(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.

(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.

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.

(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.

(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.

By contributor Professor Sean Torrie

(To be perfectly fair, Mr. Thomasson was trying to hire a cook.)

I got an email from a friend of mine a few days ago. He’s a funny guy, it’s always either extremely patriotic “pray for our troops” stuff, or naked women. I prefer the naked women; one would never have guessed that about me from the 2 terabyte hard drives I have filled with such imagery, but it’s a surprising truth.

In this case, the email I received was about the 2010 census and was inspired by this article here: Sending A Message With The Census from The National Review.

The interesting part to this is that it goes directly against a very personal opinion of mine. The article in point states that, instead of filling in your specific ethnicity, you write in “American” for your denomination. For me, this has always been an issue. Using as an example the fact that certain groups get extra points on their SATs just for spelling their name right, or that anyone who is 1/64th Native Indian (one of the newer PC terms for the people who were handed small-pox-blankets and instructed to take a nap) will be given a free college education on behalf of the US government, and for that matter only specific people can say specific words on television, I’ve always been annoyed that, being Irish, I never got any bonus points from society.

You may not be aware of this, because world history turns a blind eye to bullshit of this variety, but the Irish are a remarkably oppressed people. The first example I can think of is when the Romans chased the Gauls out of the very region named after them, and up to the British Isles.

Years later, Emperor Hadrian would be credited with building a wall all across the northern portion of the primary island to keep the Gauls (the name slowly mutated to Gaelic) in the colder region and away from their civilized territory. That same wall is, to this day, still considered the border between England and Scotland. If that’s not segregation on an almost eugenicist level, I don’t know what the fuck is.

Oh wait! Yes I do!

After the fall of the Roman empire, when the English decided that whole global domination thing sounded like a lot of fun, and they should take after their forefathers, they started nice and early on with shipping northerners, such as the Scottish, that while unkempt and savage, were considered more civilized than the Irish, over to Ireland so that they could breed them into civility. While I can admit, most of my relatives aren’t exactly the most balanced people in the world, I’d like to think that no one is trying to breed them into something more palatable, like so much Labradoodle.

(After the jump, so much more Mick you’ll start pissing Guiness and liking cabbage. Do it!)

Continue Reading…

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.

(”I don’t know what ‘malcontent’ means, but I do know ‘old coot!’ Come back here and respect your elders, you little sodomite bastards!”)

Just because something is laughable and almost kind of sad doesn’t mean we can’t mock the shit out of it. Like, when your little brother went into his goth phase and tried to kill himself by taking all the Advil, and you called him a pussy as he doubled over in moderate stomach pain. That’s kind of what The Mount Vernon Statement is: the elders of the conservative movement embracing their goth phase. It’s not a joke, and that’s what makes it funny. I have a proposal of how we can show just how youngest-daughter-on-Family-Matters expendable the so-called signers of this strange, contradictory and yet still vague (which is kind of like meta-contradictory) petition are, but first let me give you the very quickest of rundowns so you don’t have to go through the pain of trying to rip the skin off of your face trying to decipher it.

The Mount Vernon Statement (not signed at the first President’s estate because the surviving family members told them to go jump in a wood chipper) is a document, a new Bill of Rights for the Right, that outlines how this small group of geriatrics, headed by Reagan’s proud hater Attorney General, would like to see this country run. It is a letter to Santa on really nice stationery, a wishlist for things like “the central place of individual liberty in American politics and life” and “conservatism’s firm defense of family,” a dicks-out alliance with hypocrisy I wish, as a fiction writer, I could make up. It calls for “a Constitutional conservatism based on first principles…that encourages free enterprise, the individual entrepreneur, and economic reforms grounded in market solutions,” which is shorthand for, “We never actually read the Constitution, or we would know it only mentions commerce once, and that is to allow for governmental interference.” I’m going to stop there. All it amounts to is a bunch of senile diaper-shitters drafting a document saying the darkey has been stealing from them and young women show too much ankle in these immodest times, a geriatric attempt to show they can still play ball with the kids in the equally ridiculous Tea Party youngens. We put those people in homes because nobody loves them anymore, we don’t sign their petitions – -

- – or do we?  Here’s my proposal, and I already did it myself to make sure it works: They left this bad boy online as an open petition on Wordpress, so that all who support them may sign, which was very thoughtful of them. I went over there and signed it as Heywood Jablome; admittedly childish, but the more we stoop to their level, the more people will realize where the level is. The whole “drive a truck, dig for oil, plumbers decide national policy, change rapes babies” thing is regrettably catching on, but this one should be easy to put down like Old Yeller. You can go do the same here, and I am generous enough to supply all of you with a list of suggestions below. Fill the shit out of that petition with horrifically offensive names and ruin their day like Alanis when she learned the real meaning of “ironic.” Make sure you use your real email address, though, not only because you have to verify the signing, but also to show you’re a real person who isn’t amused by a bunch of white-hairs calling for a return to traditional values, and naming the document after a fucking slave plantation.

Suggested monikers to use when signing the petition, a gag name cheat sheet Bart Simpson would give his entire stock of orange shirts for, totally free because I love you: Ben Dover, Mike Hunt, Al Coholic (that one’s kind of dumb, don’t use that), Mike Rotch, Paddy O’Furniture (hysterical), Chu Mei (Bond), Fuk Mei (Austin Powers), Mike Oxenhand, Herb Igass, Jack Mehoff (a classic), Seymore Butts, Hugh G. Rection, Stu Pidasso, Hugh Janus… I’m sure you can find a list online. Remember the more adolescent, the more you’ll piss them off. This illiterate grassroots bowel movement may be unstoppable, and the country may be buried under the multiple babies of the ignorant, but we can still pick off the sick and infirm among them. HEY! Maybe one of them will have a heart attack from being scandalized, and the last thing he reads is Hugh Janus. That would be a victory and a half!

(Spontaneous vampirism: in my top 5 “Best Possible Outcomes” of this unbelievably ludicrous scenario.)

If the President’s proposed televised bi-partisan discussion on health care reform is considered by the Republican party to be a trap, then he should maybe watch his back on this one. Cue ominous Dracula thunderclap:

Michelle Obama is making her debut appearance on Fox News this coming Saturday, on Mike Huckabee’s show ‘Huckabee.’

Don’t do it! The Republicans are currently holding the entire government hostage with a filibuster a petulant two year old could have planned, and you think it’s a good idea to send your fucking wife into their very lair? Man, I pegged you as at best sensible, but at least black enough to know that a hostage shorty can turn the tide of any gang war, but now I have no clue. You think their scruples at this point discount a possible good old fashioned lynching? Sarah Palin’s Spin Mengeles are already writing a speech about how misunderstood white supremacists are, or some excuse as to why it is only alright for Rush Limbaugh to “make an example of uppity black folk.” The best we can hope from this is they ace her on cable TV, and that is what gets you to put on the fucking warpaint and Braveheart out with your… parts… out. This isn’t an exact science, OK?

Look, the Republicans have already shown what shitty roommates they can be: voting unanimously against your proposals like the stimulus bill, and then happily taking credit when they pay off. Then they demand you do things for them, you acquiesce, and they call those same things pieces of dog shit. That’s like a 12 year old proposing to his mother he get himself a coke habit, and her agreeing, so he drops the idea because it isn’t naughty anymore. You’re at the point where a good leader would tell them to sit down with a perspiring glass of shutthefuckup juice, and instead you’re sending your wife to talk to them about… what?

The former Republican presidential candidate wooed the first lady onto Fox to talk about her childhood obesity campaign, “let’s move.”

I will put money on that being the reason for Mike “The Straitjacket” Huckabee wanting the first lady on his creatively titled FOX News program. I’ll give it forty seconds on that topic, and that only because Huckabee himself lost a whole shit-ton of weight and will probably be unable to turn down a chance to talk about how awesome he is. Then, rest assured, there will be a  lynching, though whether it will be a literal or metaphorical lynching is, as far as I can tell, up in the air. As is whether or not there will be a pregaming rape. Is this two-bird scenario where you show what a bipartisan team player you can be, as well as a good wifey, taking on all the fluff assignments, is it worth risking an appearance on FOX News? And why are all of these campaigns directed at childhood obesity? Fat adults are just as hard to look at as fat kids. Let’s go after young adult obesity, because there is nothing more infuriating than a fat college chick thinking she can get laid whenever she wants simply because she has a vagoo, except maybe the fact that she is right.

The Fox News press release indicates that the two will also discuss other topics, including what life is like at the White House.

So, Michelle, what is it really like waking up next to the antichrist in the very temple of Reagan? Do you at all feel shame that you changed the upholstery in the Lincoln Bedroom to jungle cat stripes? Is the White House refrigerator big enough to hold all of your – - let me see if I read this right – - ffffawties? Better watch how many times you refer to yourself in the first person, baby, because FOX News has (I shit you not, reader) a guy for that. From their own press release:

Much attention has been given to President Obama’s persistent use of “I” when giving speeches to sell his administration’s agenda. Is he taking responsibility — or, as his critics say, is he still in campaign mode? FoxNews.com is tracking the president’s speeches all this month and will report back after each to see whether The “I’s” Have It.

No, the “Royal fucking We’s” have it, and your ass is banished Columbus style. What, should he fake a Bob Dole seizure and forget how to use first person singular pronouns? What in the shit gave you the impression you can walk into FOX News as a progressive, black First Lady, wife of Barack Obama, and have a fair, level-headed discussion about your worthy initiative? Because they promised? “My, what big balls you have, grandma.” I say you send her in there with Bill Murray and a couple of proton packs and tell them not to worry about crossing the streams if things get ugly. If that mick fugmo O’Reilly is in the building, that’s a given. And as far as Charles In Charge is concerned, Michelle will be bringing the ugly with her, so go to towns.