… Employing the brilliance of Religion’s “sell them nothing, they’ll love it,” combined with our hyper-sexualized, misogynistic culture. That’s bold.

(The difference is, you can drink beer when you’re naked, but don’t let that stop you.)

They nailed another Catholic Bishop for child abuse today… ah, fuck it, I’ve seen this episode, what else is on?

There’s some revolutionary thinking going on right now, and shit am I excited. Because as an American I can’t do any thinking of my own (we did away with that bit of inefficiency, Denmark, catch up, get you some Jesus or something), my nips get all kinds of pointy when I hear of other people doing it. This time it’s the fashion industry, the rocket scientists over there coming up with the brainstorm of the year: Boobies Sell Stuff. Just three words, and yet so much unmitigated prodigy contained therein. Take notes, beer.

First, Abercrombie & Fitch told naysayers to stick it where the sun don’t shine (ironically, Banana Republic) when they announced they’d be bringing back A&F Quarterly, a soft-core skin mag (with excuse articles, you guys) that doubles as a catalog and advertisements. They ran it for a few years, before yanking it under pressure in 2003, saying, “What? Have you ever seen an article of clothing in our advertisements and store promos, like, ever? Oh, fine.” Still, despite the lack of clothes in the clothing advertisements, the campaign seemed to work while it lasted, due to its racy suggestions of sex the jocks were already having when they were twelve, and implied white supremacy. The JC Penny catalog never stood a chance, not even the scandalous lingerie section we all remember naturally gluing together when we were kids.

Lingerie or Kevlar, an 11 year-old can manage a chubby for either. Close the door when you change, moms.

When A&F Quarterly buckled under the pressure, creepy middle-aged men had nowhere to go for their “artful” semi-nude portrayals of the girls they wished they could have… you know, except the internet and late night Cinemax. But, never fear you brave lechers, it’s coming back in July, so it looks like management has sprouted some chest hair… Hahaha, just kidding. Abercrombie men will always be hairless effeminates. Even when nuclear winter envelops us all, and strip malls are only carrying caribou skin mukluks and $60 extra-thick kuspuks, A&F billboards will not fail to cover the cold, desolate landscape with naked, genderless Ken dolls.

In still shockinger news, fashion house Valentino, apparently known in the industry for being what is called “demure” (adj. prudish; uninteresting), has decided to “mix things up” by including nudity in their new campaign. Genius! It’s like that one hot nun – who signed up for the requisite habit and gun because she was raped or something, and not because she couldn’t get laid if her life depended on it like most nuns – it’s like her stripping down for the 7th grade class in the Catholic school. I know, when the collection plate came around, I would have been more generous  than a paperclip and pocket lint if that had happened. Praise Jesus, who giveth unto us that adorable little brown ring around the anus! Still, despite the fact that this “Tits Sell Shit” idea is just so clever, you can’t really say that in the press release, or FOX News will start going all Zorro on your print copy. How are you going to spin this?

“The idea is that of an unexpectedly intimate black-and-white portrait with candid shots of unconventional, delicate and individual beauty and a more dangerous undercurrent,” said Chiuri. Added Piccioli, “We believe it is a very modern and feminine vision and we wanted to show each woman’s unique personal allure.” (Memo Pad)

On which Lindsay Lohan remarked, “Fuck! I wish I thought of that!” See, she’s posing nude for ads concerning her new line of handbags called “6126.” Add a decimal point in there and you get her average BAC level. Math is fun. Before Valentino’s creative directors came out with all those purty words, Lohan’s justification for posing nude was,”You can take pictures with clothes on?” Well, no, hunny, not when all the clothing companies in the country have cease and desist orders against you sullying their image in public. You’ve been relegated to handbags, which really isn’t the worst thing in the world. I can see the ad campaign now: “Your birthday suit ain’t got no pockets, so what the hell?”

Luna wasn’t sure whether Lohan’s court-mandated SCRAM bracelet [the drug and alcohol detector] would be part of the racy pictorial. “We’re thinking of having police on hand so we can remove the ankle bracelet for the pictures… or the accessory might be airbrushed later on.”

Sounds suspiciously like apologetic pandering to me. Screw it, dude, leave that bad boy on. If this kind of technology existed in the seventies, Randy Newman would have had a field day with it. It’s like leaving your hat or high heels on to add some flavor to the humpin’, with the added benefit of surveillance equipment in the form of a toy reminiscent of handcuffs. Hell, I might trick my wife into getting a couple of DUIs so we can get one. Listen, Lindsay, you haven’t been a part of any normal man’s masturbatory fantasies since Mean Girls. This might be your chance to squeeze in the tight crawlspace of our minds between between Megan Fox blowing a series of farm animals and Two Girls, No Flatware Middle Man.

Hitting pricey department stores this fall, the 6126 (named after Marilyn Monroe’s birthdate) handbags will retail for $200 to $600; a cheaper line, 7286 (Lohan’s birth date), will sell for under $200 at lower-end stores such as Macy’s.

For $39.98 you can get in on the 3211, the date of Lindsay’s first double penetration scene on whateverrubsyourpud.com, tagline: “Hey, man, we’re not here to judge (no Amex).”

(See, this is what happens when you laugh at the “daffy” guy, and don’t get him some help. Fris Freleng was a monster.)

Let’s just get it over with now, and publicly disembowel all the artists. Send their intestines to their ineffectual mothers and throw their spleens at the owners of all those affected liberal loft apartments you see hot, tanktopped artists inhabiting in ’90s chick flicks.

She works with glass and fire. You can suck RIGHT on that Demi Moore.

Why? Because the subjectivity of deciding on a case-to-case basis what works are art, and which are offensive this week, is tedious as hell and eats up the courts’ time that could be better used sentencing sodomites to labor camps. Kill all the artists. I think Shakespeare said that.

This is probably an example of what he was talking about: Mizozo reports (as has every other infuriatingly stupid cut-and-paste blog taking up virtual oxygen and vagina space on the internet) that a giant poster in Poland featuring a naked Minnie Mouse framed by a Swastika, and promoting an art show, is being investigated for promoting fascism. It’s a crime in Poland that could land the gallery owners and artist in jail, to spend the next few years as a girlfriend to a cellmate named Goldberg. Here’s the offending piece:

Hey! There's no bow there! That's Mickey! Hey, kids, come look at your "hero" now.

Look, a picture doesn’t become a work of art until I see some inner labia, but that’s just my opinion. Some are opposed to it for other reasons; the “author” of the blog points out how it’s next to synagogue that Nazis captured, flooded, and used as a swimming pool (burn!). So those people should never have to even think about Nazis again (good luck, guy, it’s all they friggin’ talk about). “For me it is quite shocking, and even more so for people who remember World War II, and especially for people who suffered during it,” said local councilor Norbert Napieraj. Good thing there aren’t too many of those left, am I right? Wash that sand from your vajay, councilor, those people are like ninety. Even if their necks could empower them to look up, their eyesight can’t extend much farther than a foot or so.

The gallery owner has already said, “Uh, no, fuckmooks, it’s just a picture.” I’m paraphrasing, but the point is all of us in English-town have at least two cents to blindly and violently chuck at this issue. Some of the comments are simply ignorantly indignant, like Lisa G who thinks it’s, “Inensitive and tasteless,” and the author itself, who considers it, “Not at all artistic!” Well, yeah, I mean, move that arm. I didn’t come all the way to Poland for side-boob! And, Lisa, I have it on good authority that poster doesn’t taste like anything but paper, glue, and pigeon shit, so you’re mostly right. In no way should you even try to find a translation of the text or anything

I know countless artists that aren’t state funded that are big fans of fascism, and promote it wherever they can. After all, there’s no such thing as a lack of inspiration when Goebbels has an assignment for you. And there is definitely nothing artistic about calling out Walt Disney for being openly antisemitic and a Nazi supporter, while his estate is one of the richest on the planet, and the characters he invented the most recognized by children around the world. Let hypocrisy lie, or somebody might have to think for themselves. And dude, that argument is so 1980s, we’ve moved on. The worst part about this is that the artist has successfully infantilized and disparaged the organization that put a whole mess of Jews to death, while at the same time demonizing a Jew hater, and then put it right next to a synagogue! Any service-goer that gets a chuckle out of that has something seriously wrong with him. Seriously, fucked in the head, man.

But my boy, commenter Somali Ninga, can say this with way more eloquence than I:

ZIONIST OWN DISNEY EVER SINCE IT WAS MADE!!! ROCKERFELLERS AND DISNEY WERE FRIENDS!! THE ROCKERFELLERS AND ROTHSCHILDS PRETEND TO BE JEWS BUT THEY WORSHIP THE DEVIL AND ARE PAVING THE WAY FOR THE ANTI-CHRIST/DAJJAL’S ARRIVAL!! DO YOU WONDER WHY THE ROCKERFELLERS AND ROTHSCHILD FAMILY AND PRESCOTT BUSH(GEORGE W. BUSH’S GRANDFATHER) FUNDED THE HITLER AND N.A.Z.I. EVENTHOUGH THEY CLAIM TO BE JEWS??? WAKE THE FU©K UP!!! IBM WHO KEPT FILES OF THE JEWS KILLED IN THE HOLOCAUST ALSO FUNDED N.A.Z.I. GERMANY AND IS NOW OWN BY ZIONIST PRETENDING TO BE JEWS!! THE ELITE HAVE HIJACKED THE JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN RELIGION AND THEY PLAN TO HIJACK ISLAM!!

Preach it, you crazy bastard! Apropos of next to nothing, caps lock turned to a blistering, deafening 11, and enough unfounded conspiracy theories to fill a Dan Brown novel, and you still make more sense than anybody else on these boards. God bless you, jihad on whatever you hate on, my brother. Here’s a brotherly AIEAIEAIEAIE! You can take that home with you.

Anyway, I think an interesting study would be the history of condemnation; like how it went from a controlling device for priests and Tipper Gore to a full-on Western Civilization pastime to rival institutional racism and the building of cults of personality. Every discussion I’ve seen on this controversy has been in English, and nobody has bothered to translate the text before passing judgment, not one. Granted, I can’t read Polish either, and can’t find anyone who can. Even so, did anyone bother to investigate who the artist is? What his intentions were? How Naked Nazi Mickey fits into his larger catalog? The guy’s name is Max Papeschi. From his own site, apparently translated under mortal duress from some Romance language I don’t have to learn because I’m American and teabagging mush mouths is in my blood:

His pop Politically-Incorrect cites the American Life and reveals in a realistic ironical way all the horror of this life style. From the nazi-Micky Mouse to the Ronald McDonald Butcher the cult icons loose their reassuring effect and change into a collective nightmare.

See? He was just calling Mickey a Nazi, in a gallery right next to Ronald the War Criminal. The funny thing is everybody is so worried about the Jews in the vicinity, they didn’t realize he was trying to piss off Americans. Mission accomplished, I guess. Indirectly, and without the punishing blow that would have landed if we weren’t, as a collective, so irretrievably fucktarded and up our own asses with political correctness. Our talking heads and talk radio pundits can assign Nazi ideals to a different target every week, but we can’t tell when we, as a people, are in the cross-hairs? Anybody else feel like the ring leader in a circus on special needs day, and every single 12 year old mongoloid is a showboating drama enthusiast with a stage mother that wants them to jump in and join the show, and it’s all you can do to keep the little dummies from getting trampled by elephants, and any minute you know your capacity to give a shit is going to snap under the enormity of the stupefying dipshittery of it all? Seriously, who wants to hold this microphone?

(No, no, Kardashian. Though looking at Khloe I can see where the confusion comes in.)

Seems they’re handing out book deals like syphilis at a hardcore Romantic Period reenactment (those guys are such dorks… crazy, crazy dorks). Kim and her coattail barnacles sisters have a book deal because, you know, why not? It’s not like the average American can read anyway, so they’ll probably buy it to prop up their overflowing club paper-bracelet collections, or vacantly stare at the – -

“It’s going to be an advice book with lots of pictures” (US)

I was just going to say that! Seriously, my relevance is directly correlative to the subtlety to which these functional retards are their own punch lines. If you’re not going to even deign to shove the mannequin prop up your back and pretend to be a human being, I don’t see why I should even try. I’ve always had a particular, nameless unease when it comes to hippies, but I think I’m going to take a trip down to South America and hug the forest earmarked for murder for the sake of this boorish, catachresis slathered farce. Seriously, if I were a tree, I’d rather end up a grocery bag that doubles as the pink-eyed poor kid’s Halloween sack in PooIsCandy City than the most enlightened chapter in this book.

Gar! Fine, ladies, justify your book deal; Beside, of course, the fact that we’re all looking forward to the promotions where Kim dresses up like a dirty author chick with the glasses and the short skirt and all the Thanksgiving trimmings. What Jolie-Pitt level of humanitarianism will your advice provide?

“It’s going to [have] lots of fun tips and stories and everything about relationships; it’s a little bit more of an in-depth look into our lives, even though people think that they’ve probably seen everything.”

You have no idea what this book is about do you? I know there’s some poor PR sonofabitch chained in a basement somewhere, ghostwriting this thing for you, surrounded by Paris Hilton’s New Annotated Antisaurus and a haze of Camel smoke and shame that could power a small city for a decade. But still, shouldn’t you have some kind of idea what you’re slapping your name on before the press release? Or have you finally donated your identity whole-cloth to the Lord of some Cartesian hellscape dystopia, a slavish computer Typhoid Mary that will rid the world of the fallacy of intellectual individualism, one unwitting virus carrier at a time? Seriously, Kim, take it off or shut up; and send your sisters to work at the Walmart where they can finally contribute to society instead of living off your tits and ass like some Naired and painted werewolf parasites.

Alright, I gather that at some point relationship advice will be offered in these glued-together pieces of paper US Magazine generously calls a “tome.” I can see it now: “If you want to have a successful relationship, first you get rich, and then all the guys will want you.” That had to have been a mantra for Khloe growing up, from the minute her parents realized they’d spawned a Cobblepot level manimal that, even if they abandoned it, would grow up huge and terrible and smell them out with a hunger for violent reprisal and the newborn baby-flesh of the children of NBA stars (watch out Odom!).

Bad memories from your feral pack days? Photoshop would like its industrial strength airbrushes back, btw.

There is a lot to admire about Kim: her business empire she swears she manages herself (sure), her yummy curves, her willingness to feature in sex tapes (take notes, girls). But any aspiring media whore that takes relationship advice from a trio of girls, whose McDuck vault doubles as insurance that no guy would ever leave them no matter how vapid and spoiled they act, deserves everything they get. Go for it, kiddies. Learn what to do when your club rat “aspiring rapper” boyfriend uses the recording studio you bought him to do bong rips and dump Dorito farts into the autotuner with his asshole friends all day. Find out how to salvage a relationship whose carnal secrets have been clinically dissected by every American male over 15 with internet access, because it doesn’t even matter if you’re hot if you’re famous. And don’t forget to read between the lines for the hidden gem of meta-advice: how to make sure publishing houses aren’t printing the reams of legitimate literature thousands of struggling geniuses have produced in lieu of providing more attention to a family that, yes, in fact, we have seen everything from.These are all great life lessons, and god bless you if you’re ever in the position to use them, because the Matrix only wants you for food.

By the way, it’s going to be called Kardashian Konfidential, so yeah, go ahead and blow the $24.95 sticker price on that adorable mangling of the king’s, or use it to clean the bedsores your mind is accumulating like it’s planning for hibernation. I don’t care. Just don’t blame me when they get alliteration happy and you have to explain why you’ve tattooed three Ks on your 14 year old, half formed tit. No big black dude will ever sodomize you on camera when he sees that, at least not with a smile, and then where will your dreams be?

*Thanks to Worlds As Myth for the visual gag.

(Um, herro? Is the invisible cerr-phone on?)

In the wake of this oil spill “siege,” and pundits opining on how much better a president Obama would be if he would just kiss more sea turtles and tongue clean more babies with Dawn, the weeks-long extinction of leadership qualification based on whether or not your average yokel would “have a beer” with said leader was resurrected like so much stinking, maggoty zombie. Then, the real enemy arrived at our gates, the World Cup, with all the glossed-over jingoism, ritual murders, and justified rioting that entails. A big story was North Korea’s entrance into the international competition, and only after 44 years of  absence from FIFA, 1 South Korean ship sunk, and innumerable shallow parodies of their diminutive leader on late night cartoons. It’s true, Kim Jong Il has been described as an intolerable despot, a dangerous wild card on the international landscape, an avid collector of mass killing machines to use on taller, better endowed nations. But you know what North Koreans have that we don’t? They don’t have to imagine what it would be like to throw back a brew and shoot some pool with their despot, and that’s not only because he’d be too short to reach the table.

So, given that we primitive capitalists don’t enjoy that particular luxury, what would having a beer with Kim Jong Il be like? You’d have to meet somewhere that he could survey all exits, squinting through those power specs from atop his perch on his bar stool, looking for all the world like the most paranoid, dangly-feet Asian midget this side of Kato.

He’ll probably ask for a Taedonggang beer, the “choice of the Dear Leader” (Reuters) with a name that sounds like a black belt raping technique consistent with North Korea’s human rights record. He’ll bitch and moan upon being reminded about the whole trading embargo thing, angrily pacing on top of the bar, ripping out tap handles and brandishing them as swords, until someone hands him a Heineken, and the familiar taste of urine calms him down.

The game will be on, the great savior of supposed companions in bars with nothing in common, and he’ll tell you, apropos of nothing except that you haven’t praised him in three minutes, how on his first day out on the golf course, he shot a modest 38 under par, made possible by a mere 5 holes-in-one. “It’s a matter of public record,” he’ll tell you, adding, “Tiger Woods is a fag.” It is at that point you’ll realize that this is why people abroad don’t want to think about having beers with the man who has the power of life and death over them. Kim Jong Il did not, in fact shoot 38 under par from a mere three feet off the ground in a jumpsuit that would make a Ghostbuster squirm; such a feat is physically impossible for even the West’s greatest athletes, but everybody in North Korea, when pressed, would tell you that their Beloved Leader is without a doubt the best golfer in the world.

I totally believe you, but Lee Trevino will need some convincing. That is his mildly incredulous face.

“Oh, and I bowled a perfect game on my first try, so yeah, win,” he’ll say, his yes-men nodding their heads in the way men do when they’ve witnessed waterboarding firsthand. You just don’t say no to a guy like that. Just like if you were to have a beer with W., and he told you God speaks to him, you better nod ’til you throw your neck out or you’ll be sent on a hunting trip with Cheney. You start to develop a grudging respect for North Koreans. At least they didn’t elect their liliputian nutball.

In an attempt to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortably blatant lies, you’ll compliment him on his country’s soccer team, making a surprising return to the World Cup after 44 years. You will fail. “I trained them myself,” he will insert with a proud, straight face. He’ll tell you about how he drafted some of his players, and you’ll imagine state-sanctioned kidnappings of North Korean families whose lives will be spared once the player wins the Glorious Leader one of those little gold painted statues they give out to all American girls, even if they didn’t win, just for trying their best. “Even though I couldn’t be there, I called most of the strategic shots from my palace. Soccer is like war, and I gave my generals the benefit of my enlightened tactics.” Then he’ll have to go make a tiny little boom boom, and demand you come tongue clean his pucker, and seem genuinely confused when you politely decline.

When he returns, you’ll point out to him, reasonably, that at no point were any of his people on the phone to anyone during their losing match, and he’ll retort, also reasonably, “All North Koreans have invisible cellular telephones implanted in their ears. I also invented those” [Time fucking Magazine, you don't believe me]. Your lip is trembling now, you are in serious danger of failing to hold back barks of mockery. You’ll recall that, when the militantly sequestered North Korean team was finally forced to talk to the press, that the coach had said as much, acknowledging the phone thing, attributing all credit for the team’s successes to their deified dictator, all the while knowing there was a good chance he and the rest of the team would be executed for the team’s much more  prevalent failures. “Yeah, I’ll execute his ass,” Kim Jong Il will tell you. “When they lost, that was when he didn’t do all the amazing shit I told him to do through the invisible cell phone.”

What kind of man needs to do this? you wonder. It boggles the mind to imagine a dude so insecure with himself that he has to have a country of people, media outlets, public records, everybody swearing to Christ that indefensible, obvious  untruths are gospel. They all know these things are blatant falsities, and that saying these things out loud would be as ludicrously embarrassing as if our Secretary of Defense held a press conference to describe what the Easter Bunny gave him, but if Kim casually mentions he has a four foot dick, all systems of linear measurement in North Korea would immediately be described in terms of Little Kims (it is very weird to have that phrase mean two different things to me now). “How deep is your pool?” “Oh, about 2 Dear Leader’s Astoundingly Huge Rods.”

You’ll want to point out to him that he’s the leader of a country, that his daddy issues don’t have to extend so far as to try to out ’splody him (George, that goes for you, too), no matter that the country kind of blows compared to some other ones. But you won’t, because he’ll try to invent an explosive out of a paper cocktail umbrella and an ashtray, and watching him fail without having someone around to tell him it worked would be too painful. Instead, four beers in and in a “fuck it” kind of mood, you’ll ask him if it really was on his orders that South Korean ship was torpedoed, seemingly out of nowhere. “You’re damned right it was me,” he’ll slur. “I wanted those bastards to know that, even if a shot hasn’t been fired in 60 years, we’re still at war, further economic sanctions be damned!”

You’ll imagine the child version of Kim, losing badly at Monopoly, getting up from the table until someone lands on Baltic, his sole property, enough times for him to get back in the game, returning periodically to randomly flick houses off the board, and send the top hat to jail for not publicly agreeing that he was the world’s best Monopoly player. You’ll realize that the saddest thing in the world is a grown man in a palace, surrounded by sycophants and ninjas, having a biggest dick competition with himself. It will be sobering enough to make you fit for driving, so you’ll stand, and politely make your excuses, offering to pay the tab. He’ll tell you he actually pissed the beers you’ve shared into glasses himself, that he has actually invented the human beer tap, that he is that hero, so there’s no need to waste your filthy American money. You’ll say, “Whatever you say, buddy,” tell him you’ll call him next weekend, that maybe you’ll show him this titty bar you’ve been frequenting, but you won’t, and you both know it.

As you stumble out to your car, fumbling for your keys, you’ll wonder why this deluded, simple man is considered one of the world’s gravest threats, when all the West has to do is send him a Fisher Price kitchen set and a sandbox, and allow him to invent warp drive, time travel, and carb-free soda in his brain, all the while building a giant play pen around him. You could think of a million baby-sitters that could drop by once in a while to make sure he isn’t playing with anything sharp or nuclear powered, and to make sure he finally drinks the milk his mother obviously failed to give him as a kid. It makes you think, why your own leaders spout enough propaganda to make you want to stab this man in the face, when really all he deserves is your pity, why our stances are always firmly entrenched, and not vaguely sad. Kind of makes you want to pity everybody you see, your leaders, your friends, even the guy in the bitchin’ Cadillac that cut you off because he is clearly better than you. Which in turn makes you want to go home and demand your wife stand on the balcony declaring your chicken cacciatore the best in the world, and that you can make her cum in negative five seconds, because who is going to argue, really?

(This is what happens when God tries to high-five his son. it’s tragic, really, like Rogue from the X-Men.)

Scuuummy day, sweepin’ the Clouds away. On my way to where the air is stale and smokey and… slightly ominous, like there’s some rapin’ being planned by the good ole boys in the corner of the karaoke bar that thinks exclusively having “Kenny Kenny Kenny” is a viable draw for performance minded people… Shit, did I lose the tune? I’m just so excited, because things are going my way today. Come, sit, have a gin + pee, and let me tell you about it.

PEREZ HILTON is probably going to jail because the prospect of posting Miley Cyrus’s vagoo on the Sweet Tart vomit splatter he calls a blog was too exciting for him to resist, despite those pesky child pornography laws. When I first heard the news, I felt like my smoker’s lung of a soul was being ripped from my body. He wasn’t supposed to do this to himself! Taking him down was half of the reason I existed, the other half being midget stripper punting. But now I realize thousands of vapid automatons will need a new place to get their mincing celebrity yammerings, which I cover sometimes, and corrupting teenagers is an avid hobby of mine. Most people would lay low in this situation, but Perez holds a post-secondary degree in the annoyingly effeminate, and these are precisely the times members of his tribe like to come out from behind their keyboards and make videos. “Do you think Miley is stupid enough to go out without any underwear [ed: she happily admitted as much, yes]?… Do you think I’m stupid enough to post them if she did [absofuckinglutely]?… Do you think I want to go to jail?” Brother, they do not make soap slippery enough.

GOD HATES JESUS... at least he expressed as much by smiting the fuck out of a giant, idolatrous statue of his savior ass that previously sent good, Godzilla fearing Japanese motorists into tailspin crashes on Interstate 75 out there in Ohio (which is, coincidentally, a greeting in Japanese; “Interstate Seventy-Five” means, “Will you sell me your used panties” in that ancient, beautiful language). What, Christians, you don’t think this was an act of God’s wrath? A bathtub grows some mold that looks like a misshapen Virgin Mary and you call it a miracle; an earthquake hits Haiti, a hurricane New Orleans, and these were signs of God’s displeasure; but this is just some fucking freak weather? Fuck you, dude, right in your pious chocolate frosting piper. Even God thinks this Jesus thing is bullshit. God was probably just pissed off that your savior came out of the closet with his “roommate” at Flag Day dinner. (Yahoo)

Over In Somalia, a bunch of people are, as we speak, being executed and detained for watching the World Cup, which I think is a spectacular idea we should think about adopting over here. They actually like soccer over there, but all we have is a bunch of spoiled American football fantasy league rejects trying to be worldly. It wouldn’t even be a sacrifice. We need a fresh catch phrase like the Somalian jihadists have though, or it will never stick, and we’ll only kill maybe six or seven soccer fans before some civil rights groups form and ruin the party. “Football is an inheritance from the primitive infidels, and we can never accept people to watch it and we are directing a final warning to those who want to watch it.” Nah, ever since 9/11 we kind of adopted the term “infidel,” like the coloreds took back the n-word. But you’re on the right track. And anyway, you can call soccer a lot of ugly, disparaging names, but it’s not like it engenders any of the things you really hate about Western culture, outside of the fact that precious few people are murdered, comparatively.

Body paint: It's not slutty if you add a healthy dose of nationalism.

Oh. There is that. Anywho, maybe your model isn’t the most efficient way of going about this. Killing your own cannon fodder, while they’re sitting on the couch in their boxers eating hummus, because a sporting match distracts them from killing for you, seems like a waste. They’ll die for you as soon as the game is over, dude. Seriously, you sound like my wife when she wants me to throw out all the beer bottles and put away my collection of condoms filled with dog semen. Nag nag nag. I’m having second thoughts about us, Somali terrorists.

Oh, and, “primitive”? Last I checked, I wasn’t living in a cave, killing my own friends because they took a couple of hours off from working for my favorite imaginary friend. Our therapist said it’s those kinds of words that drive a wedge between us. And peeing on the seat.

(Take a good hard look at this picture of Katy Perry from wwtdd and then tell me this is a bad idea.)

These guys have the right idea. Two senior Saudi clerics have issued a fatwa saying women should hand over their breast milk to men they want to talk to, so they can drink it, be religiously part of the family, and then they wouldn’t get raped so much for running their inferior female mouths at casual acquaintances.  Wait, I don’t get it. They’re going to kill the breast milk, or the women?

A fatwa (Arabic: فتوى‎), is a legal pronouncement in Islam, issued by a religious law specialist on a specific issue, you dumb bitch. [Wikipedia gets more and more snarky every time I ask it about rapists and murderers.]

Oh, so a fatwa doesn’t immediately mean a Dutch cartoonist is going to get capped? See, it usually means that, so you can see where my confusion came from. Alright, so, by religious law now, chicks have to suction up and hand over the 2% to get a word in through the mouth slit of the burqa? Seems a tad extreme. I mean, isn’t the need for a solution a decent opportunity for an audit of the old fatwa that makes living in modern society impractical?

The fatwa has already generated enough debates and it is likely that the debate over such explicit topics may force the Saudi government to introduce stricter regulations about how and when fatwas should be issued.

This is the topic that’s causing you to reevaluate the fatwa system? The humanitarian oxymoron that is “religious law” has spilled more innocent blood worldwide, and a little breast milk is where you’re drawing the line. That’s what you’re saying. Actually, you should hire Tipper Gore, she’d love this. Senseless violence for everybody, but mention a natural bodily function and we have a crucifix earmarked for your ass.

That’s all beside the point of course. The lesson we need to take from this is that nature solves everything. We could learn from these guys. Like how nature provided us with tons of seagulls and baby otters to sop up the oil spill with. They’re just adorable little disposable ShamWows, born of Mother Nature so that we don’t have to internalize anything and dick out the real culprit, and we’re sending Dawn Dish Soap down there to save them. Seriously, do you save your Mexican maid from scrubbing the goat vomit out of your carpet after last night’s inter-species orgy? Do you save the bartender from getting you another G+T by honking her boobs and getting bounced?

Frankly, the Arabs are thinking way farther out of the box than we are (approx. a foot and a half). They’ve realized that the road less traveled isn’t as easy as the one that leads straight to Crazy Town, Pop: Everybody Else. It’s way easier to invent a new law than having to fish out the comparatively less crazy law that caused the problem in the first place, and we need to close the dumbfuck gap for mom and apple pie. Give up the dirty dairy, ladies, or the terrorists win.

Now will you tell me where the fucking bus station is?

The silver lining here is that every time anybody agrees on anything over there, they just change into new, tighter pairs of anger-panties to bunch up. Seriously, these two top Clerics have the same retard plan (that will, admittedly, put a nice Band-Aid over the gaping fourth hole dug into Lady Justice for a more effective state sanctioned gang rape), but are ready to suicide bomb each other over the specifics. Social terrorist #1 believes the women should milk themselves in private, and then present it to the man in a glass at a later time. Because we don’t want to cross the line into privacy invasion, or anything. The phrase, “Here, I just sucked this out of my tit in the bathroom, would you like to drink it?” goes from sexy-as-fuck to just-this-side-of-uncomfortable when it becomes a legal prerogative. It becomes more like, “If you don’t go into the bathroom right now and siphon me some tit juice, I’m going to make a game of inventing the flimsiest reason to rape you I can, and laugh when it’s held up in what we laughably call a court system.”  I’d put that kind of uncomfortable on par with asking the locals where the nearest Starbucks is in Green River, Utah. I did that once. When they laughed at me, it was just like being raped.

So, that’s out. Any dissenters? Social terrorist #2, this can only be good:

Obeikan’s remarks were followed by an announcement by another powerful Saudi cleric Abi Ishaq Al Huwaini, who asked women to allow the men to suckle the milk directly from their breast.

Bingo! This is just what I’m talking about. We’re supposed to be the smartest nation in the world, and we haven’t figured out a way to make sucking the boobies of strangers a law? My boy Al Huwaini is a genius among drooling simpletons, and he deserves a medal. How about a Peace Prize? They hand those out to anybody nowadays, and this guy just figgered how to downgrade ritual rape to forced second base. Now that you’ve solved the worldwide problem of not-enough-gazongas-in-my-mouth, what are your thoughts on the world economy and stuff like that we’re only taught to know three words at a time about?

The best part about this? We get to be giggling fifth graders about a subject that’s never been all that funny before: class warfare. How will we shame poor people for not obeying allah’s commandments when they apply to something all women have? We must differentiate how our grown men breast feed from those heathens in the other sects! It will be fun when Muslim yuppies start homogenizing and bottling their breast milk. “I only take my breast milk churned into a fine, sharp Manchego. What do you take me for, a Shiite?” Suddenly you’ve got Hood and Garelick turning into sleazy multinational corporations, independent contracting missiles to kill people over lactose intolerance alternatives that ARE AFFRONTS TO THE PROPHET!

(Braaaaaaiiiiinnns. Braaaaaad’s Braaaaaiiiinnnns.)

Rumors are swirling that Bradley Cooper popped the big question to girlfriend Renee Zellwegger, delivering a glimmer of hope to burn victims everywh – -

Wait, before we get started: The World Cup started today with a real pants pisser of a draw befitting the complete Schiavo the sport has come to represent to anyone that can handle more rules than a game of Popomatic Trouble in their spectator events. Seriously, Americans invented the concept of overtime before we even came up with electricity. Catch up.

That’s not what I want to talk about today, I’m just required to throw one PSA a week on this mofo, so just a warning: You never notice just how many fucking numb tongued foreigners live in your town until the World Cup comes around. Seriously, it’s like they come out of the woodwork like cockroaches when Wakim Phoenix leaves a thirty pound hunk of pork fat on the table. Very suddenly, you are going to find your local bars are packed to the brim with European trash in brightly colored, uncomfortable looking shirts, spouting weird shit like, “Let’s have a lager to celebrate that wicked bend,” or whatever. Shifty-eyed South Americans will spend way too long looking at you, telepathically assuring you that if you turn your back for even one second, they will fucking bite your left ass cheek off. Just remember, Slovenia is a country, not a slur on your mother; The Netherlands and Denmark seriously do need two separate teams for some reason; Just because they wear collars on their jerseys, it doesn’t mean they’re working less hard than people in real American sports (it’s a symptom, not the disease); They don’t know how to read, so whipping out your Webster’s and pointing out that “hooligan” is a negative term won’t phase them, or convince them to change it to “tampon”; New Zealand’s team is not comprised entirely of Hobbits. Killing any of these people is still a crime punishable by a stern lecturing and the removal of your Playstation 3 from your bedroom for one full week, so be careful. And no, really, they couldn’t wait for the fucking NBA finals to be over, even if it means you have to share a bar stool with Sven and his tiny penis. That is all.

(Ugh, when will the nerds invent a short-term cryogenic freezing system that will get us to football season in a sweet, baseball- and soccer-free coma?)

“The More You Know…”

So yeah, anyway, Renee Zellweger was in the vicinity of some white dresses this one time, which totally means Bradley Cooper wants to buy the cow in the most scrupulous sense that phrase can be taken in. Which is just plain silly, because who keeps white dresses under an old stone bridge? Also, not for nothin’, but after you’ve been owned and used up by a Country Western star like Kenny Chesney, the appropriate wedding dress color is Pabst blue with accents in puce, the most shameful of all the secondary colors.

Anyway, the Post is sure as shit Brad II is going to make the kind of mistake for which you spend the rest of your life apologizing to your traumatized dick, coaxing it lovingly out of soft, frightened paralysis. Their bridal announcement combines the humdingin’ evidence, consisting of a rich actress that likes to shop, with this damning follow up that put my doubts to rest once and for all:

Second, she and Cooper had lunch with her parents yesterday at the Tribeca Grand. Could it be he asked her father for her hand in marriage?

The author of this article must have had a pretty shit childhood that the only reason she can imagine for having dinner with her parents is to perform a courtship ritual so archaic it fell off the edge of Wikipedia. Your mountain of evidence is impressive, understandably nameless bollocks-slinger, but allow me to play devil’s advocate with your face.

First of all, Bradley Cooper asks no man for permission to do anything. He was half the reason the most successful comedy film of the decade will not hit TNT for a full three weeks longer than most movies do when they need some place to die, and the star of the A-Team reboot that will make tons of money because America can’t help but repress the memory of traumas like Inspector Gadget, Miami Vice, Bewitched, and Land of The Lost. Thanks to him, the greased up wavy quaffeur, that blessedly went the way of Luke Skywalker, now creates a sea of immovable blond locks wherever douchey twenty-somethings congregate. Bradley Cooper is less of an asker than a civilized pillager.

Secondly: As a man who knows his way around a fetish or two, I can see very clearly something that the Post’s finest gossip columnist – not at all under any pressure to print something, anything, validity be damned excepting that of the very oxygen she breathes  – can not. The guy was married to the uncomfortably violable Jennifer Esposito for four months before bailing because the Bradley Coopers of the world don’t need to get married to get their dick wet a couple thousand times a day. This relationship with the Beast What Can’t Be Killed is fetishism at its best, a dalliance into the world of condoned bestiality. Seriously, this guy would have done just as well, or his wife, for that matter. In between long, unabashedly narcissistic glances of his sweaty, naked form in the mirror, he looks down at the melty, painfully squinting face and mismatched pancake boobs of the Daughter of the Black Lagoon he’s tupping*, and swells lustily with how filthy and degrading the situations he gets himself into are. Also, ugly chicks do anal, so that’s probably keeping him eating chips on her couch longer than is required to prove you’re not so shallow you won’t deign to kiss lips that look like two halves of the bottom of a blistered foot for the sake of a “good personality.”

It's like some maniac threw Nicole Kidman in a pit with 50 starved and rabid raccoons, and then used battery acid instead of Bactine to treat the wounds.

But guys like that, with some kinks to work out of their system, don’t marry the receptacles of their sticky peccadilloes. Like his equally hunky namesake that came before him, Brad knows he needs but raise his hands like Moses and part the Pink Sea wherever he goes. When he gets bored because nobody with more clout than Scumbag Style will bat an eye at this effrontery to the gods masquerading as a relationship, he’ll leave her and go on a humping spree to put John Mayer to shame twenty times over. Then, when he’s ready, he’ll marry a cute, vanilla, non-threatening girl, like a celebrity cellist or a ventriloquist, whatever passes for entertainment in the 2020s. And Renee Zellweger, the public morbid fascination depleted, will slither back into the sarcophagus from whence she came, never to be seen again until some kid hits an unlucky roll in Jumanji.

*Yeah, that’s an Abbot & Costello reference and a Shakespeare reference in the same sentence. You come here for quality, we deliver.

(And yea, God will smite whosoever wet farts on the Holy Mother of Calcutta’s pillow.)

I don’t know if you know this, but in New York they have this Empire State Building thing, which is kind of a big deal. Not because it was named one of the seven wonders of the modern world by people who know about these things. Not because it is responsible for most of the broadcasting in the world’s largest media market. Not even because it is the headquarters of some of the most important companies and charities on the planet. That’s all sun-baked tripe compared to the Empire State Building’s super pretty lights. If you’ve been to the city on a holiday or the occasion of some arbitrary event, you’ve probably seen the obtrusive landmark’s gaudy display of passive acknowledgment.

But the landmark skyscraper’s owner [Anthony Malkin] has declined to illuminate it in honor of the late Mother Teresa’s. (HuffPost)

Dub-wha?? What a dick! Hey, Tony, what do you have against the corporate idolatry of a conveniently selected figurehead of an institution that specifically forbids idolatry? Oh, well, I guess there’s nothing we can do. It’s a privately owned building, it’s not like you can nun-rape a 102-story Art Deco tribute to American excess if Mr. Malkin isn’t down. Perhaps he just has the jungle fever, and reanimated Indian mummies aren’t his pack of Mentos. Maybe he was just out of Spiritual Guilt light bulbs. I guess there’s nothing that can be done when – -

“They’re bigots! They have an animus against Catholics!” Catholic League President Bill Donohue told The Associated Press on Tuesday.

Or that. That’s… reasonable. Nun-rape back on! I guess light displays for Christmas and Easter are too secular when combined in a list with those for Chanukkah and Eid al Fitr, which I can only speculate is a feast day consisting of a lot of hummus and brutally removed clitorides. Oh! You should take your righteous rage over to Paris and demand they stuff Mother Teresa’s body and put it in the Louvre. I hear they cave easy to people entering their country and spouting inciting rhetoric.

Now, another prominent New York Catholic is voicing her outrage. City Council Speaker Christine Quinn told the AP that she spoke Tuesday with Empire State Building owner Anthony Malkin. Although the real estate mogul was “very professional” and said he “would reflect on the points I made,” she said, he didn’t give her a satisfactory answer.

Jesus, a politician? An American politician? For fuck’s sake, before you stuck your idiot nose in, this was a quiet, over-before-it-began dispute between a private company and a tax exempt group of busy-bodies with no careers. I wonder what a satisfactory answer would have been. Is anyone else picturing an annoying, coked up cartoon squirrel when she talks? The kind that is invariably going to ask, “Can I have a cookie?” over and over and over again until you scream, “Yes, you can have a fucking cookie, you insignificant collection of cancer cells embedded in the colon of the baked goods industry! Just because you have a bushy, lice-ridden tail doesn’t make you not a rat, you know.”

It wouldn’t be all that bad if she didn’t have cronies. Councilman Ydanis Rodriguez and Councilman Peter Vallone plan to hold a press conference and rally to introduce a resolution demanding the Empire State Building light up for what would have been Mother Theresa’s 100th birthday; Which is kind of like the police generating a flash mob outside your neighbor’s house, threatening violence unless he puts up an illuminated plastic Michael Jackson in his front yard to celebrate Macaulay’s twentieth anniversary as a paranoid, jittery, shell of a person.

“Although we may not universally agree on all of her opinions and actions, Mother Teresa was undoubtedly an example of moral fortitude and self-sacrifice that we can all learn from,” said Rodriguez.

‘Kay. Take us to Mother Theresa school, Rodriguez. What are the best countries to open secret accounts so I can ferret away hundreds of millions in charity dollars so I don’t have to actually help any of the poor I claim to care so much about? What is the lowest standard of hygiene I can get away with and still call the death camp I maintain on the backs of young female slaves a hospital? How do I win the Nobel Peace Prize after directing thousands of salvageable poor people to an early grave, and still have time for an early dinner with Indira Ghandi, Jean-Claude Duvalier, and whatever notorious embezzlers want to give me a chunk of stolen change for an endorsement from a future saint? Is there some kind of franchised organization I can start to make as many people as possible suffer so I can reacquaint myself with Jesus and his sacrifices (a process that has since been named MelGibsoning in the DSM-IV-TR)? How do I clinically obsess over abortion and condoms like a Republican that hates gays just a little too much, but endorse forced sterilization of rounded-up poor people, and still manage to score a beatification from the Pope? Seriously, what IN GOD’S NAME do I have to do to make it so that, no matter what I do, criticism of me gets peoples’ nunderwears so hard in a bunch it is basically socially illegal? Because that’s the kind of moral fortitude I want tattooed on my dick before I dive headlong into a kiddie pool filled with cocaine and a couple of communist transsexual hookers. Of course, I’ll have to remove the one of Donny Osmond’s face that folds up to spell Satan when I go flaccid, but these are the sacrifices one makes for celebrity faux-piety that gets more press than Charlie Sheen’s erotic exploits.

Alright, so, Anthony Malkin’s documented “specific policy against any other lighting for religious figures or requests by religions and religious organizations,” and decisions that are “made at the sole discretion of the (company’s) ownership and management” are not satisfactory answers to why the ESB will not be flying the ole blue and white for the Troll with the Stole. I see, I see. Perhaps something even more exponentially reasonable than you already deserve, while still retaining enough directness so there’s no confusion. How about this: “Suck my billion-dollar, platinum plated dick and then get off my lawn. Tell you what, fuckshmear, make a whole mess of money, build your own sky scraper, and you can put a giant bronze nutsack on it for all I care, complete with a ten million dollar glass merkin by Dale Chihuly. In the meantime, hit the corner bodega, buy the biggest bottle of shut-your-cunt-mouth juice they have, because you’re going to need some refreshment on the express train straight to hell, where your saintly hero is waiting for you, jamming a dirty needle in John Paul’s dickhole in a criminally negligent hospital for the damned.”

I’m, uh, pretty sure I’ll be right behind you…

(Note: While we at the SBS offices love to pass around your hate mail, mocking you with the enthusiasm of a puppy surrounded by a classroom filled with retarded children, check out these links before you send a bunch of “nuh-uh”s, and remember that we see no point in assuming the best in people: here, here, here, wikifuckingpedia, here, here, here, here, clever, here, here… there’s more, which, in all seriousness, whether or not there’s truth to the criticism, is a good reason for a businessman to be wary of praising her with an expensive light show.)

Because I have a real job that sometimes requires me to do actual writing (fuck that shit, right?), and because Walgreens has posted armed guards, Fort Knoxing my prescribed supply of mood stabilizers, so you won’t want to hear what comes out of my diseased mind today anyway, I present another chapter from my creative nonfiction masters thesis Silly Scabs. It was my very first foray into essay writing, and coincidentally, I used to use it to shirk writing new assignments in every new class I attended, so I guess that means I respect you about as much as I did the second string undergraduate professors that bought it every time. Still, it went over way better than it ought to have almost every time (except for that one crack whore that thought essays about flower strewn beds on the night of a young lady’s awkward carnal awakening were the only good kind). The result, which we should have seen coming really, is that I tell you assholes four or five dick jokes a week and call it a second job. The land of opportunity sans any modicum of foresight, that’s what America is…

(Clowns teach hilarious lessons, like: When you have a colleague with tard strength, don’t dress like his favorite snack. A proverb for our times, really.)

Chuckles Goes to Bermuda

(Note: before you bitch about the questionable politics and childish rhetoric, remember I was like 19 when I wrote this.)

America seems to me to be a difficult subject to broach these days. We live in an era where half of the American population takes its cues from Jesus freaks with slick silver media pulpits, and the other half can’t see past the wafting steam of its patchouli stank; and anyway nobody wants to be told anything that doesn’t jam a thick wooden support beam up the rectum of their deeply entrenched ideas, so it all degenerates into a bulleted list of talking points. Meanwhile, young, idealistic high school students are told they could be President one day if they just followed the rules, embracing their ambitions while swallowing them just enough to appear humble and, oddly enough, not ambitious. How is a young American man, presented with the inherent contradictions in the system, supposed to trust that his hard work will lead to success later down the road? In the span of two years, I believe I learned just where a lower middle class boy could expect to end up in the new century. In this anecdotal journey, I can not expect you to consider me a hero on par with Aeneas, but I beg of my reader to think of me as a young Hercules, who does not yet know where his youth and ambition can bring him.

Continue Reading…

That new acronym stands for “Not Safe For Brains,” a moniker that could safely be applied to an ad in Miami Living Magazine that’s causing more of an unjustified uproar than Snooki getting her well-deserved knuckle sammich. Turns out EstablishedMen.com, a dating site seemingly designed to cut out the middle (class) man, slipped what prudes and the humorless are calling a bit of not-safe-for-workery into their ad space in the popular magazine. See if you can spot it…

Um, excuse me, miss, you have a little uh... nevermind.

Oh, for crissakes FOX News! It isn’t enough that you are the leading supplier of termites to the foundation of our rapidly crumbling Fourth Estate, you have to be the asshole neighbor kid that comes over and circles all the instances of Waldo in our books? Trust me, I can bloodhound a dick joke, I don’t need your help.

“”Did they not see this, or have magazines become so desperate for ad space that they’ll ‘overlook’ something like this?” media and publishing expert Penny C. Sansevieri asked FoxNews.com. “But I find that every time something like this happens it elevates the exposure, good or bad – and issues will get snapped up very quickly.” (HuffPost)

I feel like these are the questions you ask after the really glaring ones are addressed. Such as: “What exactly is the marketing angle here?” Is this a dating site for men with unfortunate, God-despises-you type birthmark fetishes? Is God a fifth grader with an infantile sense of humor? Or were these two young ladies taking turns mammorially pleasuring this disembodied member at the exact moment of nuclear holocaust, and the image of a cock was permanently nuclear shadowed on the blond’s chest?

When the aliens discovered the devastation of WWIII, a grave misunderstanding would forever label Chicago "City of Trannies" across the Galaxy.

I’m just saying, how is the image of another dude’s pecker – a pecker belonging, presumably, to an infuriatingly well-endowed professional penis model – going to persuade me to bring my “gold digging slut” dollar to your company? Perhaps the ad illustrates the porn training all of the site’s female members received at some kind of Trophy Whore finishing school on how to look at the camera, no matter what, despite an impending money shot. I could see how that might intrigue me enough for a closer look, it’s a valuable skill. If that’s not the case, what are they looking at, his wallet? I don’t want my menage-a-trois to dissemble into shouts of, “I’m over here ladies!” The least you could do is pretend the most fascinating thing in the world to your girls is my manhood.

So, the issue isn’t how the ad got into Miami Living with a sexually suggestive image, or even why the Uptight Republican Brigade has their secret crotchless panties in a bunch over an ad that shows less than a high school anatomy text, but what the agency thought the site would get out of it in the first place.

“When we created the ad, we never imagined a magazine like Miami Living would approve it, but judging by the amount of sign-ups we received since the magazine has come out, this ’shadow penis’ ad seems to work and might become a staple of our campaign,” the [Established Men] rep said.

Atta boy! When life gives you lemonade… um, Sharpie the hell out of the advertising landscape until it resembles the bathroom at a home for sex addicted middle-school boys? Proverbs and adages were never my gift. He continued: “This ad is definitely a true reflection of what EstablishedMen.com is all about – connecting professional men with beautiful women for mutually beneficial relationships.” Fuck eHarmony and their 27 levels of compatibility! That sciencey shit is for short-sighted suckers with scruples about putting the same pair of white-haired, wrinkly nuts in their mouth for a couple of years for the big pay day on the horizon. Personality breeds congeniality, but fellatio is faster… io. Whatever, I’m not your rhyme monkey.

Oh! … but anal is fiscal? Or facile. You know what I mean.