By Sean “Panty Raid” Torrie
“…You react to my riposte.” – The wonderfully redundant Maximo Park

(Remember: You’re probably high, and “Penguins of Madagascar” is probably on.)

Follow the Irish discussion (read: drunken verbal fisticuffs): Post 1, Post 2

Our dear Mr. Hurley was rarely one I saw as an optimist outside of locations where India Pale Ale were available, but when I see someone else having a more negative outlook on something than I do: I worry. That or I explain that you can’t find the perfect guy because he doesn’t exist and someone’s going to have to pop your shallow little bubble one of these days, and it might as well be someone who does so in a realistic way and then points out that fairy tales aren’t real, and you can’t be a princess after your 21st birthday, unless you actually are royalty. Princess Diana got a divorce, no less.

Mark has always been a bit of a philanthropist in the best way he could be. I’m certain that in no small part this site operates as a means to vent and explain why most people are idiots to the other smart kids. This way we don’t feel stupid for not understanding why other people act the way they do. But when I see his view as our national experiment as a failure, I wonder how close to winning, and breaking our spiritual backs the terrorist efforts are.

I always go back to the Irish, because it’s the crutch I can walk on when I need a minority. I’m sure there were plenty of those scummy Catholics in this country before 1840, but after the potato famine, they were a major issue. The predominantly protestant nation was uncomfortable with what they saw as Rome’s foothold on our eastern shore. Worse yet, stubborn people that we are, I’m sure they were adamant about keeping and aggressively defending their faith and lifestyle as they carried the shattered remains of it to these shores. You can look at this as any other culture-shock our country has had to deal with, but with more booze and tubers.

It took at least 15 years and a civil war before they even kinda gave these pasty bastards a shot, and another 40 or 50 before the Irish transitioned to being just-another-group here. At least they don’t smoke all that opium like those Asians all do. All of them. All Asians smoke poppy resin.

On top of having been a major minority a decade ago, the Muslim population has doubtlessly exploded since… ya know… two or three of their nations have become unlivable after they were… invaded… and they needed somewhere ironic to move to. Despite my personal AIM screen name, and what it implies of my limited faith in humanity, I have a decent amount of faith in our nation’s ability to grow up, admittedly slowly.

What we’re really suffering from right now is entirely too much media, with entirely too much free speech. I realize how much hypocrisy there is in me typing that here. It’s the same problem that I’m seeing with the mosque at ground zero. There is an essential level of lacking good taste.

Good taste dictates that you don’t air assholes that will say ANYTHING for fanfare, and that you don’t give them television shows or websites to continue to spew complete crap. However, there’s a whole lot of money to be made out of bad taste. I use all the music channels as my example, and that’s without making a single Fox News joke, or making puns at the expense of Rachel Maddow.

Because of that, you’ve got media moguls out there that will air what ever they damned well please, because they’ve become so detached from reality because of the absurd amount of money they make that they simply don’t care what they force into the minds of lesser mortals. I have a remedy for this, as I had presented a remedy for the mosque issue: stop watching that crap. The only reason the world feels like it’s falling apart is because we’ve got 100 times as much news coverage as we did 20 years ago, and peace doesn’t sell, but human suffering sure as shit does.

The great Masonic American Experiment hasn’t failed just yet, it’s just bombed another semester. It’s cool, we’re attending a private university where your GPA can move around a whole lot, so long as you keep paying your extortionist tuition, and promise to make it up next semester. Oh, tuition goes up this year, by the way. We should have mentioned that, sorry.

All we have to do is prove that the experiment in the Middle Eastern lab we did on nation-building worked, and not invade any more sorority houses. Also not get caught with any more illegal substances. It’ll be a lot easier if our dorm mate Mexico could curb his drug problem. Maybe if we held an intervention for him it’d improve our overall campus rep.

Because we got all serious on you the last couple of days, here’s your door prize: A kitten raped by a rabbit.

Fluffy, no! Certain Christians will have you believe the recent rash of rabbit on cat violence is a result of allowing sodomites to practice their brand of dastardly, angel saddening coitus. I think it’s just their god trying to give us some sinless schadenfreude, something to laugh our asses off about in the midst of our spiraling, penniless lives. Never mind the fact that this spreading disease of hilarious rapage comes in the age of internet when we can document it in all its fur-spraying splendor. Sure, it could be the gays, and Clinton getting beejes out of wedlock could have been the fault of global warning. More likely, it had been happening forever, and the exposure is the fault of the internet. Still want credit for that, Al Gore?

A retort…

(The plot was so convoluted and obvious, even BROSNAN Bond thinks we’re assholes for missing it.)

Contributor Sean Torrie, while an upstanding gentleman and a friend of the highest credentials, is a verbose prick. While his article on the so-called “Ground Zero Mosque” made some important points, his love of the sound of his own keyboard tapping diluted the argument so that his claim of final-say book-closing on the subject got lost in the translation. I will also chock some of that up to his insidious optimism (that I do not share), both in humanity itself and this experiment we call the United States. Here’s the bare bones, with less of the anecdotal apologetics, and none of the pandering. Seriously, dude, are you considering running for office? I was always under the impression you would be seizing power, to hell with the politics.

Sean was certainly right about one thing: despite our posturing and wailing over the past ten years, despite our cries from the respective religious and political pulpits, the terrorists have officially won. Our reaction to the racquetball courts a Muslim group plans to build near the site is exactly what our attackers intended. But where Sean developed whiskey dick and couldn’t close the deal is where he stopped short of the reality none of us want to face: The United States of America, as an experiment, has failed, from the common man to the tops of our four branches of government (include media before you call me a fuck head). Pack it up, it’s over. The Russians won, the Germans won, the Terrorists won, even the fucking British won. Because in this fundamental issue, this test of our fortitude in the face of what Sean would correctly call the “weakling bully,” we did not live up to the potential we fought every single war in our short history over.

Continue Reading…

Until September 11 rolls around, the 24 hour news networks are going to go to towns on the church in Florida that’s holding a symbolic Koran burning on that day. The best thing to do, for society as a whole, with accomplished Scumbags like these is to ignore the shit out of them. Which is exactly why Scumbag Style has to make a big deal of it, because we have no concern for humanity’s well-being, choosing instead to jump into the over-sized toilet of yellow water and tightly coiled islands the species collectively skinny dips in. MSNBC, as much as FOX News, is going to give them way more attention than they deserve, but this local FOX outlet actually got to interview the head of this church, and that’s where the fun starts:

(Actually, the real party starts around 2:05.)

Holy shit! A book burning is like owning an H2, a public expression of impotence and small dickery. Throwing your gun on your desk in an interview is a statement. Saying you won’t be responsible for the ensuing violence you genuinely expect is the utterance of a Scorsese sociopath. This guy fully expects to cap a hippie within the month; in fact, he’s itching for it like a hippie gave him lice once and he never washed it, in some kind of Batman-like vengeance scenario in which he never wants to forget his true mission. Whether he knows that you need your fricasseein’ hippie license for that down in Florida is the real question. In the immortal words of Vincent from the Top 10 Guy Ritchie tour de force Snatch, “There will be fucking murders.”

This guy could burn as many Korans as he wanted, as I’m sure Gainsville FL’s collection of the holy book totally scratches the surface of the world’s supply, and if we all ignored his ass, that would be the end of it. Just a group of petulant Christians, frustrated at their impotence to control other people. It’s actually better that they take their aggression out, punching the pillow of tolerance until they get tired, masturbate, and go to sleep like teenagers in a homoerotic circle jerk. But where is the fun in that?

So, this guy is going to prison in September, if he doesn’t get his 19th century power-mustache scalped by people who know how to read in the meantime. If I may officially submit my request for that trophy now, the Brillo pad in my sink is starting to look a little haggard.

(The arithmetic of soul-consuming denial.)

I came across the popular Christian blog Christwire at the direction of a Huffington Post jocular mention of an absurd article there, entitled “Is My Husband Gay?” and I may have to send the HuffPost contributor a gift basket. Without reading the article, I can say that, if you have to ask that question, the answer is a brash, Sean Hayes-style ‘yes.’ And he simultaneously hates you and loves you for being his repressive social costume piece. But that’s beside the point. Christians have the right to despise homosexuality, even view it as a threat. It’s a religion, after all, all versions of which have inanities liberally peppered in with the good ideas. And just like the Bill of Rights, one cannot cherry-pick and still actively subscribe to the tenets therein. But what the Huffpost article failed to mention is that the authors of Christwire (Stephenson Billings, in particular) are of another breed, the kind that puts Gertrude to shame in protesting too much.

The site’s ‘mission’ is to usher America into a more moral era, by which it means, kill the queers. According to the article, there are 15 solid signs your husband is gay, and I immediately sent this article out to all of my buddy’s women, because every hetero man I know is guilty of at least half of them. What does it mean when your man comes home tired from the gym? He had a good workout. He was getting butt fucked in the shower. When he trims his pubes? He’s a considerate, hygienically concerned mate. He’s way too compulsively neat to be straight.* When, in conversation with his male friends (and he may have far too many), does he often supply a witty retort? He’s interesting, and a good conversationalist. He’s a sassy, mouthy bitch that does not enjoy sex with his loving, Christian wife. And if he likes big dicks in his porn, it isn’t because tiny pricklets are anticlimactic bores, it’s because he also likes big dicks in him. No arguing the logic there. If your husband engages in any or all of these disgusting activities, he probably trapped you in your sham marriage because he is justifiably ashamed.

They did claim they consulted experts.

The biggest tip-off that Christwire is the fruitiest conservative outlet since George Rekers is the downright obsession with The Golden Girls as the greatest evil ever to grace the airwaves, and another way to tell your husband is digging divots on the other golf course. The geriatric hethens of ’80s sitcom fame seem to come up in every other article. I haven’t heard a man mention The Golden Girls this much since that effeminate kid that was raised by his grandmother in grade school extolled it as his favorite non-musical show. That poor sonofabitch had to spend years in therapy erasing the Catholic shame before he finally came out, and by then he was an irretrievable mess. Stephenson Billings is right, most straight dudes do not like the show, despite the fact that it is generally recognized as a landmark in television comedy that launched the careers of more important writers than can be enumerated here. Still, how he got 1,108 scathing, literally apocalyptic words out of the release of the 25th Anniversary DVD collection (and that’s just one of the articles!) is beyond the purview of this heterosexual. I guess you just have to be gay to understand it that well. Did you know Golden Girls fans were responsible for 9/11? You do now.

Or consider the twin articles on Vajazzling and Vatooing, the very worst examples of vagina decorating, which is Plan A in the continuing plans for a dystopic American gynocracy. In order to take over the world, women go to college (where they have absolutely no place), and put jewels and ink on or around their “peri-vag area,” in order to seduce the young men there into banging instead of concentrating on their studies.

“In some cases, they even color their separator flaps so as to really catch the eye of whoever they flash.”

Hahaha! I haven’t heard a better term for labia since ‘beef curtains;’ I’ll have to use that next time I want to express my disgust for heterosexual sex, while still wanting to leave the impression of interior decorating in the scarred-for-life mind of the poor female. “If you leave the lights off, and I can pretend I’m somewhere else, I will totally *gag* touch my meat thingy to your *gag* devil mons, and procreate with you by entering your hell canal through your Taiwanese blinds.” Jesus, not only are you gay as scented candles, your mother must have done a Frank Sinatra number on you.

To be fair, she has trouble remembering her dorm room number.

These guys are fucking petrified of women, and entirely averse to enjoying them sexually, which is an entirely hetero thing to be. The only good vagina is an unkempt Everglades: a wrinkly, forested, brown puddle of subservience that should be heard and not seen. Check out this bit at the end of “Vatooing, New Freshman Female Trap for College Men,” which paraphrased would not do the comedy justice:

Parents, and men who will be freshmen this year, I leave you with this final image and haunting scenario… [It is late and you are studying with two girls from class] They brought brownies, and you eat some. Your head is swimming and the next thing you know, ‘wanna see my ink’. You nod yes and you see the abdominal-pubic image up above, with the suggestive number 69. The next think you know, in confusion your mouth is now filled with sin and from groggy, syncopol eyes you see this girl who for some reason has sat upon your face is now messing with your pants, but instead of mouth-dabbling as she’s forcing her victim to do, instead the friend sits her sin down upon your erected pole thingy [For real?].

If you were waiting for the haunting part, that was it. He wasn’t, like, suffocated or anything, except by Satan, presumably. If homosexuality is evil, Christwire, then start growing your Hitler mustaches, you just won the big gay centerpiece.

Of course, while not a member of the tribe, I certainly don’t wish to disparage the gays: go to, sodomites, rip each other several new ones in new and interesting ways. In fact, I’ll take it a step further and say you’re not doing enough to rub it in my face, with all of the goopy, gritty details of each encounter intact, because that’s just hysterical. But I do wish to make a special place in my blackened, Christ-free heart for the kind of unbelievable scumbag that can be so obviously, self-hatingly gay that he has to devote a website to condemning his own people. With articles like “Why Do Rabbits Rape Cats?” and “Chinese Scientists Create Pandagators” I was even tempted to believe Christwire was an ill-conceived, sick joke; but, it turns out this hate repository is wonderfully, disgustingly real. Which makes it even better.

That bitch Rue McClanahan made me commit the sin of photoshopping. How GAY is that??

I encourage all of my readers to spend an evening in a scented bath with Christwire, as I guarantee nothing will entertain you as much this week. Each long bout of wisdom is ‘packed’ with incredible platitudes like “separator flaps” that I couldn’t come up with in my wildest writer’s wet dreams. And if the inanity overwhelms you, and you succumb to the Jesus-raping, at least you can drop the laptop in the tub and end it all.

*I find that particular bit to be especially hysterical. While the author claims evidence of homosexuality to include incredible neatness and organization skills, these articles are some of the most articulate I have read from a blog, perhaps ever. The arguments are so well-worded, so meticulously laid out – one might call them compulsively tidy and well dressed.

… Food For Thought

It was reported yesterday that Tim “Gay for Jesus” Tebow’s limited edition Denver Broncos Nike trainers sold out in less than five minutes. One can only assume they came wrapped in those old In-N-Out Burger bible quote wrappers, left over from their “shove the son of man down their throats animal style © with their tasty ass burgers” phase. What’s amazing is that this self-righteous, virgin asswipe has led the league in jersey sales and sold out his decidedly disgusting colored shoes (seriously, this goes with none of your queer plaid outfits, black people) – - but he’s never actually played in the NFL! He probably won’t take the field this season, outside of preseason circle jerks, and he definitely won’t start. He won a Heisman, but these aren’t Heisman kicks. The sneakers come in Broncos colors. Also, I’m pretty sure he tongue cleans his mother’s anus, but that’s neither here nor there. I think it would be funny if he ended up sucking donkey dong at big boy football, and his career turned out to be a complete abortion. Like the full-on, third term scraped uterus, unrealized second comings he rails like a monkey on a lock-box of cocaine against. He would have to take out a Super Bowl ad saying how much of an abomination he is, and how much he hates himself and wished his mom never had him, just to avoid looking like a hypocrite. I guess what I’m saying is I hope he blows his brains out live at the Mouseketeer halftime show. Add in Peyton Manning, and that’s a murder-suicide for the whole family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Except for you, Frenchies. You’ll probably like it.)

Catholicism is like the militant wing of that run-down Chinese buffet you see in every downtown. You gotta go once, just to say you’ve allowed the greasy, dyspeptic MSG to have it’s way with your blood vessels, that you’d savored the antithesis of nutrition at some point, temporary diarrhetic consequences be damned. Even aware of the innocent victims involved (I’m equating stray cats with altar boys, here, try to keep up), and even though you heard that only those with the stalwart stomach of a donkey have ever been known to leave there without puking, you had to do it. But as you take your place in the stall next to another novice of misadventures to call up Ralph O’Rourke on the big porcelain telephone, you swear to fucking Christ that, while patronizing the restaurant was indeed a life experience, you will never waste another Sunday there again.

That’s when the militant wing comes in. Catering platters in tow and armed with submachine guns of tellingly domestic origin, a team of highly trained, overpaid ninjas with a passion for bureaucracy stuffs Chow Mein and Buddha’s Super Special Delight down your unwilling throat at gunpoint. Then they make you watch as they try to run your credit card through a museum piece of a reader for a half an hour, because dinner isn’t free. While it’s technically food-rape, as you spend the long hours of the night on the can, you can’t help but feel a guilty party to kitten death, not to mention helping to maintain a business that should have made way for a K-Mart centuries ago.

Similarly, Western Civilization (read: Europe) has been trying to slowly and inconspicuously edge away from Christianity. Well, they must have triggered an alarm or an Indiana Jones-esque booby trap* or something, because the Pope found out, and he’s having none of it. Emperor Benedict is creating an office within the Vatican that would see to it that the West was “re-evangelized,” in order to combat “the process of secularization [that] has produced a serious crisis of the sense of the Christian faith and role of the Church.” In simpler terms, he’s telling mommy on Europe because, even though he brought the ball, they’ll only let him play deep right-field.

Studies have shown that readers willtolerate long articles better if there are lots of pictures, so here is the gayest statue of all time.

I go into gleeful epileptic fits when somebody has a plan to “-ize” any group of people, because that is going to be a shit show worthy of sweeps. Traditionally, that suffix doesn’t come after pleasant things, and the implication of force it lends to any phrase doesn’t help its case either. Outside of quirky ad campaigns, nobody ever threatens to “Snickerize” you, or “fellatio-ize” you. And even if they did, the understanding is that no matter how much you like adorable, sleeping kittens, this person has found a way to kill you with them, or at least alter your perceptions to the point where your faculties to trust in the overall goodness of humanity is as severely stunted as Glenn Beck’s sense of reality. No, “-ize” is usually used to verbify words like “sodom” and “paral.” Not to mention -izing is generally facilitated by a plan you wouldn’t be surprised to hear come out of Darth Vader’s mouth grill. Look:

The new pontifical council, he said, would “promote a renewed evangelization” in countries where the Church has long existed “but which are living a progressive secularization of society and a sort of ‘eclipse of the sense of God.’” (HuffPost)

NOBODY expects the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples!

See? Don’t like “-ize” so much when it follows “secular,” do you? Anyway, if I may translate that from “justifiable guidance” to “what he really means,” the Pope just announced his intention to food-rape you, weekly, with little circles of cardboard masquerading as crackers that he happens to believe is Jesus Humphry Christ hisself. If you think that interpretation is a tad harsh, I invite you to consider the rapist. The rapist’s mindset is that he acknowledges his victim is perfectly content not being beaten to a pulp and violated, he just does not see why that knowledge should apply to his actions. Similarly, the Pope is all, “Look at these dicks, getting on with their lives, even in the midst of a messy breakup they thought was over some time ago. What they need is a little Church violently inserted into their rectums, to remind them how awesome it is.” It’s basically the same sound philosophy of Africa’s ritual rapings of lesbians to make them like dick (here), only white people are doing it, so it’s OK.

Studies have also shown that Kelly Brooke's tits will make readers do just about anything.

Let’s get down to silk frillies here: Would the Jesus of the Gospels (remember those?) want his name to be mentioned in the same sentence as “rape?” See what you made me do? Twice? Once more and the Beeteljuice effect comes into play, and the two will forever be synonymous. So, you know, watch yourself.

So, Benny, who do you have pegged as Masturbator of Ceremonies for this jerkoff parade?

Monsignor Fisichella, [who] created a minor uproar last year when he defended Brazilian doctors who aborted the twin fetuses of a 9-year-old child who was raped by her stepfather. His call for mercy sparked heated criticism from some hardline conservative members of the Pontifical Academy who questioned his suitability to lead the institution.**

Yeah, that’s kind of a sticking point with those guys. Jesus would definitely want a 9 year-old to carry her incest rape baby to term, the resulting sterile, mentally handicapped abomination to decency and general aesthetics still being a person in His eyes – - Oh, shit! I did it again! Welp, can’t be taken back now. Britney should write a new song: “Whoops, I did it again. I summoned the visage of a Michael Keaton character to brutally mutilate the spiritual innocence of millions of believers… Oh, baby, baby.”

[Sidebar, Nevadan readership. If you found that scenario atrocious: you really need to go here.]

So, yes, these are the people planning a hostile takeover of Europe, with the silent approval of the UN and thousands of berkenstocked hippies in universities all over the world. There’s more mind-numb frosting on the cake that is that article, but… whatever, dude. Frankly, I’m tired. Just, don’t bother trying to -ize America. That would be like trying to do fecal graffiti in a public bathroom with no lights: Thousands of assholes have already got it covered.

*Heh, I said “booby.”
** Just a little peek at the SBS backstage area: In my head I am thinking way to hard about my own metaphors. Like, if the Catholics are like Chinese food-rapists, and Catholics don’t condone abortion, even under the circumstances of rape, would the Chinese food-rapists excommunicate you if you tried to cut out the resulting Moo Shoo Baby before you “take it to term”? Did I just blow your mind? No…

Don’t think, just hit play.

Scott Stapp, Jesus’ #1 fan, open dress shirt aficionado, and self-proclaimed Jim Morrison reincarnate, has no friends. That’s really the only explanation at this point. Friends, by definition, do not let friends do things that aren’t rock. Seriously, when you catch your buddy watching Grey’s Anatomy with his girlfriend, because they “both really like that show,” what do you do? Is violent extraction and 20 cc’s of Jack Daniels shot directly into the scrotum not an immediate consideration? But at no point in Stapp’s public life has anyone loved him enough to say, “No Scott, that right there makes you an insufferable dweeb, and if you do this, you will be mocked publicly.” Loving Jesus is probably good and all, and so is loving your newborn daughter, but banging out generic ballads about those things is not rock. There is no such thing as “Christian Rock,” no matter how much these confused youngsters really want to believe there is (holy parallel!). This is because cranking your amp up a few decibels doesn’t make your lame ass subject matter any less adult contemporary. Stop licking your mom’s taint and do some blow, impregnate a groupie, say something stupid to the media, and fast. Otherwise, John Mayer is more rock than you. Here’s your pocket protector.

Scott Stapp is so lacking in friends that he’s had time to get creative about being the world’s biggest lameass. So creative, he has discovered the one subject less rock than Jesus and newborns: Baseball. The unfortunately solicited anthem celebrating Florida’s MLB team, “Marlins Will Soar” is a stretch even for Scott “I Cry When I Pray” Stapp. Gird your stomachs, this is hard…

Let’s play ball, it’s game day/ We watch strikeouts, base hits, double plays/ Take the field, hear the roar of the crowd… One strike, two strikes, swing away/ A diving catch, a stolen base/ A perfect game, a triple play

Was a mention of Cracker Jacks too obvious at that point? I know Scott Stapp doesn’t have friends, because at any point during the overwrought, angst ridden bullet point presentation of “some shit that happens at ball games,” somebody who even remotely cares about him would have set the studio on fire. Although, considering baseball is a bunch of overpayed, overwrought repetition of the same bullshit “athleticism,” Scott should fit right in, right? Nope, turns out every. body. hates. him. But what about the justification for your messianic complex? Where’s the dude who’s not allowed to hate you, no matter what?

Come on Muaaaaaaaah-lins[Marlins], make us prouuoooood [proud]… With a little faith and luck, you will soooohhhhaaahooooaar [soar]

Contacted for comment, Jesus said, “Leave me the fuck out of this. No matter how you stretch it, it’s still one syllable, dickbucket. Oh, and check your metaphors douche-tube; Marlins are fish. They don’t soar. No, I don’t like that guy. I actually think he’s creepy. Like, stalker creepy. Is it football season yet?”

So we’ve got the gaywad triumvirate of infants, Jesus, and baseball passed off as rock and roll material. With all the flack he’s taking, Scott’s going to have to take another shot at a comeback. Because gracefully walking away and becoming a garbage man or an accountant or something is clearly out of the question. What will be the next topic that is rock enough for a fuzzy 4-chord Stapp infection? The angst surrounding buying your wife a teddy bear at Valentine’s day? LARPing the Nativity Scene? The San Francisco trolley system? Badminton. Sandals With Socks. Utah. Starbucks. All of those things are more rock than Scott Stapp.

Mark Tremonti: I know Scott’s a Chris Angel caliber douche, but can you play the guy that’s semi-responsible for the waste of life getting dropped off at rehab? Like, you know, in the movies? He has no friends, Mark Tremonti, and you’re the most talented person that used to be able to be in the same room as him. That is literally the best he’s got. Because if you don’t, this is next: “Staaaaaahbucks is cooooool. I get a mocha frappe, but nooo whipped creeee-eee-eeeam-uh! Give me a Venti, cuz I’m tooo much MAAAAAAN for a grandaaaayuh. It’s so haaaaaard when they don’t put the skim milk. out. on the taaaable.” I’m sorry, but that poo will be on your hands.