(His friends were concerned he might be taking the whole ’spirit of the lion’ thing a tad far, but really, he was just looking for an excuse to nom on a zebra corpse.)

Be vewy vewy quiet. We’re hunting douchebags. Astute reader Mif alerted me to this little fashion innovation hipster monkeys are calling Spirit Hoods, and thought I might be able to dissect some live human trash for the entertainment of civilized folk. Spirit Hoods are hats you usually see on red faced, crying babies in forced winter-pastoral family photographs, upset because their parents are aiming the scary flashing box at them instead of attending to their itchy soiled diapers – only they’re for 20-somethings with loft apartments in Williamsburg and a post-colonial soft spot where their concept of spirituality ought to be. There’s a real festival-going culture revolving around these faux-fur costume pieces your 9 year-old would call “a little gay” if you suggested he wear it for halloween, and they even have a blog that – - well, here, check it out:

In a bubble of collective excitement and passion our Sasquatch festival tribe duly named, “Sasq-whaaat?!” set out for the epic 3-day journey ahead.  Our tribe consisted of two Pandas, a Polar Bear, and a Zebra.  I rocked the Panda with my best friend Kristina and together, we became the Sasquatch “Panda Girls” to other festivalgoers that captured our wild moments throughout the days.

How fun! Watch out Zebra, we’re gonna eat you! Haha jay-kay! Somebody needs to throw an enema party after this! I swear, there is not enough ecstasy in the world to justify this shit. Unless there’s some fashion minority using these things as gateway articles for the furry curious, but when those freaks come around all I see is an extended sentence for hate crime in my future. But, these are the people we’re dealing with here. If you have a couple hundos just laying around not going to your favorite charity (you’ve got enough pot to last you into early August), are .05 Native American with no concept of their culture outside of scalping and peace pipes – and if the phrase “hand wash cold air dry only” gives you a huge chubby – maybe the Spirit Hood is for you. If that’s not incentive enough, each hood has its own spiritual profile, so you’ll know you’re picking the dismembered pate of the animal that best suits your personality. Or your leggings.* Whatever.

Red Wolf: Loyal » Social » Teacher

“Those with a wolf spirit are fiercely loyal creatures. They are team players and work well in groups. The wolf is a social animal and a great communicator, often teaching those around it.”

I’ll bet this little wolf works well in groups. In fact, I think I saw this chick in a gang bang video a couple weeks ago. It’s easy to be a team player when your adorable little asshole is getting perpetual tongue baths from people too paralyzed by your subjective shtuppability to tell you you’re a condescending little twat that’s never had an original idea in her life. The fortune cookie spiritual profile sort of falls apart when you realize the company’s main customer base will be frumpy chicks with horn rimmed glasses that never developed social skills beyond squealing about kitties – if not full-on level ten half-orc shamans that want to add a bit of realism to their mothers’ finished basement, but I’m willing to run with it. That face looks like they just threatened to cancel Grey’s Anatomy, or whatever the idiots of your gender watch now. If your perfect, hairless curves don’t convince them to keep it on the air, the addition of the impossibly colored head of a dangerous predator might convince them you are just crazy enough to do something about it. “This wolf head is stained bright red with the blood of the bitch that married Edward Cullen instead of me! Cross me and feel my ambiguously sexy wrath!” This product should come with a massive disclaimer: “It’s not the hat that’s giving you the erection, it’s the megababe we got to wear it. This product will only serve to make your awkward, mousy little girlfriend look like she has the mind of a 2 year-old. Go rent a porno and try to get her to do some of the freaky stuff. That will work out better for everyone.”

The male wolf is notoriously indiscriminate with spray tan, and refuses to apologize for that.

Leopard: Intelligent » Free Spirited » Leader

“The Leopard Spirit is able to blend in to many different circumstances with ease. People with this spirit find comfort in many different social situations yet also appreciate being alone. Often territorial and protective the Leopard naturally commands respect, without needing to demand it.”

When I see topless simulated fellatio on child’s candy, I think respect. The kind of respect commanded – but certainly not demanded – by future dead-eyed housewives that regularly fall down the stairs or bang their heads on doors. The kind of woman that should have t-shirts made that say, ‘He respects me so much that he couldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t correct me for getting all mouthy. I really do get mouthy. It’s my own fault,” for the amount of times it comes out of her mouth. I would commend you for recognizing the subtle difference between ‘command’ and ‘demand,’ but I just realized you put your hat on before your shirt, and that’s something only retards and strippers do.

If the leopard easily blends into any circumstances and social situations, why does this guy on the right look like he is constipated with regret that this picture can not be untaken? His facial expression just screams, “I just lost my last bet, because I am going to commit some serious suicide when this is over.” It’s probably for the best man, but take off the Spirit Hood first. The only thing a mom likes less than finding their kid hanging from the curtain rod, dead from asphyxiation in a masturbatory experiment gone awry, is finding out her son is gay.

Zebra: Strength » Balance » Individuality

“The Zebra‘s spirit is unbridled and free. A social animal, the Zebra thrives in groups, able to blend in without losing its individuality. Individuals with the Zebra spirit are often the protectors of loved ones and tribe members.”

Nothing says inconspicuous like a hot chick in a stupid hat. Remember when James Bond wore all that makeup so he would look Asian, and nothing in the world could have made him more of an unbelievably honky candidate for a bamboo manicure? That’s you. That’s you blending in. I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though. I’ve watched the Discovery channel. Your ass is destined for a mauling by your girlfriend, the one who took too much acid and will soon be howling “The Circul uv Live” with her mouth full of your toned, tanned rump. I bet you feel like kind of a dick telling your “loved ones and tribe members” to count on you for some kind of protection when your only role in life is to be part of a striped buffet on the Serengeti.

Black Cat: Luck » Independence » Wisdom

“The Black Cat spirit is one of mystery and intrigue. Some say a Black Cat can bring good luck. Others say the Black Cat brings mischief – you decide! One with the Black Cat spirit might seem unpredictable to others, but in reality they know exactly what they are up to.” [That last sentence beat my brain senseless with 700 stupid sticks]

No. No, I think I’d like to know beforehand whether the outward expression of my spirit animal is going to bring myself and others good luck, or if its going to result in finding myself raped and beaten in a filthy gutter. If you could just throw a clarification bone to your product description, because I don’t want to show up at Sarah’s Halloween party in lingerie and cat ears only to get some kind of STD. The bunny ears I got last year must have been the chlamydia kind, and I don’t want to get burned again.

Seriously though, I’m worried about this chick. Either someone just turned on the vacuum, or the cat magic didn’t work, and the photographers are subjecting her to vuvuzela torture. Maybe she’s being haunted by the spirit of the zebra she killed to make that skirt, but she looks like she’s in some serious pain. Eh, that’s unpleasant to think about. Let’s just all assume she’s in heat, and start poking her bajingo with Q-Tips.

Brown Bear: Brave » Curious » Gentle

“The brown bear spirit represents bravery and strength. People with this spirit tend be curious and playful creatures. Although very affectionate, they won’t hesitate to protect their own.”

“Um, excuse me, that’s fabulous bravery and strength. Rowr! I’m going to eat your picnic food, you silly campers. You should have strung them up in a tree like they teach you in Cub Scouts. Oooo, I made a pun, how fun!” Jesus, these Spirit Hoods might replace assless chaps as the new “lifestyle choice” garment. I mean, do what you want, just realize that when you click the ‘check out’ button, you are making a statement. I bet if we saw a picture of this model anywhere else, he would look like a first string lumberjack pussy pounder. He doesn’t even wax his chest, which is rare in the sissified world of modern male fashion iconography. But wearing that hat? It makes me think you’re taking the secret language of the homosexual scene just a tad literally.

Despite the fact that these spiritual profiles as a whole contain like five facts total, pulled randomly out of a hat and mixed and matched, you have to admit they probably fit pretty well with the kind of people that would buy these things. Just once, though, I want somebody to have the balls to take this all the way. I’m envisioning Spirit Game Preserve. Can you picture it? You pay a hundred bucks to get in, and you can have the bloody scalp of anything you can kill. The hunting knife is extra, but you get a neat rubber key chain made in China as a souvenir. You can even sell the scalps of the visitors the lions and leopards got the best of, right there in the gift shop. They deserved it anyway, for thinking they could wear the skin of an animal without earning it. Faux fur is stupid, because it suggests some kind of decadence that isn’t really there. I say, let’s make real fur politically correct again, but you can only wear it if you killed it with a blade, and ate its heart to absorb its courage and honor, Michel de Montaigne stylee. In the hizzouse. Nerdy white kids can have that now, right? You brothas are done with it? Aight, cool.

... acceptable.

*Ladies, leggings are not pants. Maybe with some knee length boots and a really long t-shirt,  you can get away with it without looking like your brain had a big, sloppy wet-fart when you were getting dressed that morning. I’m not opposed to showing some thigh. In any other circumstances, however, I will assume you have given up on life, are on your way to jump off something really high, and your stereo is up for grabs.

(This has nothing to do with the article, I just have a fetish for brightly manicured coffin nails. She was just blowing you a kiss, fuckin’ bitch judge!)

The  unemployment rate for the entire United States is at last check, what, nine and half percent? Luckily, we have our government officials working to stem the tide of homelessness, disease, and hunger that plagues those Americans not lucky enough to be born into “screwer” class, right? The leaders we elected to drag uncomplaining (so far as we can hear) American paupers from their “screwee” roles are on top of this bitch, sodomizing poverty, grinding her cunt face into the hot summer pavement, blinding her with the sharp gravel of our dangerously untended roads… Well, just as soon as they get their buds reelected.

Look, you just ate, like, Monday, and these smear ads aren't going to run themselves.

Hey, foreclosed traditional nuclear family that doesn’t know where their next meal is coming from, let alone where they’ll be sleeping next week, how do you feel about 200 mil in unabashed corporate avarice going to make sure potential elected officials are in Sharpies, lawn signs, campaign headquarters and rock star tour buses? I’m sorry, what? Those figures, that came out today, are already outdated? You say that “the total could rise to roughly $300 million if it includes additional pledges for campaign spending from Americans for Prosperity, promising $45 million, the Club for Growth, $24 million, the National Rifle Association, $20 million, and the Susan B. Anthony List, $6 million?” Somebody needs to explain to me why the NRA needs to have Lex Luthor’s annual salary in foldin’ money.

Welp, because government shuts down every other year – because elections take about 9 months, and the other 3 are for siestas for the poor, tired politicians – and we’ll have to wait until November to start filibustering potential “poverty czars,” in the meantime we’re going to need an enemy we can all agree to be distracted with hate for. Here’s an idea: Those lazy assed, mouth breathing, sister humping marine animals. Seriously, call your sister and see if a starfish doesn’t answer the phone, smoking a cigarette and yelling at her for a fresh beer. I’m sorry you had to hear about it this way, bro.

In March, we reported (read: made a bunch of totally hilarious/hysterically insensitive jokes) on this, a story about a group of fundamentalist Christians that wanted to ritually slaughter a performing killer whale for doing its eponymous job, mangling the shit out of anything smaller than it, this time its trainer. The best part was they wanted to stone it, Old Testament style…

Well, to be honest, the BEST part was my bitchin' photoshop.

Literally Old Testament style, as their justification was copied and pasted from their favorite version of Exodus, and they insisted that God willed it. There is no greater justification in America for us to slowly and brutally execute a person, let alone one of His own creatures whose only method of intelligible communication puts him on the level of Joey fucking Fatone. With myriad national concerns that, while infinitely more pressing than a cetacean expressing captivity rage, are seemingly unsolvable without the application of a day’s, maybe even a week’s, consideration, the United States had found in subaqueous wildlife its new enemy. Let the floodgates open! JI-fuckin-HAD!

My favorite headline of last week was this: BP Burning Endangered Sea Turles Alive. Talk about biblical. The purportedly tragic implications of the story aside (whatever, hippies), can you think of a better headline to define our generation in a special edition future issue of LIFE Magazine? Well, I mean, I can. “BP Shoving Live Orphan Kittens Feet-First Into Rusty Meat Grinders,” comes to mind. That’s as viscerally stimulating as a handy from a phone-sex operator with Tourettes, but perhaps a little verbose for page 6. What about: “How Many Rabid Porcupines Can BP Fit Into the Anuses of These 5 Year-Old Cancer Patients?” I give up. If brevity is the soul of wit, just call me Corky.

Leave it to the internet meme guys to show my bombastic ass up. lulz.

In true American fashion, we’re exporting our aquatic animus to developing countries that need our moral guidance to advance to the next level of the XBox game called Democracy… Oh, and they need our moneys. Argentinians have been sending death threats to a psychic octopus in Germany.

Aside: When deciding to enroll in a Masters program in Creative Writing, I specifically wrote on the application that I

Pictured: As convincing a psychic as any I've ever seen.

did not want to have to study Milton, nor did I, under any circumstance, ever want to have to write the exact sentence I just wrote. Needless to say, The Reason for Church-Government Urged Against Prelaty was a laugh riot page-turner.

Moving on: The alarmingly superstitious Argentinians – it’s bad enough we believe in psychics in this country, let alone animal ones (imagine the reality teevee potential, though!) – don’t want to savagely murder the embattled cephalopod clairvoyant for the sake of God’s righteousness like good Americans would, but that’s never stopped us before. I mean, the Jews want to rebuild Solomon’s Temple because they believe it will usher in a new era of prosperity for their people, right? And America’s Christian leaders want the Temple rebuilt so that the world will end, their misuse of the planet’s resources will be justified, and Jesus, Charlton Heston, and Sarah Palin can finally separate the Democrats into “the damned” and “personal sex slaves (the more damned)”. Despite our differing motivations, we seem to be working well together, so why not Argentina?

Paul, the oracle octopus whose prescient premonitions perfectly predicted the outcome of all six German World Cup games, first generated anger from Argentinian fans who believe his percipient pick doomed Argentina in the quarterfinals. (HuffPost)

Ah. Soccer. You’re on your own there, filthy savages.

(I’m mommy’s toy! Don’t worry guys, i’m sure she can find a way to make you all feel useful again! Uh, except you, Sarge. You are made of plastic stabs.)

The number one box-office smash in the world right now is the family favorite Toy Story 3.* The final (until Pixar and/or Randy Newman feel irrelevant again) installment of the beloved cash cow concerns young Andy’s passage into the Lucius Apuleius [Ancient Roman porn, not as fun as it sounds - ed.] playbook that is college, and is reportedly as touching as Tim Allen is legally allowed to get with assembled minors. But did you know it is also the feel-good pro-life affirmation of the year? Jesus’s blog says, “FUCK TO THE YES!”

For the sake of context, here’s the film’s plot as I’ve gathered while intermittently listening to Kathy Lee’s little brat Nepotism Cody spray it: See, the toy cowboy and the toy astronaut have an existential crisis when they realize Andy’s keg stands will be seriously impeded by holding a couple of dolls, and while a third mind-numbing adventure of self-discovery and purportedly clever size jokes (look they’re in a car, but they’re too small!) would be pretty rad, banging the mousy freshman down the hall is sounding pretty friggin’ good, too. Will the toys be wanted, cared for, loved any more? Will it ever be like the old times, watching Andy punish his pubescent sausage under his Buzz Lightyear comforter in the middle of the night because he plays with dolls instead of talking to girls? So, the whole nutty cast hatches an evil plot to follow Andy to college, ruin his social life, and get him into D&D, thereby ensuring his only friends are talking piggy banks, hen-pecked re-mutilatable potatoes, and snarky dog slinkies… No?

The question the film must answer is whether each toy is valuable for its own sake, as an end and not merely a means to something else. And the answer is that every toy, regardless of usefulness or “newness” or brokenness, is special. That’s the message Toy Story 3 ultimately affirms. (LifeSiteNews)

LifeSite! I missed you guys! What’s the matter, a life of deranged programming of the masses tiring? That’s cool, I’m just glad you’re putting the bike helmet and backwards galoshes back on in time to turn the touching message of eternal friendship, and the importance of realizing one’s worth after a lifetime of fulfilling service, on its head for us.

We’re debating the same question in America today — only about human beings, not fictional toys. And it plays out in the controversies over abortion, euthanasia and embryo-destructive** research.

Thar she blows, like a Catholic school girl with no encouragement! Also, Predator was about the homosexual agenda, Good Night and Good Luck clearly illustrated the anti-Catholic bias of the media, and the Woodsman… well, that was just plain hawt. Well, at least the first part. Doesn’t really carry through that well. Like the first half of Enough when the Rocketeer is beating the hell out of Jenifer Lopez, but then it all takes a turn for the worse, and if you don’t turn it off on time, you totally lose your erection.

The point is, if you put on a blindfold in the middle of a Nickelback concert and start blindly stabbing around with a Samurai sword, you’re bound to hit a queer. Sans incredibly crass metaphor (but why?): You can impose any message you want on a cartoon if you grasp at enough straws. For example: were I to make the mistake of having kids, I would tell my son as we left the theater, “Boy,” because I wouldn’t bother to memorize his name in addition to his gender.

I’d say, “Boy, Toy Story 3 is about making Pixar a fuck-ton of money on the nostalgia people have from before that sentimental piece of shit Up came out, and about the truth of evolution, and a justification for wholesale abortion. See, you might think you’re more important than the plants and animals of this world. That’s what AM radio calls ‘human exceptionalism’ when they’re talking about Jesus, ‘American exceptionalism’ when they’re talking about smelly foreigners. But if a carved block of wood and a cheaply cobbled collection of fragile plastic and inferior paint have a sense of consciousness and a better vocabulary than their human counterpart, doesn’t that put things in perspective? If a person’s toy can worry about its specialness and purpose, not to mention its future, don’t you think you’re more like semi-articulate dogshit in the grand scheme of the cosmos? And in that case, is it our place to impose our narrow view of where dogshit comes from – or when it becomes dogshit, or when the dogshit has sun dried to the point it should be discarded as finally entirely useless – on anyone else? When you’re 18, I’ma take you out and buy you your first coat hanger, boy. Always best to be prepared.”

If you don’t think that’s correct, LifeSite, it is probably because our theories were randomly fished and pulled out of different asses.

I’m not mad though, because you are owed so very many props for the singular racist article of the summer. Way to set the bar higher for the rest of us scumbags!

*Data not even remotely authenticated or even presumed true by the author. Just so you know where we stand, reader: Fuck you.
** Catholic propaganda websites: keeping Merriam Webster in business even when you thought there were no more fake-ass terms to formulate.

… 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).”

I am so fucking clever I give myself a chubby sometimes…

(Apropos of nothing, except I find it hard to disagree.)

It’s a fitting celebration, this Memorial Day, concerning the fogeys in ye olde Congress that finally got something right and repealed 1992’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, allowing LGBT folks to serve openly in the United States military. Most of us will celebrate in appropriately somber fashion, but Scumbag Style says, “Fuck that right in the newly available armed asshole.” I bet the bi and lesbian ladies are bumming they missed the amazing booby related news that’s been going around the past week. The only prescription is Jugularity, the semi-regular Dr. Scumbag column that addresses spillover mammary related news in a totally respectful, non-chauvinist mass posting. OK, so you have to promise to pretend to read what I’ve written below before you click on the “more” link and get to the uncensored piccadilloes (See what I did there? That’s why you read first, beat off later). Without further ado: TITTIES!

First of all, last night the intertubes were rocked with all the force of a corporately owned chick “hard rock” has-been, when somebody hacked into Paramour lead singer Hayley Williams‘ Twitter and Twitpicked her adorable pink little baby thumb nipples. Conveniently, this boudoir photo, that could only conceivably have been acquired by somebody she knows, surfaced right when the flash-in-the-pan singer was drowning just offshore of Public Consciousness Island. They were removed not long after they were posted, but the damage was done, and Quick-Draw McRightClicky (Brendan) over at WWTDD, preserved them for all of us. So it was probably a publicity stunt, is what I’m saying. Not that I’m complaining. If every cute-ass rocker chick with a lackluster catalog that resembled the second half of Stephen King’s career tried to force her way back into the spotlight with a POV of what you’d see bedding her, there would be no war, no famine, and no need for any more stupid Paramour albums.

Usually by this time, I'm reciting the characters from Star Trek:TNG and the actors that play them, in order of rank, in my head to distract myself from blowing too early. Everyone has their tricks. I won't be judged.

Brendan also calls our attention to this month’s Loaded magazine, in which exactly-my-type Kelly Brooke poses with the goods. He points out that they are actually reprinted from a 2005 issue of Arena, but he also lays some kind of dastardly proprietary masturbation rights to Kelly Brooke that Steve Jobs would buy him a sammich for, so I say who gives a shit to both points? The limey supermodel is slammin’ to the painful morning boner degree, and even if they are old pics, it shouldn’t stop net travelers everywhere from going a spontaneous number 3 right at their otherwise drab, soul-sucking desks. That’s why I’ve dispatched a contingent of Mexican jizz-moppers I rented from adult bookstores around the country to take care of any stray “globs o’ indiscretion” appearing randomly in offices from the mountains to the prairies. Expect yours presently, dead Michael Landon. (WWTDD)

Seriously, though, if I might make a siggestion, cinemas? Trivia sucks.

BONUS STORY! The LAPD arrested this dude, Eduardo Ibarra Perez, for threatening to kill his wife, booked him under the category of “armed and dangerous,” and then hilariously deprived him of ever appearing threatening again by blurring out his bitch tits in the mug shot of the year. Wicked burn! He’ll get out and go back to her of course, because these battered women are always dumb enough to forgive the pieces of shit that hit and threaten them. But he’ll never be able to threaten to kill her again without her saying, “How? You gonna smother me with your man boobs?” Then she’ll laugh and never do the dishes again, which is apparently the risk you take when you beat your wife without a manziere on. It’s a parable for our times, really.

The trick is to flash the cops before the cuffs are on. You'll catch on.

Careful! Here there be NSFW…

Continue Reading…

Hey man, do you dare me to? Couple beers in, people do it all the time. What’s the worst that can happen?

What you just saw was a cop tasing an underage baseball fan because he was too fat to catch up. What you didn’t see was the immediate aftermath, where the thousands of people in the stands rushed the field, and beat the ever loving shit out of that cop because we don’t live in a police state, where demonstrations of power over the hoipoloi to keep them in line are tolerated. Wait? That didn’t happen? The police officer that broke the law was allowed to leave, with the kid he brutally assaulted in handcuffs, you say. Ah. What happens now? Does the officer get to like pillage his home, know his little girlfriend biblically? What kind of public shaming can we expect to happen here? Does the officer take like, the kid’s shiniest marble? When did law enforcement go gladiator?

"I swear to Christ, if the next word out of your mouth is 'bro.'"

Cops are dickheads that take the job in order to be armed dickheads. The mainstreaming of the use of tasers was like Christmas to these sadistic fucks, who were handed a brutally painful, and yet nonlethal weapon, and told to go to towns on anyone that mildly inconvenienced them. The PR is so good, we even laud the cops for being humane and not straight capping everyone they felt like. Let’s not kid ourselves. Tasers hurt like a motherfucker, and killed three hundred people last year. That’s why that fictional scene in The Hangover was so hysterical; it was funny because the buffoons got really really hurt, and kind of deserved it for stealing a cop car. What would those same baseball fans have done if the cop started pistol whipping the skin off that kid’s face? A uniform does not make a man infallible. A janitor’s uniform usually means the guy in it is really good at cleaning stuff up, but if you saw him mopping up puke with a ceiling fan, you’d probably try to correct him. And if he stabbed the person who puked because it was an inconvenience, you’d probably correct him with your fists.

Phillies spokeswomen Bonnie Clark said the police department is investigating the matter and discussing with the team whether using the stun gun was appropriate. (Huffpost)

Just so we are clear: the correct response to blatant police brutality is to make sure its alright with baseball players, after the fact. Baseball players who “placed gloves over their faces and appeared to be stifling laughter at the wild scene.” I want to know when sporting events in this country became as important as sessions of Congress and Supreme Court hearings, so that a twenty second interruption warrants 50,000 volts.

The fan was 17-year-old male and he will be charged with criminal trespass and related offenses, the team said.

Um, you electrocuted him. I think we can safely commute this to time served. Convulsing uncontrollably and painfully on the ground. No, you know what? Scratch that. This little prick desecrated the great game of baseball. He might as well have raped an apple pie’s daughter right in front of it, and wiped his dick clean on an American flag. Try him as an adult, and execute his sorry ass before he jaywalks and you have to sodomize him with a billy club. Win win.

PS. This is beside the point, but as far as I’m concerned, this kid is a hero. The cheapest seats in that ballpark reportedly cost $60. Sixty clams to watch the most boring athletic spectacle mankind has ever known in uncomfortable wooden folding chairs, having already spent another thirty on beer, hoping that alcohol might help you give a damn. He was just trying to liven things up a little, performing the same stunt hundreds have before him, and you pump him full of hurt juice? Where’s the gratitude? Fuck Jamie Moyer, I want the running kid’s autograph.

(”You’ve got seven months before we can’t cover it up, boys! Go to towns while you can!”)

Hey! You can’t use my line!

There’s a call out for the Pope to prove his innocence in the willful decimation of the lives of hundreds of kids, to provide some evidence, talk directly to the media, or show even a glimmer of desire to provide the world with some kind of Vatican transparency. Tough titties, but he will do this:

The Vatican… sought to reach out to victims of the sex abuse scandal rocking the Catholic Church, saying Friday that Pope Benedict XVI is willing to meet with them and take part in the church’s healing process.

Man, you’d think at this point they’d hire somebody to watch the vocabulary in these official notices. The Pope wants to “reach out” and “take part in the healing process”? So, what, he wants to play doctor with the victims? I’m sorry, were I one of these victims, I think I’d take a little investigative cooperation over walking into the castle where they say “sorry” the naughty way to talk to their king. These “victims” are like 40 now, what do you think you’re going to accomplish by meeting them? They’re just a little too advanced in age for the old “our little secret” trick to work. It’s especially comforting since that announcement came like two hours before the media announced that cover up letters were found, signed by Ratzinger himself. Yeah, we’ll come talk when every idle hand in that richly appointed snake den of yours is safely cuffed behind their respective backs, and the construction workers are elbow deep turning Rome into one big combo Pizza Hut and Wicken bookstore.

But according to Life Site News, the Catholic digital rag that spews irretrievably absurd propaganda like a snow blower beefed up with a superconducting magnet from the LHC, a fresh decree from the Vatican can fix it all. “The paper said that the new rules will be modeled on the ‘zero tolerance’ policy instituted by the U.S. bishops in 2002.” As opposed to the “some tolerance” policy they were working under before.  “Rome Reports says that the new rules are expected to be issued in the autumn,” so you priests better get your child abuse in while the gettin’s good, because after the summer, “I tripped and fell into that kid’s asshole” isn’t going to cut the mustard or get you some paid vacation at Supple Young Flesh Island anymore.

Lombardi renewed some of that [media bashing] rhetoric on Friday, saying the media have failed to portray the pervasiveness of child sex abuse in modern society and the way the church’s experience can be useful to society at large.

Again with the vocabulary. What other institution in the world would proudly claim to be the leading expert on child sex abuse? They have so much experience with child sex abuse, they can totally be useful to society in that regard. Like the one in California, from the affore mentioned letter, where then Cardinal Ratzinger covered up the priest “tying up and molesting two altar boys” by sending him to work in youth ministry, where he molested “tons” more kids. His words. The Church would totally be willing to step in and pinch hit on that one. “You’re going to want to use a Killick’s Hitch knot when you tie up that one. That visit from Boy Scout Troop 7 was fun and educational!” Backseat drivers, am I right?

But for the sake of argument, and in the interest of media fairness, let’s look at some of the sex abuse that’s been in the news recently that is way more OK than the stuff the sheriff of Rape Town is accused of.

1. Cheerleaders pissing in their teammates’ drinks. “A group of [Saginaw] Texas cheerleaders is in hot water after mixing [pee] in their teammates’ beverages.” [HuffPost] While I sincerely applaud the barely veiled, hilariously obvious pun of the author, let’s get serious. I personally know a lot of people that would pay for real actual cheerleaders to do just that. Is this a crime, or a gift? Those girls should seriously think about just how well they could capitalize on their suspension time. It just so happens Tiger Woods lost his Gatorade sponsorship, and lemon-lime is a popular flavor. Just sayin’.

2. A man that had a nine month emotional and sexual relationship with a dolphin in the seventies, and has just finished writing a book about it. With a literary straight face, he says the dolphin came on to him, but you believe a lot of things on acid. “I would say it’s sort of like Romeo and Juliet. Instead in this book, Juliet is a 400 pound marine mammal,” he said. (FilmDrunk) Keep piling those fetishes on the public record, dude. You’re a dolphin fucker AND a chubby chaser? Pretty weird, I guess, but both things are legal in Florida, so you’re still on the hook there, Catholics.

3. The swim coaches across the country abusing their charges, including “Brian Hindson of Indiana, [who] was sentenced to a 33-year federal prison term after he was found to have secretly taped multiple girls in a ’special’ shower room.” (HuffPost) Well what did you expect, parading that talent around in those skimpy swim caps? For swim coaches, every day is like spring break, and the privilege of participating means putting the hell out. Gotta get them to sign those waivers, guys.

4. What I did to my computer screen the minute of these new Kim Kardashian pictures were released.

Whoever coined the phrase "not leaving much to the imagination" doesn't excersize his very often.

Bam! You could fit a mushroom metropolis of very happy smurfs in that monster valley. Anyone else feel like you could blow down the back of her bathing suit and make whistling noises, like kids do with thick blades of grass? I volunteer to be the scientist running that experiment. That pooper bulge is so intoxicatingly inhuman, that at the right angle, you probably have to look at it through one of those cardboard solar eclipse boxes you make in grade school. Permanent retinal damage by bum, for. the. win. Seriously guys, nobody tell her she’s shopping in the kid’s section for her bathing suits, k?

Also, didn’t I promise?

[Stole those pics from The Superficial. I doubt a lawsuit against spreading happiness will last long in court, but I'm covering my bases.]

(Let it never be said I am not generous to the clergy.)

Hey guys, give your children something to do while Grandma drones on and on over ham and bland mashed potatoes. You may want to gauge your eyes out, but they’ll have a fun activity, and it’s educational, showing them what waits behind the innocent looking door next to the altar: years of unexplainable guilt and uncontrollable violent outbursts. This is the holiest day for Christians, and that’s for good reason: it’s the culmination of the zombie movie that is the combined gospels. I know I’ll declare a holiday if ever I make a zombie movie with the staying power of a couple millenia. Celebrate by printing this full page coloring activity for your kids, pop a Valium, put on your dress shoes, and hope you come out the other side alive.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read more ridiculousness after the jump.

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