sentimentality, landing himself in thediscount bin in the Adult Contemporary section. If Hurt had written “Your Body Is A Wonderland,” the title would have been, “You’re Pussy Is Real Loose, But Oh Well.” I don’t even want to think what “Daughters” would have been about.

"... and fathers go down on your daaaaauughters too... no matter how thick they thighs."

But John Mayer’s cheeky antics this year have redeemed him eleven-fold. Publicly swearing off relationships so he can get in as much pussy that isn’t attached to Jennifer “I’m Surprised She Isn’t A Cutter” Aniston as possible; Announcing onstage his intentions to impregnate at least one fan that very evening; Releasing a sugar-coated single about pinchbeck pillow-talk and getting stoned; Hell, “my penis is a white supremacist” is merely a direct, if entirely impolitic way of saying he has a type. How does Courtney Love not get behind that shit?

“oh dudes Mayers a little bland for me and youngish ill do young, but hes neither Yale Harvard Oxford and hes not really rock, so not for me,” she wrote. And to a fan who asked her to clarify hate fucking, she wrote, “hate fucking is an art like ‘the pit’ meaning you rape each other and then beat the shit our of each other so u can feel shit.”

Should have asked her to clarify “rock.” Let us know if the second side of Pretty On The Inside qualifies, seriously, because if it does, I know a 3 year old banging on his mom’s pots and pans with his dented skull that needs a career. When you die (I’m like a Catholic kid on December 20th for that), donate your brain to science so we know where this comes from. Isn’t a qualification for a university to be Ivy League a standing restraining order against you personally? Also, in your “The Pit” style hate fucking (the only thing you remember from the ’80s is The Pit? Jesus), who plays the autistic kid? “They don’t eat chocolate bars. You know what they eat?” All the shit Courtney Love seems to want to beat out of John and then “feel.”

In case Love’s mangling of an innocent metaphor into a gross-fest not seen since Matthew Broderick and his elephantitis stricken mare last coupled didn’t tickle your gag reflex with a rusty saw, she also threw this in:

“my genealogist* and my gynocplogist know i do my Kegals like a snatch the cig off the table thai sex worker,”

For the love of Bacchus, why? To belatedly show your computer is capable of capitalization, despite the fact you have no concept of how to use it? At least the beast what lives between your legs can have a smoke break between scrapings.

*How do you not know that a genealogist doesn’t need access to your vagina to ply his trade? Or is this not a medical thing, and you’re just naming two of the several thousand men you’ve granted access to your twat?