(This is not an exaggeration. Have a nice life, Benjamin Butthead.*)

Bend over and lube up, Brad Pitt, you just lost the last bit of power you had in your life. I’m sure it was totally your idea to fill the mansion to bursting with a cobbled together thanksgiving cornucopia litter of browns and yellows. And bringing your tail options from “civilized world” to “one aging sex symbol” was an interesting choice, but this is just too much. “According to insiders, it was Jolie who went down on one knee and asked Pitt to marry her.” And instead of pinching those pillowy lips and telling her what to do down there, he broke down crying and said, “I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” Only thing left to do now is squint your eyes and go to your happy place, because your life just went from matriarchy to weird haunted gothic prison movie. The kind where your dick floats like a spectre just out of reach from your position chained to the stove making breakfast for your G8 summit of a family, while the man of the house is out making her crappy movies.

The internets is abuzz with the news, and the language is right out of a reverse gendered ICP tune.

The actress – who earlier this month was reported to be preparing to tie the knot with her long-term partner – is said to have decided it was time to make Brad her husband during the couple’s stay in Venice… A source said: “Angelina has fallen in love with Brad all over again – and she wants to make it official by getting married. Once she made up her mind the only thing left to do was tell Brad.”

Brad should be happy she bothered to even inform him. Reportedly, the invitation came in the form of a new little brown boy that called him daddy, bearing the head of his favorite dog with a note stapled to its head with just the date and place written on it. He just put on his comfort panties and some INXS, and curled up fetal to wait for the blessed event. Nothing would ever be the same, he knew. He would find his clothes laid out for him every day, and would never be allowed to work for Guy Ritchie again. He began to contemplate what it would take to arrange for Angelina to meet with some kind of  “accident.”

"Hi, I'm an accident."

Psst. Clooney. Yeah, you, the one hosting this unholy pact at your Italian villa, dank with the musk of all the cooze you were smart enough to kick out once you wore it out. Come here, let me ask you something. You claim to be best buds with the lady of the Jolie house, right? So, what the hell is this shit? Shouldn’t you be the one reminding him that, with the slightest gesture of his little finger, Brad could Merlin the legs of every woman in a twenty mile radius painfully open? Instead, you’re lubing him up for the big black cock of debilitating daddy issues and the social conscience of twenty Ghandis? Why don’t you buy him a purse as a wedding gift while you’re at it? Step in, motherfucker! You know damned well that when a man says yes to a marriage proposal from a woman, he’s one short argument away from sitting down to piss for the rest of his life because he sprinkles. Do you want that for Tyler fucking Durden? Would Mickey O’Neil from Snatch ever agree to piss sitting down, even if he lost the use of his legs and spontaneously sprouted a yoni? Because by being a shitty friend, that’s what you’re dooming him to. Fuck you, George Clooney.

*Yeah, I’m proud of that. Also considered: “The Legend of Bagger Pussy Whipped,” and “(I Give It) Se7en Months.”
** Thanks, Dan.

(The consequences of using the term Booger Head. That is our word.)

Have you ever noticed that, when news sources actually get the point, it is an event? Some pundit, or parody of one, gets more than one solid point across in an interview, and the interviewee is declared “owned,” and political commentators and bloggers alike begin to publicly ponder why said new possession hasn’t yet fell on his sword from a thirty story building out of shame yet. It’s a real post-burrito circus, and kind of embarrassing for us as a country when we have to be shocked that one of our citizens said something smart on the tee-vee, so I’m pretty stoked Huffington Post wore a blindfold to the bazooka accuracy contest today.

Joseph Gullotta [mob] told two of his students, ages 9 and 10, to settle an argument with a classroom fight… [heh, one of those kids is really happy with that call]  One of the students suffered a cut lip, and the other sustained a bruised and swollen head during the Jan. 28 incident at P.S. 65 in the Ozone Park neighborhood… [blah blah blah, reading reading reading] After the boys began fighting, prosecutors said, Gullotta told a third student to close the classroom door… [Yes, yes, and...?] Gullotta then instructed the other students to back up to give the boys room to fight, prosecutors said. When Gullotta sent one of the boys to the school nurse two periods later, authorities said, he told him to lie and say he was hurt by bumping into another student while trying to pick up a pencil from the floor. [Yeah, more deception, but...] Authorities said they learned about what happened after one of the boys’ parents overheard him talking about it. [fair enough, keep reading] Gullotta and Abraham Fox, a teacher’s aide who prosecutors say witnessed the incident, are charged with two counts of endangering the welfare of a child, a misdemeanor. [You mean there's a law?] If convicted, each faces a maximum one year in jail.

Whoa! Reign that journalistic wild horse and buggy in! We’re jumping right to sentencing? Isn’t there a crucial component missing here? Like, did it work? Did the boys bro-hug it out after, stop at the cafeteria for some chocolate milk to talk it out? Can we stop children from bickering over Ghostbusters lunch pails and Velcro sneakers by making them beat the Christ out of each other? “The second rule of fourth grade is: no shirts, no shoes, no slap bracelets, cuz those things sting something awful.”

We see this kind of thing all the time when innovators come onto the scene, and Huffington Post is perpetuating it by jumping straight to sentencing without mentioning the outcome. Can you imagine if The Marinara Times or Track Suit Quarterly published a headline like, “Galileo Sentenced To House Arrest For Bullshit Heliocentric Theory,” and no scientists followed up? This is not to mention that the article also mentions nothing about the cause of the disagreement, which can sometimes be equally as important as the “whose blood is that” stage. Just saying, this Gullotta guy might be on to something with his Irish countryside meets gladiator concept of middle school justice. It took the entirety of The Quiet Man for John Wayne to work up the balls to hit his brother-in-law, but when they finally did pummel the bejesus out of each other, they ended up best friends with lovable drunken mick Barry Fitzgerald, a real Hollywood happy ending that is more than close enough to the point.

What’s needed here is a semi-controlled study, doing something similar in classrooms across the country. For instance: throw up some hidden cameras, give little Adam some bubble tape, and suggest it might be fun to stick it

Mr. Durden and Mr. King, reading and social studies, respectively

in little Caightlyn’s hair after it runs out of flavor in 20 seconds. If she doesn’t turn around and belt him on the spot, turn the desks into a boxing ring, and the row of computers into a bet analyzing pit. Teachers seem to be able to manipulate desks into any other ridiculous formation, like the Eiffel Tower for French Week, or a “Heads-Up 7-Up” conducive shape on Shut Up, Little Bastards Hangover Tuesday. My money is on Adam, because he’s bigger and less of a dweeb and pees standing up (does he pull his pants down at the urinal? Irrelevant!), but chicks get murderously angry over the stupidest shit, so this could go either way. So here, they are learning to resolve their differences without a learned, state-appointed arbitrator, who would just get in the way when fists would be so much easier, and – - bonus – - learning how to manage money at the same time.

And what if these classrooms are just a microcosm of our much larger society? Can we afford to miss the kind of opportunity that may end up benefiting all of mankind, by teaching us how to coexist? Like, how about, instead of whining and bickering over this pro-life Super Bowl ad thing, we just pit a fetus against a Clydesdale and see if a hate group or a beer company gets the spot? Or we could have Obama duke it out with the CEO of BofA for his billions in milk money. Those American bible-humpers that tried to abscond with Haitian devil-0wned children should be made to fight with the still existing parents and see who really deserves to have the kids. China’s new issue with sexual frustration causing social problems could be solved by fucking it out in public. Seemed to work for the Romans. The Gullotta Method, as we’re going to call it, has myriad applications. But yeah, throw his ass in jail for a year. That will teach him to take the ole noodle out for a walk and not scoop the poop.

“Stay tuned for “Randomly Selected Texan vs. Cartoon Cucumber” on Gullotta’s Justice! In this grudge match, each contender vows that winning with points is for pussies, and will make the mat his enemy’s burial shroud.” Ok, I’m done.