(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.

(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.

(See, this is what happens when you laugh at the “daffy” guy, and don’t get him some help. Fris Freleng was a monster.)

Let’s just get it over with now, and publicly disembowel all the artists. Send their intestines to their ineffectual mothers and throw their spleens at the owners of all those affected liberal loft apartments you see hot, tanktopped artists inhabiting in ’90s chick flicks.

She works with glass and fire. You can suck RIGHT on that Demi Moore.

Why? Because the subjectivity of deciding on a case-to-case basis what works are art, and which are offensive this week, is tedious as hell and eats up the courts’ time that could be better used sentencing sodomites to labor camps. Kill all the artists. I think Shakespeare said that.

This is probably an example of what he was talking about: Mizozo reports (as has every other infuriatingly stupid cut-and-paste blog taking up virtual oxygen and vagina space on the internet) that a giant poster in Poland featuring a naked Minnie Mouse framed by a Swastika, and promoting an art show, is being investigated for promoting fascism. It’s a crime in Poland that could land the gallery owners and artist in jail, to spend the next few years as a girlfriend to a cellmate named Goldberg. Here’s the offending piece:

Hey! There's no bow there! That's Mickey! Hey, kids, come look at your "hero" now.

Look, a picture doesn’t become a work of art until I see some inner labia, but that’s just my opinion. Some are opposed to it for other reasons; the “author” of the blog points out how it’s next to synagogue that Nazis captured, flooded, and used as a swimming pool (burn!). So those people should never have to even think about Nazis again (good luck, guy, it’s all they friggin’ talk about). “For me it is quite shocking, and even more so for people who remember World War II, and especially for people who suffered during it,” said local councilor Norbert Napieraj. Good thing there aren’t too many of those left, am I right? Wash that sand from your vajay, councilor, those people are like ninety. Even if their necks could empower them to look up, their eyesight can’t extend much farther than a foot or so.

The gallery owner has already said, “Uh, no, fuckmooks, it’s just a picture.” I’m paraphrasing, but the point is all of us in English-town have at least two cents to blindly and violently chuck at this issue. Some of the comments are simply ignorantly indignant, like Lisa G who thinks it’s, “Inensitive and tasteless,” and the author itself, who considers it, “Not at all artistic!” Well, yeah, I mean, move that arm. I didn’t come all the way to Poland for side-boob! And, Lisa, I have it on good authority that poster doesn’t taste like anything but paper, glue, and pigeon shit, so you’re mostly right. In no way should you even try to find a translation of the text or anything

I know countless artists that aren’t state funded that are big fans of fascism, and promote it wherever they can. After all, there’s no such thing as a lack of inspiration when Goebbels has an assignment for you. And there is definitely nothing artistic about calling out Walt Disney for being openly antisemitic and a Nazi supporter, while his estate is one of the richest on the planet, and the characters he invented the most recognized by children around the world. Let hypocrisy lie, or somebody might have to think for themselves. And dude, that argument is so 1980s, we’ve moved on. The worst part about this is that the artist has successfully infantilized and disparaged the organization that put a whole mess of Jews to death, while at the same time demonizing a Jew hater, and then put it right next to a synagogue! Any service-goer that gets a chuckle out of that has something seriously wrong with him. Seriously, fucked in the head, man.

But my boy, commenter Somali Ninga, can say this with way more eloquence than I:

ZIONIST OWN DISNEY EVER SINCE IT WAS MADE!!! ROCKERFELLERS AND DISNEY WERE FRIENDS!! THE ROCKERFELLERS AND ROTHSCHILDS PRETEND TO BE JEWS BUT THEY WORSHIP THE DEVIL AND ARE PAVING THE WAY FOR THE ANTI-CHRIST/DAJJAL’S ARRIVAL!! DO YOU WONDER WHY THE ROCKERFELLERS AND ROTHSCHILD FAMILY AND PRESCOTT BUSH(GEORGE W. BUSH’S GRANDFATHER) FUNDED THE HITLER AND N.A.Z.I. EVENTHOUGH THEY CLAIM TO BE JEWS??? WAKE THE FU©K UP!!! IBM WHO KEPT FILES OF THE JEWS KILLED IN THE HOLOCAUST ALSO FUNDED N.A.Z.I. GERMANY AND IS NOW OWN BY ZIONIST PRETENDING TO BE JEWS!! THE ELITE HAVE HIJACKED THE JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN RELIGION AND THEY PLAN TO HIJACK ISLAM!!

Preach it, you crazy bastard! Apropos of next to nothing, caps lock turned to a blistering, deafening 11, and enough unfounded conspiracy theories to fill a Dan Brown novel, and you still make more sense than anybody else on these boards. God bless you, jihad on whatever you hate on, my brother. Here’s a brotherly AIEAIEAIEAIE! You can take that home with you.

Anyway, I think an interesting study would be the history of condemnation; like how it went from a controlling device for priests and Tipper Gore to a full-on Western Civilization pastime to rival institutional racism and the building of cults of personality. Every discussion I’ve seen on this controversy has been in English, and nobody has bothered to translate the text before passing judgment, not one. Granted, I can’t read Polish either, and can’t find anyone who can. Even so, did anyone bother to investigate who the artist is? What his intentions were? How Naked Nazi Mickey fits into his larger catalog? The guy’s name is Max Papeschi. From his own site, apparently translated under mortal duress from some Romance language I don’t have to learn because I’m American and teabagging mush mouths is in my blood:

His pop Politically-Incorrect cites the American Life and reveals in a realistic ironical way all the horror of this life style. From the nazi-Micky Mouse to the Ronald McDonald Butcher the cult icons loose their reassuring effect and change into a collective nightmare.

See? He was just calling Mickey a Nazi, in a gallery right next to Ronald the War Criminal. The funny thing is everybody is so worried about the Jews in the vicinity, they didn’t realize he was trying to piss off Americans. Mission accomplished, I guess. Indirectly, and without the punishing blow that would have landed if we weren’t, as a collective, so irretrievably fucktarded and up our own asses with political correctness. Our talking heads and talk radio pundits can assign Nazi ideals to a different target every week, but we can’t tell when we, as a people, are in the cross-hairs? Anybody else feel like the ring leader in a circus on special needs day, and every single 12 year old mongoloid is a showboating drama enthusiast with a stage mother that wants them to jump in and join the show, and it’s all you can do to keep the little dummies from getting trampled by elephants, and any minute you know your capacity to give a shit is going to snap under the enormity of the stupefying dipshittery of it all? Seriously, who wants to hold this microphone?

(I had a dream like this once. I was getting a blumpkin in a public fountain in Japan.)

… and has been for some time. That is the only explanation I can think of that would account for Wenlock and Mandeville, the official tard-puppets of the 2012 Olympic Games. The past decade has seen a series of what-the-fuckery from the UK, including Gehry’s Serpentine Pavilion, Susan Boyle, and the Bleeding Tombstone of Hinckley. This time, I think, the new British law – that basically says you can drink, but you’ll get thrown in the Tower of London for having a good time doing it – pushed those bangers humping limeys over the edge into Rasta levels of green overload. Even the sports writer over at BBC, who is himself having trouble stomaching the two steaming piles of adorable from the bowels of gay sci-fi hell, is so baked off his arse he’s having trouble with the very keystrokes he’s employing to mock them:

Right. Now I know you Greeks are having a rough time of it a the mo, but get this, them Olympic Games you put on 1000 years BC, they’re nowt when compared with the might of the Wenlock Olympian Games.

It’s cute that your cockney illiterates get to write for your most major news outlet, but in our country, we don’t let our hicks write without the benefit of a sixth grade education. Be that as it may, you have a real point there, Eliza: despite the fact that bronzed, male athletes greased up and stripped naked to perform in the original Greek Olympic Games, it probably wouldn’t cause Tinky Winky – the hulking purple Teletubby with the purse, if you’ll recall – to punish his big purple puppet knob more than these lobster-clawed, phallic-faced monstosities.

We don’t watch the Olympics to enjoy the twee [<-- that's the polite-ass English word for gay] adventures of Manderwen and Lockville, or any other transient piece of animated tut. I don’t even think children watch it for that, do they? Nah, it’s the jumping, running, cycling, winning… that’s it.

The steroids, the cheating Chinks, the injuries, the feculent irrelevance and waste of it all. I am continually astounded by people who like to watch cycling, which is as “twee” as a rubber penis suit that can look at you. Is it the queer little strangle pants they wear, or the sheer fascination of someone busting ass to cover a distance a car could span in half the time? Seriously, there’s porn in the world, and we’re clinging to this millenniums-old pissing contest between nations that straight up Odd Couple despise each other for the sake of world-wide camaraderie. Maybe the Brits have the right idea, and we should all just hit the bong and watch these dystopian Disney mascots dance around like inbred idiots on ecstasy to distract us from the sheer uselessness of the whole operation.

Why do we need to spend a shedload of cash on mascots for 2012? What are they going to do exactly? Flounce about being really flipping annoying. Couldn’t we have just used Timmy Mallet?

Why do you have such a farting problem with swearing, dude? You clearly want to, you little fletcher. And for the record, looking at this Timmy Mallet invention your race’s top minds spent their lives creating, no, no we couldn’t just use him. I have ire stored up in me like Shakespeare’s characters get spleeny, and the fact that you even made me look him up makes my vitriol engorged brain want to explode from not knowing where to start. You’re on the list, fella.

Pictured: The product of a doped up, basement dwelling imagination.

… Feel These Nipples

(Her momma always told her she should practice really hard to achieve her dreams, hence the nipsicles)

The idea of mortality, the fragility of life and inevitability of death, strikes everyone at some point. Some people take it better than others, realizing it as an opportunity to bang out a will so that stupid bitch doesn’t get the vinyl collection, or taking up a recreational addiction because, why the shit not, right? You could foster a closer relationship with gin, or what the hell, your kids who need the love and attention in this life because nobody knows what’s next. Nah, fuck that.

“Britney Spears found the whole ‘cryongenic freezing’ thing so interesting she spent most of her Mother’s Day trip to Disneyland researching the subject on the internet while a nanny took the boys round the park.” (Sun)

I’m going to have to get out my Alanis International Dictionary, but I’d bet my collection of Canadian moose porn we can place that statement squarely in the realm of ironic. It’s like rain at am outdoor picnic for wicked witches and their kittens. When you’re that concerned with immortality, with garnering as much of life’s experiences as you can, internet research into questionable medical technology should definitely fall above quality time with your children on your bucket list. It’s like a health nut, so concerned with being healthy they never actually enjoy life, except you can take a break every five minutes to watch porn. Save your Mother’s Day hugs for Tigger, you little brats, Mommy’s spending her day trying to be more like the crazy anti-semite who built the place.

“She looked into having her ashes turned into diamonds after she is gone but settled on the chance of getting to live in the future.”

For someone who wants to cryogenically freeze herself, you have all the forethought of a dingleberry. You do realize that no matter how much you Mel Gibson out, you’re going to have to die someday, right? You can still go the way of Michael Jackson’s unfortunate Pepsi hair, only you can be space diamonds! Would your daffy ass attention span like that? Space diamonds? What are you hoping to find in the future, anyway? We have plenty of backup dancers with unwashed hair that need love in this time period. The only difference between them and Zarxon Federline is theirs aren’t lazer razors that are sitting unused amongst the cigarette butts and Axe body spray on the bathroom counter.

Anyway, this liquid nitrogen gunk ain’t free, and your dad’s hanging on pretty tight to your green. How does he feel about this?

“Jamie is quite happy to let Brit have her little obsessions, especially when it means she’s holed up on the internet safely or watching the Discovery Channel. And if she wants to invest her money in cryogenics that’s fine, we’re only talking $350,000 tops [oh, tops]. However, much more than that and he may change his mind.”

What does the Discovery Channel have to say about starving children in Africa? There has got to be a way to steer her obsessions toward something productive, like the cure for condoms, or firing Sarah Palin out into space, or genetically engineering women that piss beer and don’t complain that the chains in my basement are too tight. Especially since the company you were neglecting your children to invest in, Alcor, is about 20 years into illegitimacy, and the smart money is on hydrogen sulfide based Ikaria. You should start marinading yourself in orange cream now, because all future humans will have to look forward to from this venture is a very large Britsicle. And that’s only if the company’s employees don’t put your body to use ironically, like when they (sure, allegedly, but that takes the fun out of it) used Ted Williams’s head for batting practice. In which case, expect them to walk on your body barefoot and pee on you.

(The staff thought you’d like to be found in the same way you lived. They’re considerate like that.)

Somebody should tell Britney that internet research on a company involves more than LOLcats and Jack Daniels. Also, that’s actually a Fischer Price toy phone you’re talking on, and you’ve been cooking plastic dinners for your kids ever since you got them back. We don’t trust you with nice things anymore. Happy Mother’s Day, though.

(Next on our tour of people worth more than you: toothless redneck convenience store clerk, incapable of thinking past what Super Bowl winning quarterbacks do afterward when he “thinks” of awesome.)

Licenses should seriously be given out for everything. From those parents that insist their kids become altar boys and also upright citizens, right on down to the asshole that inhales his chicken wings and has to be air lifted out of Hooters for terminal retardedtry. Parenting licenses,  chicken eating licenses; shit, I’m in favor of distribution of licenses to see Avatar, to make sure the viewer is in a stable enough place emotionally to not cry on the dirty concrete directly outside the theater because Detroit isn’t sparkly aquamarine enough for them. Also included: a prerequisite that they’ve seen the fucking cartoon version of Pocahontas so they don’t get it into their heads the multiple billion dollar blockbuster saved a corner of its budget for something as extravagant as a writer. Next on the seriously needed licensing list, though, was inspired by this headline, sent in by alert scumbag Al Khoury:

Mo. clerk says he’ll use $258M jackpot on bills*

Seems Chris Shaw, pictured in his Vanity Fair shoot above, has big plans for his windfall. Says the newly rich gas station clerk:  “We didn’t come from money. For us it’s just going to be a huge relief to know I’m going to be able to pay my electric bill, my gas bill,” my PBR Fountain bill, my real leather, gold plated NASCAR replica jackets bill, my blowjob bill. Man that one’s going to go up exper… exponeckshall… a whole lot.

Come on man, you have to think a little bigger than paying the bills at this point. You must still be in shock, because a real American would be wondering how much cash it would take to convince Halle Berry to let you give her a bare assed spanking. Or how many millions one would have to donate to starving kids to get the church to agree to dig up St. Theresa, and then how much Brian Henson would need to animate her body into singing, “I’m a dirty whore,” while dancing the Watusi with Kermit the Frog. There wasn’t even a mention of the Batmobile in the whole article, with or without intentionally gaudy running lights. His lottery winning lisence AND his man card should be revoked, just for that. “Shaw — who has a 10-year-old son, a 7-year-old girl and a 5-year-old girl by two different women… as well as his girlfriend’s two sons — plans to take them all to Disney World in Florida.” You’re killing me, dude. At least consider looking into how much it costs to get Goofy to do a donkey show. For me.

When Shaw called [probably immense girlfriend] Ewry back to tell her the news, she thought he was joking, he said. Finally, he said he told her: “I swear on a stack of Bibles, you need to leave work and come home.”

That’s some religious information I was not privy to. I was under the assumption that lying under oath on one bible was enough to incur an audit from the big IRS in the sky, but it turns out damnation comes cumulatively. That actually makes me kind of nervous because I’ve sworn on several non-stacked bibles that I don’t know where the bodies are, which isn’t entirely true. I have a suspicion, but that smell coming from under the deck could easily be some old, hairy mac and cheese from our annual Cave and Cheese Lovers party. Why rock that boat? Oh, and for the record, if you’re not swearing on a stack of silver plated, gold leaf bibles, I will smack you.

There’s a bit of disingenuousness to Chris’ statement though, considering he urgently told his girlfriend to leave her job at the “shit that shouldn’t be lawn furniture” factory, when he says in the article he’s still not sure if he’ll be leaving his minimum wage job as a bodega clerk. The man can pay himself $7.50 an hour to lay back and let bikini models do his masturbating for him, and he’s thinking of slinging Slim Jims and fawties to pass the time. I understand the compulsion to keep working and all, but you could totally Bush out and buy a baseball team and run it into the ground, or build a bullfighting arena in your back yard, and rig it so the bulls are on coke and the matadors are on Ambien. If your need to sell shit inexplicably comes into play, you can walk around with a tray of Diet Coke for all the people giving you tons of money to see a spanish dude get his groin gored. You could satisfy some latent and heretofore unaffordable artistic urge, and buy a bunch of Pollocks and improve them by eating Flaming Hot Cheetos and Four Loko and puking red and blue all over them. Now that’s a fucking job.

(This is not to imply Four Loko doesn’t get the job done. It is a horrifically efficient product, and 2 bucks over at the 7-11)

As a side note, Chris says he’ll use the money to “replace his two missing front teeth.” If the rest of that sentence isn’t, “…with platinum plated Elvis Presley’s middle fingers,” I am so taking his Lottery Winner License away.

*Yahoo apparently doesn’t have the budget for all their keyboards to come with that newfangled capitalization capability. Damn you, Google!

(”I don’t like this any more than you do, but they’ll get out the hose again if we don’t…”)

Perhaps rumors of Disney’s contractual child slavery have been exaggerated! For years, the public has watched with horror as the corporation pretty transparently owned its young stars, forcing them into exclusive contracts, which usually required them market themselves in treble (television, movies, records) even if they were only really qualified for one thing. Raven Simone, Lindsay Lohan, Miley Cyrus were all victims at one point, and that is only to name a few. God knows what happened to Raven. The most likely story is that they threw her in the incinerator when she ran out of chubby usefulness, only after harvesting the parts that were still good for their next creation. Standards in these contracts were strict and unyielding: Anne Hathaway was forbidden to work with Disney again after she  showed her breasts in indie flick Havoc, and later Brokeback Mountain, a standard which apparently doesn’t apply to Julie Andrews (those with strong constitutions are invited to rent S.O.B.).

The point is, that kind of behavior might not be the norm for Disney in the near future. It has been announced that Cody Linley, the 20 years young co-star of Hannah Montana, is set to star on Broadway in Over Here!, a wartime musical originally staged int he ’70s. And he had to cancel a scheduled Disney film Starstruck (originally titled Who Gives a Shit?) to do it! Thus far, no large men in black suits and Mickey ears have caused him to meet with any unfortunate bullet accidents, so it looks like the ghost of Walt has lifted its curse! The children of Disney are free to be Mousekateers and retain hope of becoming pop stars once again!

Oh, wait… the Wikipedia page for Over Here! opens with: “Over Here! is a musical with a score by Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman and book by Will Holt.” God DAMMIT. Those Shermans are collectively known as The Sherman Brothers. That’s right, those Sherman Brothers, what made possible The Parent Trap, The Jungle Book, The Aristocats, most of the Winnie the Pooh films, both incarnations of Mary Poppins, several attractions at an undisclosed location in Orlando… there’s… so much more, but you get the point. Even if this isn’t a Disney production (the Wikipedia page doesn’t even mention the new production, so how can I know? Research? My ass), Disney flunkies will be chaperoning his little date outside their studios. The situation is strangely reminiscent of those Russian girls they ship over to New York, only to be shackled to some stripper pole and pawed over by scumbags like me. Sometime in the late 1800s, we’ll nip this child slavery thing in the bud.

(Disney: teaching kids how to say “fuck you” in every language.)

Gosh, the recession is hitting everyone so hard, even Disney can’t put out a decent product. Reportedly, “Deaf and hard-of-hearing people are angered by Disney’s decision to remove closed-captioning from DVDs of the animated Up that are being distributed to online, brick-and-mortar, and kiosk rental outlets.” In fact, the DVD will be devoid of all “extras” for “marketing reasons.” How does not including things in a package make any kind of marketing sense? Apparently the concept is too complex to elaborate on for us in the public. And since when is captioning an extra? What does it cost, a couple hundred extra bucks to pay a homeless guy to do a moderately good job punching keys for an hour and a half?

The deaf are currently engaged in signing furiously and indignantly at Disney, and Bob Iger, Disney CEO,  is currently engaged in hanging out his window, cupping his ear and yelling, “I can’t hear you!”