(Now, Barbara Kent. She was a real looker of a whore.)

Peter Lauria is a media reporter like Animal is a drummer: really good at his job, but bystanders should probably make sure their immunizations and rabies shots are up to date. Which means not only should Jenny McCarthy’s kids stay at least a mile from him – and her; enjoy your slow, painful death kids – but also, here and there he’s going to piss someone off. This time, he gave the journalistic titty-twist to notorious dirty old hobgoblin and Viacom owner Sumner Redstone (pictured below),* who Lauria’s inside source says is ‘forcing’ MTV to produce a shitty reality show. Break out the big arm twisting machine, this is going to be tough. That’s like asking the decidedly crazy homeless guy on the offramp to eat some fresh dog shit: it’s all a matter of how much booze he can get with the money you give him to forget what an infected boil he is on the taint of society.

The Daily Beast has learned that Redstone is so smitten with a scantily clad new all-girl group dubbed the Electric Barbarellas that he has paid to fly its six members out to New York to meet with record labels—and forced MTV to shoot a pilot for a reality-TV series about the group… The show and music are so bad that MTV executives  object to it [and may quit over it]. (DailyBeast)

Like Jane Fonda? She knew how to work for a contract.

“Hey sweetie, you want to join the Reptile Pie Club? What? WHAT? Goddurn hearing aid. ‘The Mile High’… Wow. I have been doing that all wrong.” So your boss is a disgustingly rich dirty old man and wants to spend his last days around some tits and ass that can’t talk back? He owns you, get over it. Don’t pretend you have scruples or anything, you aired My Super Sweet 16 without giving any thought to how many pedophiles were at home rubbing one off to what they would do spoiled brats on entitlement steroids in the back of their new Lexus.

Anyway, Redstone isn’t all gone, as evidenced by the fact that he left Lauria the best voicemail since Alec Baldwin came down with buyer’s remorse over a defective offspring. A sample? Why sure:

“I know you may be reluctant… we have to have the name of the person who gave you that story. We’re not going to kill him. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to fire him. We just want to talk to him.” (DailyBeast)

We’re not going to break his legs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to throw him in a concrete pit with junkyard dogs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to make him walk the plank and send him Davey Jones’ Locker. Wait… Anyway, if you could also fax over the names of his wife, kids, parents, and beloved pet, that would be great.

We will protect you completely. There are several sources that could give us that name. Including a certain guy that works for a law firm that works for MTV.

Who? You, know, a ‘certain guy.’ Just like Bricks Brassi and Richie the Savant are ‘certain guys’ what get ‘certain’ things done for us. Fuck it, you know what? Murdering things. If I want to go all Corleone in my advanced, diseased years over a tray of assorted fuckmeats that couldn’t maintain a Myspace page let alone a legitimate career, that’s my prerogative. Tell you what. When you own the fourth largest media conglomerate in the world, you can fill the casting couch with as much dick as you want, and your pansy ass can be as sugar & spice about it as it wants. No shit, the Electric Barbarellas suck. They’re a girl band that got their name from a Duran Duran song about naked mannequins, British masturbation, and a bald Mr. Bean. They describe themselves as “a cross between the Pussycat Dolls and Spice Girls, except raunchier.” They’re just some dumb bitches that want their American 15 minutes, and I’m going to give it to them in December, which gives them just enough time to take turns tongue bathing my shriveled, liver-spotted balls in teams of two, until the doctor says I have to go on dialysis and avoid having fun at all costs. Here’s a wad of hundreds; use it to plug up that gushing cunny before I open a sterling silver Shirley Temple factory between your legs.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do when I hear one of my Viacom slaves talked some shit about me? Give me the name of the snitch, or I’ll just plant a bomb under every car in the parking lot to make sure I get him. It’ll send Ted “Limp Dick” Turner a message, too. You want that on your head, Lauria? What are they going to do, give me the death penalty? I’m a hundred and sixty, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention I look like something primitive African tribes would burn as a demon, in a plaid suit you have to have a senior citizen ID to even buy. You might as well build me a cross and deify me on FOX News right now. And speaking of that, Rupert, my boy. You know I agree with everything you put on your fine network – not only do I own CBS, the premiere channel for crotchety old biddies that remember the McCarthy days fondly, I’m also a client – but do you have to hire such angry people? I watch FOX News before I go to bed, I get so agitated I poop myself at least three times while I sleep. We old conservatives like our news like we like our Cream of Wheat: drippy, bland, and not a little bit racist. Oh, and that Megyn Kelly. You should get her one of those water massagers they have in the Sears Roebuck catalog, because she’s a hot little spitfire but I think she’s a little… backed up. All jawin’ on about nothin’ over other sensible folks, makin’ a mess of the negro problem. [see how deep you can get into this hot mess before you throw up like you're on a roller coaster at Lean Pockets World] Medical paroxysm, that’s the ticket! We have a ‘certain guy’ for that, if you need some help.

Will relieve your women of hysteria, no questions asked.

So, reality TV is going Italian mafia gang busters now, which is going to be really ironic for The Situation, because he thinks he’s one of them, but they are going to scalp him and use his petrified blowout as an emery board for their cats.

*Ha! You can’t steal this one Stewart/Colbert! You call this man massa.

(He’s upset because of his inclusion in an unsavory joke in paragraph 4 or 5.)

I try to be mature, man, I do. I want to be a respectable adult about things. I got me a real adult style job, a wife, I haven’t been homeless for more than, say, a week cumulative since I got out of the most irresponsible daycare in the world, Hofstra. Whenever possible I vote and campaign for equal rights for all people, and point out the hypocrisy and ignorance in most forms of prejudice from whatever pulpit is provided me. And then this shit happens, not once, but twice in a week, and i have the urge to buy a box of Mott’s apple juice so I can blow the whole thing out my nose in a Chuck E Cheese ball pit. Sometimes my life feels like a Frosted Mini-Wheats commercial from the ’80s, except the transformation from adult to child is involuntary, painful, and not a little shameful. Does that turn you on, baby? What will it take to make you love me?

To the author of 'My Life... With a Smile.': I stole a picture of your kid for this. That's what you get for having a blog about your 7 kids and the vag cancer they gave you.

Anyway, I want everyone to know I am not the villain here. It’s not my fault that these headlines all found me in the course of a week, but I feel like I’d be depriving you if I didn’t share. From the prim, proper, full windsor BBC:

Family of Faggot Fans Fly the Flag

Nice alliteration! I have been operating under the assumption that English people couldn’t speak English anymore. I am going to be so disappointed if said flag isn’t doily. This kind of takes the wind out of the hysterical sails, but a case can be made that this is Britain, and they have different definitions for all kinds of things, like “food” and “sports.” You may think that, in Britain, a ‘faggot’ refers only to a bundle of sticks, but it turns out it can really refer to almost anything. A red pencil is also a faggot, as is a domed building, an unplugged coffee maker, and a tin awning, but only the top part. But the definition in question, the thing that brings this family together in perhaps the lamest form of activism man has conceived since “lactivism” (that’s a real thing, FSM preserve us), reports that a faggot is “pork liver served with mushy peas,” which frankly sounds grosser than lactivism and what our definitions do in the bedroom.*

Listen, just because your word means something different from ours, there is no way you are unaware how the less desirables in American society use it. I know that’s what the word means and all, and you’re not going to start changing the way you use your own language, even if we go out of our way to set a better example for you. But you could have avoided making the headline so funny. Now I feel like a fifth grader. Was that your plan? Are you amused by this?

Her husband Fred added: “It’s unfair because faggots were a British delicacy long before any of the others. The great British faggot is full of flavour and a great belly warmer at this time of year.”

Now I know you’re doing it on purpose! Covering up your motivations by peppering the article with cute little bits of information isn’t fooling anyone, either. “Faggots were called Savory Ducks in the middle ages.” And then was changed in the 1980s to make future twenty-something bloggers look like insensitive, sophomoric pricks. You think I don’t know you neglected to print the snickers Freddy-boy threw in after every other word in that quote? We took the ‘u’ out of ‘flavor’ like a century and a half ago, too. Now all I can imagine is some mutton-chopped pantywaist with a monocle named Balthazar Wraithwright Swineroarer III, poetically discussing his personalized method for ’savouring’ his poolboy’s used thongs when he ruffles through the hamper. “Holding the bright green garment no less than fourty centimeters from my nose, inhaling the summer odours of  exhibitionism and a solid day’s work, and the rolling slowly across my olfactory gland tannins of the glass of sherry I ‘mistakenly’ spilt on him…” Shame on you, Britain. I can push from my head the image of Zombie Gary Coleman raping the corpse of Phil Hartman with the business end of a Bowie knife, but I can’t unimagine that. We should have let the Germans raze London to the ground. Hell, if we’d known you were going to grow up to be such creeps, we would have helped.

The DOODY FAMILY? Really? Am I being punked by Monty Python?

And they have sashes? The Doody Family has Sashes with the colors of Nathan’s Hot Dogs, that say Faggot Family? What’s the score here? Did you guys at the BBC get ahold of, like, an American Slang Book and a bajillion ounces of weed? Are you all having a bloody good laugh at our expense? Are the Scottish in on it? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Dude, fuck this shit. From now on I’m reading American papers, ones not written by prepubescent gingers looking forward to their first boners. Let’s see if reliable old Reuters US has anything close to the efficient journalistic integrity we’ve come to expect sine Walter Cronkite invented news.

Tired Gay Succumbs to Dix in 200 Meters

Oh, just come right the hell on! Is there an editors’ strike I’m not aware of? I’ll not have the noble and ancient sport of tack’n'field besmirched with the dick jokes of a failed high school jock turned sports writer (exception: any testicle injury involving a hurdle; you’re just asking for an orange peeling, jumping with spread legs over heavy barriers). There is no good goddamned way the author of this article didn’t know what was going on here. I’m sure the story was relevant relevant enough to keep it from the cutting room floor entirely, but English is the most complex modern language. You could vary up the wording a bit. “Walter Dix Wins 200 Meter,” would work, at least for a headline. The relative subtlety of “Saw That Coming” would at least allow you to relegate the childishness to the body of the text. Either way, it’s going to be a long time until you reach the BBC’s level of mastery: “Dix’ Delight in Demolishing Drowsy Doughnut Damager.” My resume is in the mail, you pompous limey quims.

Next in the 'Pictures as Metaphors' lecture: "RUN!"

“It wasn’t bad, but I was a little fatigued toward the end,” Gay said. “I tried to stay relaxed and bring it home, but it wasn’t enough.”

Bad form, dude. Going to Prison 101: relax. You want to explain to the doctor how you got pink-socked because you couldn’t help clamping down like a rookie? Someone hasn’t been doing their stretches.

Let’s get our shit together, media. I don’t read the news so I can think about pink socks. I really don’t do anything with that expressed purpose. It would be cool if, say, a Hostess Snack Cake reminded me of a visual representation of an unfortunate side effect of buggery, or an unfortunately shaped kite, but two of the most trusted news providers in the world? That’s just ghey.

* Oh, don’t get all pissy, I’m allowed to find gay sex a little icky. Some of you find vagina gross, so I think we can let this slide. Also, aren’t you having fun seeing how many times I can use the F-word in an article without once using it personally in reference to fudge packers?

PS: On a serious note, after the jump you’ll find links to charities promoting civil rights, education and open discussion, etc. Because, to paraphrase Matt & Trey, everything is fodder for comedy or nothing is, even my bogus brand of low-brow. Exposing the inherent insanity of the bigoted and ignorant at the expense of the writer’s self-respect is totally worth the cover charge. At the same time, awareness, empathy, and progress are what makes comedy possible, so give them a click if you feel as dirty after reading SBS as we do after writing it.

Continue Reading…

(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.

By Sean “I Care About Facts” Torrie

(Nail on the head, good sir! And with all the cultural sensitivity of mercilessly tickling a child of Thalidomide.)

I love the Tea Party Movement. I really do, I mean that. I’m a huge fan of a free show; this is why I go to the mall after I’m done with all my Christmas shopping, just to watch other people look insane. I feel like the Tea Baggers have all the potential to pull the severely retarded members of the Republican party out and into a third team and maybe we’ll have at least one political party that can function without a complete and undisputed majority, or without referring to their dark master for instructions on how to further deplete the United States of post-Enlightenment thought.

What I really enjoy is the complete lack of research with these folks. Are there any economists in this team? Is there a single lawyer who hasn’t been disbarred?

“Oh Sean, you’ve just been reading the wrong sources, you’ve been corrupted by your generation’s hard-on for ‘hope,’ and ‘yes you can’.”

No. But fuck you very much for judging me. I voted for Nader. I did it with a smile on my face because this Obama guy seemed too idealistic, and McCain TOTALLY SOLD OUT TO PANDER TO THE FAR RIGHT REPUBLICANS. I dug McCain as a presidential candidate, until he became a presidential candidate.

I’d have also loved to see a New Yorker in the White House, but Giuliani is a whore.

I’ve digressed.

Do you know what happens with the ginormous bank that you borrowed money from becomes bankrupt and has to close down? The answer isn’t that you get to own your partially paid for house. I’m not even sorry, you’re a nitwit if that was your answer. Your house gets sold and you get much, much less than a fair notice of eviction. Odds are good your house will be purchased by a less ass-backwards corporation who will know to demand a higher credit rating than the bank did, and either way you’re homeless. Then the government can pay for the construction of a few million shelters. We saw how well they did with that task in Louisiana a few years ago. [All dirtying up the Superdome with the filthy riff-raff and assorted hoipoloi - ed.]

I think it is pretty fair to say that the bank bailout was with a great deal of the “representation of the people” that the Tea Party claims a lack of. If your concern with this is a fear of socialism then you have a series of other concerns to address: like the fact we’ve been a socialist republic since the ’30s, or that while socialism is communism’s cousin, it’s communism’s cousin that got a degree in stable economics, not totalitarian politics.

“But Sean, the Nazis were socialist, that makes it bad, right?”

Ok. This is important, kids, and I think it is something everyone should know: under the correct temporal circumstances, everybody is Hitler.  I’ll shorten Godwin’s Law for you: The first person to bring a comparison to Nazis into an argument loses. It’s a god damned cop-out. You’re not thinking creatively enough to be winning an argument and have not only lost that argument, but for the sake of argument, all of your friends and loved ones because they don’t respect you anymore.

Lemme tell you about Nazis for a minute here. The fun things. Nazis had one of the strongest nationwide anti-smoking campaigns in history. That’s right, they were militantly against smoking cigarettes. Hitler was a vegetarian. He didn’t eat meat because he felt it was cruel. Hitler was also militantly loyal to his girlfriend. They got married like 2 days before his documented suicide. Never cheated on her. Ever. Period.

To be fair, his hobby of making adorable striped pajamas for mice didn't leave much time for browsing JDate.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if you wanna worry about Nazis, then I’d be far, far more concerned about a pair of unmarried heterosexual life-partners who shop at Wholefoods, than a blink-of-the-eye decision to save a few million homes by throwing money at a failing bank, in order to protect the people of a nation. Frankly, people who shop at Wholefoods kinda make me uncomfortable anyway. Stop taking Eastern thought and forcing it down my throat with your Western approach of indoctrinating everyone around you.

This, however, again brings me all the way back to the point I was working to.

I’m a New Yorker. I’m amazingly proud of it. We are an aggressive, mean spirited, and cutthroat people who live (in the metropolitan area, anyway) in one of the wealthiest, most intelligent (average IQ here is the second highest in the world – and I hear living in Tokyo is hell) places on earth. Despite this, our local economy is in the gutter and now we’re taxing the living hell out of cigarettes, with a 20% increase that rolled around on July that will be impacting the entire state (not just the civilized part) and there’s word that Nassau county will be pushing another raise shortly, and further word that there’ll be a beer tax soon. Happy 4th of July: it’s $14 a pack in Manhattan if you wanna celebrate liberty in flavor country.

Now in one of the wealthiest states in the union, certainly we’re the only one with our own central bank, I find it impossible that it is a lack of proper funds responsible as much as an overt mismanagement of finance, and a nurturing attention to pork fat spending. So that, let us just assume, it isn’t so much that we don’t have enough money to run the county, as much as  the elected officials need to eat vegetarian meals with their long-term monogamous sexual counterparts, and not smoke cigarettes after sex, only to later ensure the county pays for the new story on their home, and corporations can jump through a tax loophole and not distribute their wealth. This, my dear readers, is some overt taxation without representation. Meanwhile there was a near-miss vote to close a school in the local district? Call me silly, but education seems kinda important to me. Undereducated people is how you get a standard for education lowered in a region: poorer performance becomes acceptable in colleges, and dumber (or socially ignorant, and therefore morally complacent) people getting business degrees, running the economy into the ground and causing a need for a bailout.

BA-ZING!!! How does he do it?

Now I get that the whole Tea Party thing is a primarily Midwestern thing and all, so would someone mind if I borrowed a small army of unemployment-beneficiary rednecks that are anti-socialism so that I can host either a protest or riot (whatever happens, right?) to get my cigars (sorry, if I’m putting a phallus in my mouth, lighting it on fire and nurturingly puffing on it, it’s gonna be HUGE) back down to a reasonable price? New York’s governor is black and blind too! So that should be all the motivation they need to really get going.

By Sean Torrie

(Sadly, Puff Daddy’s assessment concerning the motivation of most of the citizenry was astoundingly astute.)

You know what’s been driving me nuts?

Damned near everything, but this one in particular.

For the sake of presenting an argument, I’ll warm up the topic.

Terrorism (ohhh yea, that’s where I’m going with this) is something I’ve had to view and review since the day after I turned 18, and our nation either entered, or was finally made aware that we’d been in a holy war for some time. From the start I had this amazing sensation that something was being collectively shoved down our throats, and that thinking about the nature of the problem would only get in the way of the intended progress, so it being in my nature to be a total dick, I decided to start examining what terrorism really is, as opposed to what we’re told to understand it as.

Eventually I found my way to a Sociology of Terrorism class at my university. Yea, a leftist suburban university in New York. I was expecting a wonderful shit show where the class was divided by colored war paint, and the distinctive odors of ganja and crude oil on either side. Instead I was given the complete disappointment of having myself the single most educational class in my entire college experience. I hate it when I actually learn things in thousand dollar classes.

The really key element we were presented is the hackneyed expression of, “History is written by the victors.” If the American Revolution wasn’t a carefully machinated 200 year old Freemason conspiracy started by Sir Francis Bacon, I’m sure Ben Franklin would be remembered as the Bin Laden of his time, while we ritualistically took turns spitting on his grave every 4th of July, which would be called “Bollocks to the Bloody Rebels” day. Instead we were the victors, and the rebels against the norm are heroes of liberty and the New Order of the Ages based in freedom of rights, not the inalienable correctness of the crown. Bully to you, good sir.

The issue of modern terrorism is that it was planned over the internet. These fuckers might live in caves, murder innocent people, and mutilate their women’s genitals but they learned some tricks from Gandhi that will ring true as long as communication continues to advance: there is no bad publicity; unless you’re in politics. The element these fuckers planned on was that every time a soldier fucked up, it’d find it’s way to the internet, and then the previously useless 24 news stations would pick up the clips, over-air, over-analyze, and brainwash the people watching. Thus perpetuating a war of ignorance and fear and… something… something… darkside.

You’ll never hear on the blasted news that the news it self was obviously the key element in the plan for modern terrorism. This fact is accented by the fact they fell right for it. Leaving a news story with a DVD of video on a giant mouse trap could have only been slightly more obvious than a terrorist leader who gives out taped recordings only slightly more regularly than J. D. Salinger.

Essentially my point here is that what one can define as terrorism, I choose to define as poorly negotiated, below the belt jabs at resolving cultural conflict while being a total prick about it. One could easily label Chuck Manson as a terrorist, the extremist hippy, but considering the number of women he kept as pets, I’m just gonna call him a personal hero.

With the topic properly raised and addressed I’d like to head to my point, with but a little bit more spit and shine. They say that buying drugs supports terrorism. There’s truth to that. Mexico is a shithole because of their drug cartels are running the nation on a larger scale than the Italian Mafia did the US in the ’30s. However, no one really cares about the Mexican government, we’ve proven that a few times over. So when they say terrorism they mean that it supports Middle Eastern Terrorism, which relates specifically back to opium, and by relation, heroin sales. That’s it. No other drugs. Sorry. This, however, is another mistruth being presented by another collection of people with different social preferences than others. I don’t know how many anti-pot or cigarette commercials I’ve seen that were so trite and terrible that I felt it was a terrorist attack on my mind. Buy your heroin addict buddy a case of Bud, ask him to stay off the needle for the night, and you’ll have done your part.

No less, this brings it all back to my initial and well concealed point. When a terrorist group finds a means to advertise their philosophy, and a means to fund it at the same time, you have (in this case, intentionally) created a monster. I don’t care how much you care about fluffy or intelligent animals in this context, I personally prefer the company of dogs to most people, and feel that sea mammals are an interesting and bright-minded group worthy of protecting, but despite this: by watching the television show Whale Wars -YOU ARE SUPPORTING TERRORISM.

I mean… am I the only guy who has noticed this? People are watching this show, and cheering on these people who are intentionally disrupting the lives of hard working people who are doing something morally dubious, but legal. This is on the other end of lighting an abortion clinic on fire. The difference here is that bombing an abortion doctor’s car (is there a name for a guy that does that for a living? other than soulless? Sorry, I’m all about your choice and stuff, but doing that for a living has got to be more morbid than being a grave digger) is disrupting the life of a physician who is making an otherwise (other than the bombing and fire and violent protest part of it – these protesters are also terrorists by the way, I’m just putting that out there) comfortable living, in an otherwise safe location. These guys on the whaling boats… I mean, just go watch Deadliest Catch. It simply can’t be that far off. This isn’t an easy job, and it has to be hazardous on a rather exceptional level. Now these unemployed attention whore hipsters have to go and bother them while they’re trying to make a living?

We don't come down to where you work and slap the itchy hemp Jesus Robe out of your bong.

The hipsters can go home to their applauding supporters, and what do the whalers have to go home to? Their hungry families they spent months risking their lives for. Isn’t there a tree these people should be hugging? Did they bring the recipient of their Dendrophilia onto the ship and just hump that tree at night when the cameras are off? Is it like the boat’s town-bicycle-tree? Do they gang-bang the tree at night? It’d be a lot easier, and less sloppy seconds if they just stayed on the shore and humped separate trees the way God intended, and spent their time trying to get laws changed, and not harassing fishermen.

(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.

(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.

(Fun Fact: Oompa Loompas  weren’t considered even human until 1971, when Wonka’s Underground Chocolate Ferry began providing them with paying jobs. Doompity doo.)

Somebody get my boy Al Sharpton on the phizzone, there’s another totally legitimate racial battle to be fought, and all the spoils of media exposure, unearned righteous indignity, and self-imposed segregation are there for the shameless gobbling. “What’s Up” Doc Thompson filled in for Glenn Beck earlier today, on the Olson caliber redundancy he calls a radio show, and expertly matched the regular host’s dedication to real actual news.

Racism has been dropped at my front door and the front door of all lighter-skinned Americans. The health care bill the president just signed into law includes a 10 percent tax on all indoor tanning sessions starting July 1st, and I say, who uses tanning? Is it dark-skinned people? I don’t think so.

I thought we were homies, Mr. President. We played some Scrabble together, shot some dice, made health care affordable to thousands of Americans that would otherwise have died or lost their homes, or at least never would have gotten the divorce they so desperately needed (no shit).  We broke the color barrier together, Barack! I feel… I feel like you just taxed my drinking fountain. Like I’ve been forced to the back of the melanin bus.

Why would the President of the United States of America — a man who says he understands racism, a man who has been confronted with racism — why would he sign such a racist law? Why would he agree to do that? Well now I feel the pain of racism.

I have a dream, today! Is it too much of a stretch to say a man named Doc can be called “Doctor” Martin Luther Thompson? Jr.? Preach it reverend! In an unscheduled press conference, the President responded by saying, “Ha! Doesn’t feel so good, does it, bitch? You’ll have to get your melanoma in the cotton fields like the rest of us now.” Then he walked around the White House lawn and stole a bunch of white guys’ girlfriends to show them the new definition of “administration,” all while talking about the white man’s contribution to the discovery of grape jelly. The communist.

Here’s a solution, Sojourner Honkey: Why don’t we tax the shit out of menthol cigarettes and cocoa butter. If you have to be pale, they have to be ashy as Vesuvius’ walk of shame the morning after. Bonus: neither party will have useless cancer the taxpayers will have to foot the bill for. It’ll have to be slightly sterner than the “sin taxes” we already have going. Let’s see… it will have to be a word expressing indemnification, an evening or smoothing over for this heinous act of bigotry… should probably come from the French or Latin, you know, to make it sound all legal-ish. Oh! We’ll call it “reparations”!

Seriously though, this calls attention to an industry that, in my opinion, has a dastardly history of discrimination. No, I’m not talking about the blatant omission of kitten restraints in 85% of the indoor tanning establishments I’ve considered patronizing. I devote an entire essay to that infuriating subject in my forthcoming book, Just J: Stuck Fo’ Mah Papers, Metaphorically Speaking. No, I’m referring to the tanning industry’s continued racism against the Irish. All I ever see coming out of those places are orange ass guidos and tiny-nosed French women (sorry, I didn’t take Stupid Frogs 101 in college). How about some non-canned alternatives for those that burst into flame when going near light bulbs over 30 watts? Right now, we have the varied options of  “carrot” and “over-baked potato,” making us the Shepherd’s Pie of spring break. Nobody wants to be the poster child for 3 Zillion SPF at bronzed, glistening Greek week on MTV, and our pasty asses aren’t so cute when a puppy pulls our bottoms down.

(Fuck you, Coppertone.)

I had a class action lawsuit going with a group of albino advocates, but the lawyers said suing the sun would tie us up in court for longer than it’s worth, so I’ve decided to take my pain out on beautiful people. Why don’t you mention that on the radio, Doc? Why doesn’t Al Sharpton stick his ugly mug on a camera or two over this injustice? Is it because we can’t dunk? Chew on that, Long Island guidos.

(This bull is skeptical. These girls say they are protesting the inhumanity that is bullfighting, yet they are smiling and waving, and wearing cute little horns. The flying bull suspects ulterior motives, like finding an excuse to be whores. This is a smart bull.)

Hey hey! A mob of people gettin’ nekkid in a public square in Spain. Sounds like my kind of rave! So what’s the haps, nuckas? We gonna roll out with our poles out, and thoroughly check each other for lumps?

Animal rights activists gathered in Madrid’s central square to protest bullfighting, wearing nothing but fake blood and forming S.O.S. with their bodies. (Huffington Post)

The designated leader of the bulls, all of which are smarter than your average protesters (lookin’ at you, Tea Bigots), later held a press conference and said, “We have no idea why you had to get naked for this. I get the blood, but it isn’t like the matadors are wearing our skins or anything. But, no, hey thanks. It was Frank’s birthday, you just saved us a few hundos on the strip club.” Then he saw a dude in a red shirt, went apeshit, and gored a whole bunch of reporters.

The whole reason for the protest was that UNESCO wants to include bullfighting as part of the world’s cultural heritage in a book or something. That’s when American lameasses came out of the woodwork (notice those signs are in English?) to slut it up internationally. To erase an uncomfortable part of history with their exposed genitals. The report says most Spaniards don’t give a crap about it anymore, but some, like this woman, disagree. “Everybody is free to respect what they want, but it is a celebration that has always been there, and it has to remain as it is.” It’s way more than that though! Spanish men don’t become matadors to hurt bulls, they do it for an excuse to wear, as Bugs Bunny would say, “the fancy knickerbockers.” There’s some deep seeded cultural memory over there, and if anyone is expecting the Inquisition to return, it’s the guys that want to wear shiny tights to work.