(Tour Arizona’s scenic Sonoran Desert! Resort pickup! Van adventures! Shoot jaywalkers!)

My fiancée and I have recently returned from a spectacular weekend spent with a recently transplanted buddy in Phoenix. It was my first visit to the land of John McCain, NBA Jam era Barclay, and leathery retirees so sick of people that they handily eschew Florida, where their grandchildren are more likely to visit. I am pleased to report the sprawling urban experiment, made of stubborn desert landscaping and held together with the glue of moral fortitude, still stands. I ‘report’ this because, if the spin mills are to be believed, that particular section of the Sonoran Desert has gone all Fertile Crescent with violent crime, kidnapping, and unabashedly brown births being carried out on any given street corner. Arizona lies on the front line of an invasion, and every day its people feel the burden that Obama refuses to shoulder. Indeed, what is it about the world’s deserts that American Presidents can’t seem to keep healthy of biblical crises? We exist in a nation divided, and a disproportionate length of fault line lies in the jurisdiction of an immigration law designed for a place that, if we are truly honest with ourselves, we have never even visited. In the internet age, it is easy to forget just how immense our country is, and just how misplaced outrage can get when dramatically different ways of life are happening a couple hundred miles away.

If the concern over SB 1070 is that all Arizonans – not just the differently colored ones – are at risk of a domino effect, stripping the state’s residents of their humanity and civil liberties – - if that is the concern, we can send that worry the way of the Native American infestation: those blankets have already been distributed. Judging by the shifting, terrified eyes of the average citizen of Phoenix, you would think they were all hiding an extended family of opera singing Jews under their floorboards. Paranoia is such a way of life down there, Howard Hughes could be mayor by virtue of being the calmest, sanest sonofabitch in residence. In the short span of our visit, we witnessed a Big Brother system so intricately conceived that any smiling neighbor could double as informant against you if you made the mistake of having any fun in their viscinity.

The bitch of it is, the city is not overrun by crime, by any standard. Aware of the region’s purported woes, I kept my eyes open, and saw no corner drug deals, no bullet holes in brick buildings, not even a person that drove faster than 5mph below the speed limit. No evidence of criminal enterprise either, like graffiti or so much as a foreboding dark alley. As my friend Dan, who moved to Scottsdale two months ago, explained it, doors to cars and homes were generally left unlocked, as the punishment for a crime as odious but innocuous as breaking and entering could easily be death by the guy who could legally blow a hole in you with his shot gun. Everywhere, the people have been scared into enforcing the laws of the land, for fear the hammer will fall upon them.

Crossing the Hoover Dam and braving the treacherous mountain passes (we learned on the return trip you could avoid those by taking the Laughlin route off the 93) necessitated we arrive in Scottsdale past midnight on Friday, so it was determined that the party should commence directly, lest we waste more time. Dan took us to a glorious dive bar he frequents, the fabled crumbling slice of Americana with tabletop shuffleboard, toilets last cleaned in ’86, and an ancient Big Game Hunter video cabinet comprising the majority of the furniture. It was perfect. Pitchers were cheap, the jukebox was only mostly country, and we were well into the swing of a southwestern night of quiet debauchery when the box-dyed, 45 going on 70 bartender ruined the evening by declaring the bar closed.

When I informed the woman I was nowhere near the level of inebriation I had hoped for, and requested perhaps one more beer, her eyes widened with the naked fear of converses during the Spanish Inquisition. “Get out, get out!” she cried, I shit you not, good reader. We left then, not inclined to witness just how close we came to seeing a middle aged woman crap her pants. We decided, instead, to procure a case of Bud at the Circle K and continue our shenanigans at home, out of eye- and earshot of the local Gestapo. (Read full article)

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(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.

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

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

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

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

IN MY PANTS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Gary was, to say the least, put off when he learned that, even though the booze was now in pill form, he would still be considered “beer bitch” and would have to wear the hat for the remainder of the drinking game.)

I dare you to tell me this is a bad idea. ”Evgeny Moskalev of Saint Petersburgh Technological University created… a technique that turns alcohol into powder for packaging in pill form.” Oh. Hell. Yes. Leave it to the Russians to find a new way to get hammered. You would too if you lived in some crazy combination of communist police state, democracy, and a college campus. Also, they have that Siberia thing.

What they’re saying is that booze now comes in pill form, killing the carb load and portable innefficiency of bottled beers and liquors, and giving us all new ways to party… not to mention prank. Slip one of these bad boys into your grandmother’s pill box and you’ll be drawing dicks on her face for passing out with her orthopedics on in no time! College kids are off the hook now too, provided they can show a modicum of not-retardedness. Can’t get busted for carrying a bottle of Advil like you can for a 30 rack of Natty Ice. Beer Pong will be harder, sure, but we’ve all got to make sacrifices.  

Most importantly, there is a benefit for myself. The advent of this wonderful technology will finally do away with one of my personal pet peeves: the breaking of the seal. Hearing somebody mention this fictional phenominon grates my ears like nails down Bobcat Goldthwait’s back. If you have to piss, you have to piss, and no amount of holding it in will make it happen less. Drinking less will, but since that wasn’t an option for us crazy cats, we’ve had to settle for hitting the head every 20 minutes. Now that I’m not drinking to get drunk, but rather doing bumps of it off of strippers’ asses, the worst I’ll have to do is blow my nose, and never have to hear anybody warn me “Don’t break the seal!” again. Turns out you go to jail for breaking peoples’ noses, even if they’re annoying twats.

Another pet peeve of mine that gets solved in this bold future? Bosses telling me my breath smells like liquor, “and a little bit of paste.” Now, all they’ll be smellin’ is grade A Elmer’s horse bones, mofo.

“Just takin’ my vitamins, sir.” Seriously, could this day have come fast enough?

(The family trip to the Olive Garden took a nasty turn as soon as they walked through the door…)

There is a seriously intelligent discussion (literally, dude, there’s like, footnotes and stuff) concerning LED tattooing (and its theosophical implications) over at Worlds As Myth, a subject I treated with much less dignity last week. For the rest of you, let’s talk boobies.

Sunday afternoons at Bada Bing are a glorious thing. Enticed by a radio ad touting beer and food specials during all NFL games, my partner and I put in an appearance last weekend. I can honestly say that there is nowhere we would rather be watching the game than this establishment. The screens we observed were small but conveniently placed in the corners flanking the bar, but there is also a larger projection screen in an adjacent room. Refreshments were incredibly well priced, as advertised, and the bartenders are friendly, as early Sunday afternoon is not prime titty time (I hear some people go to church or whatever) and they are not overworked.

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10/24/09

This guy showed up to Las Vegas’ Second Annual Zombie Walk as a freshly exhumed Billy Mays, complete with a tub o’ Oxiclean and the trademark, lady devastating beard/blue shirt combo. It is just too soon to be making jokes about a recently deceased man whose whole life was spent making a joke of himself. For one thing, he can’t make money off it anymore. Another: there was no Jacko or Teddy Kennedy representation, and that just leaves an unforgiveable recently-dead-celebrity gap that I know none of us can live with.

Otherwise, the Zombie Walk went off without a hitch, with about a couple hundred splendidly made up people shuffling and groaning down the length of the Fremont Street Experience. A lot of attention was lavished on the group from surprised tourists, from delightful cooing to old timers demanding we not have organized official fun in the funnest city on the planet. Picture a couple hundred Zombies giving your grandpa the finger and you’ll see just how much fun this was.

There was even a Zombie in a wheelchair being pushed by another Zombie, which frankly seemed to me like cheating. She was already half dead, so she had a whole lot of practice on us. And as any apocalypse enthusiast will tell you, the whole scenario is inaccurate. Zombies will not team up for mutual benefit like genetically enhanced sharks will. It’s just not done.

Eventually, the street ended, and one whole end of the Fremont Street Experience was clogged with undead, most of which had decided it was time to stop acting and chain smoke. Those graced with a birth pre-1988 were invited upstairs to buy booze, listen to Halloween themed tunes, and… ride a mechanical bull? Oh, why not. Come for the mechanical bull, stay for all the chicks that showed up because it was the only way they were going to get laid at that special time of the month. Mazel tov!