(He’s upset because of his inclusion in an unsavory joke in paragraph 4 or 5.)

I try to be mature, man, I do. I want to be a respectable adult about things. I got me a real adult style job, a wife, I haven’t been homeless for more than, say, a week cumulative since I got out of the most irresponsible daycare in the world, Hofstra. Whenever possible I vote and campaign for equal rights for all people, and point out the hypocrisy and ignorance in most forms of prejudice from whatever pulpit is provided me. And then this shit happens, not once, but twice in a week, and i have the urge to buy a box of Mott’s apple juice so I can blow the whole thing out my nose in a Chuck E Cheese ball pit. Sometimes my life feels like a Frosted Mini-Wheats commercial from the ’80s, except the transformation from adult to child is involuntary, painful, and not a little shameful. Does that turn you on, baby? What will it take to make you love me?

To the author of 'My Life... With a Smile.': I stole a picture of your kid for this. That's what you get for having a blog about your 7 kids and the vag cancer they gave you.

Anyway, I want everyone to know I am not the villain here. It’s not my fault that these headlines all found me in the course of a week, but I feel like I’d be depriving you if I didn’t share. From the prim, proper, full windsor BBC:

Family of Faggot Fans Fly the Flag

Nice alliteration! I have been operating under the assumption that English people couldn’t speak English anymore. I am going to be so disappointed if said flag isn’t doily. This kind of takes the wind out of the hysterical sails, but a case can be made that this is Britain, and they have different definitions for all kinds of things, like “food” and “sports.” You may think that, in Britain, a ‘faggot’ refers only to a bundle of sticks, but it turns out it can really refer to almost anything. A red pencil is also a faggot, as is a domed building, an unplugged coffee maker, and a tin awning, but only the top part. But the definition in question, the thing that brings this family together in perhaps the lamest form of activism man has conceived since “lactivism” (that’s a real thing, FSM preserve us), reports that a faggot is “pork liver served with mushy peas,” which frankly sounds grosser than lactivism and what our definitions do in the bedroom.*

Listen, just because your word means something different from ours, there is no way you are unaware how the less desirables in American society use it. I know that’s what the word means and all, and you’re not going to start changing the way you use your own language, even if we go out of our way to set a better example for you. But you could have avoided making the headline so funny. Now I feel like a fifth grader. Was that your plan? Are you amused by this?

Her husband Fred added: “It’s unfair because faggots were a British delicacy long before any of the others. The great British faggot is full of flavour and a great belly warmer at this time of year.”

Now I know you’re doing it on purpose! Covering up your motivations by peppering the article with cute little bits of information isn’t fooling anyone, either. “Faggots were called Savory Ducks in the middle ages.” And then was changed in the 1980s to make future twenty-something bloggers look like insensitive, sophomoric pricks. You think I don’t know you neglected to print the snickers Freddy-boy threw in after every other word in that quote? We took the ‘u’ out of ‘flavor’ like a century and a half ago, too. Now all I can imagine is some mutton-chopped pantywaist with a monocle named Balthazar Wraithwright Swineroarer III, poetically discussing his personalized method for ’savouring’ his poolboy’s used thongs when he ruffles through the hamper. “Holding the bright green garment no less than fourty centimeters from my nose, inhaling the summer odours of  exhibitionism and a solid day’s work, and the rolling slowly across my olfactory gland tannins of the glass of sherry I ‘mistakenly’ spilt on him…” Shame on you, Britain. I can push from my head the image of Zombie Gary Coleman raping the corpse of Phil Hartman with the business end of a Bowie knife, but I can’t unimagine that. We should have let the Germans raze London to the ground. Hell, if we’d known you were going to grow up to be such creeps, we would have helped.

The DOODY FAMILY? Really? Am I being punked by Monty Python?

And they have sashes? The Doody Family has Sashes with the colors of Nathan’s Hot Dogs, that say Faggot Family? What’s the score here? Did you guys at the BBC get ahold of, like, an American Slang Book and a bajillion ounces of weed? Are you all having a bloody good laugh at our expense? Are the Scottish in on it? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Dude, fuck this shit. From now on I’m reading American papers, ones not written by prepubescent gingers looking forward to their first boners. Let’s see if reliable old Reuters US has anything close to the efficient journalistic integrity we’ve come to expect sine Walter Cronkite invented news.

Tired Gay Succumbs to Dix in 200 Meters

Oh, just come right the hell on! Is there an editors’ strike I’m not aware of? I’ll not have the noble and ancient sport of tack’n'field besmirched with the dick jokes of a failed high school jock turned sports writer (exception: any testicle injury involving a hurdle; you’re just asking for an orange peeling, jumping with spread legs over heavy barriers). There is no good goddamned way the author of this article didn’t know what was going on here. I’m sure the story was relevant relevant enough to keep it from the cutting room floor entirely, but English is the most complex modern language. You could vary up the wording a bit. “Walter Dix Wins 200 Meter,” would work, at least for a headline. The relative subtlety of “Saw That Coming” would at least allow you to relegate the childishness to the body of the text. Either way, it’s going to be a long time until you reach the BBC’s level of mastery: “Dix’ Delight in Demolishing Drowsy Doughnut Damager.” My resume is in the mail, you pompous limey quims.

Next in the 'Pictures as Metaphors' lecture: "RUN!"

“It wasn’t bad, but I was a little fatigued toward the end,” Gay said. “I tried to stay relaxed and bring it home, but it wasn’t enough.”

Bad form, dude. Going to Prison 101: relax. You want to explain to the doctor how you got pink-socked because you couldn’t help clamping down like a rookie? Someone hasn’t been doing their stretches.

Let’s get our shit together, media. I don’t read the news so I can think about pink socks. I really don’t do anything with that expressed purpose. It would be cool if, say, a Hostess Snack Cake reminded me of a visual representation of an unfortunate side effect of buggery, or an unfortunately shaped kite, but two of the most trusted news providers in the world? That’s just ghey.

* Oh, don’t get all pissy, I’m allowed to find gay sex a little icky. Some of you find vagina gross, so I think we can let this slide. Also, aren’t you having fun seeing how many times I can use the F-word in an article without once using it personally in reference to fudge packers?

PS: On a serious note, after the jump you’ll find links to charities promoting civil rights, education and open discussion, etc. Because, to paraphrase Matt & Trey, everything is fodder for comedy or nothing is, even my bogus brand of low-brow. Exposing the inherent insanity of the bigoted and ignorant at the expense of the writer’s self-respect is totally worth the cover charge. At the same time, awareness, empathy, and progress are what makes comedy possible, so give them a click if you feel as dirty after reading SBS as we do after writing it.

Continue Reading…

(When Georgia O’Keefe met Courtney Love, the painter went into a horrified stupor. When she awoke, she found she had painted this. The artistic release failed to soothe her.)

The Widow Corbain has recovered from a two week bender and, for the second time in as many months, crawled out from under her rock to contribute her eloquence to a subject we’ve all already forgotten about. Seems Courtney Love  just got around to reading John Mayer’s playboy interview, in which he praises Jess Simpson’s “sexual napalm” and said his dick was a “white supremacist,” and she has… thoughts? An unreasonable facsimile, at least. From her Twitter:

“do you ever feel like spite hate fucking @johncmayer just to put hi in his place, hes a better guitarist than me but not better in bed !… but like say your fucking @johncmayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times”

If you can’t shut your mouth when nobody is talking to you, I’m going to find something else for it to do. Like gnaw on a Milkbone. What? I’m not sticking my dick in there. Might as well tell the doctor to fire up the ole circumstraint and set it to 3 inches, and don’t skimp on the battery acid. If she could see less than three of everything, she might have thought to say, “I’ll show him sexual napalm!” and then squat, dripping steaming holes in the carpet.

First of all, we have to do away with the terminology “hate fuck,” given the circumstances. Just like crime. All violent crimes are hate crimes, and adding extras to the sentence falls squarely into the category of most asinine legal moves in this country’s history. Just so, any fuck from Courtney Love is a hate fuck, engineered to apply the greatest possible shame, pain, and self-loathing imaginable. Kurt’s shotgun was just one big dildo designed to bring about the ultimate masochist climax available. Contributions to the Batman & Robin soundtrack was Billy Corgan’s, but to be fair, he found Jesus or some shit. Hint: He hides in the dryer, because He has the mind of a child.  “Let the children come to me, and pick sides for dodge ball!”

“BAM punch him in the face”? Mayer would probably embrace a punch from Tyson if it would blur his vision of that toothy, hair-lipped hell-maw you call a chatch for a few blessed seconds. In the past, I too have expressed a brand of hatred for the musician, though never to the point of arousal. My problem with him before was that he wasn’t using his demigod blues guitar powers for good. It’s like when Hulk Hogan turned bad, and still kicked ass, except Mayer’s bad was channeling the spirit of Mississippi John Hurt to waste on shitty sentimentality, landing himself in thediscount bin in the Adult Contemporary section. If Hurt had written “Your Body Is A Wonderland,” the title would have been, “You’re Pussy Is Real Loose, But Oh Well.” I don’t even want to think what “Daughters” would have been about.

"... and fathers go down on your daaaaauughters too... no matter how thick they thighs."

But John Mayer’s cheeky antics this year have redeemed him eleven-fold. Publicly swearing off relationships so he can get in as much pussy that isn’t attached to Jennifer “I’m Surprised She Isn’t A Cutter” Aniston as possible; Announcing onstage his intentions to impregnate at least one fan that very evening; Releasing a sugar-coated single about pinchbeck pillow-talk and getting stoned; Hell, “my penis is a white supremacist” is merely a direct, if entirely impolitic way of saying he has a type. How does Courtney Love not get behind that shit?

“oh dudes Mayers a little bland for me and youngish ill do young, but hes neither Yale Harvard Oxford and hes not really rock, so not for me,” she wrote. And to a fan who asked her to clarify hate fucking, she wrote, “hate fucking is an art like ‘the pit’ meaning you rape each other and then beat the shit our of each other so u can feel shit.”

Should have asked her to clarify “rock.” Let us know if the second side of Pretty On The Inside qualifies, seriously, because if it does, I know a 3 year old banging on his mom’s pots and pans with his dented skull that needs a career. When you die (I’m like a Catholic kid on December 20th for that), donate your brain to science so we know where this comes from. Isn’t a qualification for a university to be Ivy League a standing restraining order against you personally? Also, in your “The Pit” style hate fucking (the only thing you remember from the ’80s is The Pit? Jesus), who plays the autistic kid? “They don’t eat chocolate bars. You know what they eat?” All the shit Courtney Love seems to want to beat out of John and then “feel.”

In case Love’s mangling of an innocent metaphor into a gross-fest not seen since Matthew Broderick and his elephantitis stricken mare last coupled didn’t tickle your gag reflex with a rusty saw, she also threw this in:

“my genealogist* and my gynocplogist know i do my Kegals like a snatch the cig off the table thai sex worker,”

For the love of Bacchus, why? To belatedly show your computer is capable of capitalization, despite the fact you have no concept of how to use it? At least the beast what lives between your legs can have a smoke break between scrapings.

*How do you not know that a genealogist doesn’t need access to your vagina to ply his trade? Or is this not a medical thing, and you’re just naming two of the several thousand men you’ve granted access to your twat?

It’s February, and you know what that means: Greasy fried chicken Black History Valentine’s Day Bangin’! What? Didn’t you hear? Fried chicken and collard greens aren’t racist anymore, which is good because some assholes in white robes have been throwing buckets of Colonel at my house ever since I brought that black chick home, and it has been attracting coyotes, who have in turn been absconding with the neighbors’ cats.

Most black people were under the assumption that attributing a love of fried chicken to African Americans indicated a racist mindset. They were dead wrong, as it turns out. Over at NBC, the cafeteria is celebrating Black History Month by offering “fried chicken, collard greens, and jalapeno cornbread for lunch… every Thursday.” Questlove, whose band The Roots has been reduced to Eubanksing for Jimmy Fallon and would not, apparently, rather be homeless, got his panties in a bunch over it and NBC’s management shit kittens before taking the menu down. Some upper management dude Twatted: “The sign in the NBCU cafeteria has been removed. We apologize for anyone who was offended by it.” Anyone apparently meaning the completely irreplaceable band leader for a totally irreplaceable ultra-late talk show host. Anyone remember when being someone’s boss was fun?

However, in a twist you just can’t make up, the woman who actually chose and cooked the selection appeared in a video completely flabbergasted by the hullabaloo – - and she’s black! Awesome. Chef Leslie Calhoun says, “February is black history month, so we always been tryin’ to get somethin’ goin’ on,” and she been axin’ and axin’ and axin’ about it and finally dis year they let her pick a special menu in honor of you-peoples’ holiday… s. And she is surprised and disappointed “that someone would take offense of it.” Suck it, Questlove. Black people like their fried chicken, and they don’t have to hide it any more. An admitted black woman put fried chicken on the menu to celebrate Black History Month, and you pretended you weren’t excited. I must say the article didn’t mention if the drummer complained before or after he had three helpings. Still, it makes sense. You don’t hear the Irish bitching that every meal on St. Patrick’s Day includes mostly potatoes, even though culturally our very genetics are tired of them after not being able to eat anything else for a long time. We’re still working on watermelon, weed, and purple drink, Leslie, but maybe next year.

Speaking of shit black people love, February 14th is a very special day… for White Castle. Seems you can make a reservation at any of their multitudinous locations on cell-phone buying day to “indulge in a romantic candlelight dinner,” and never get laid again. Unless you move out of the state and change your name, maybe grow some facial hair. When you show up for this date, bring flowers and Sôcôla’s Beer and Bacon Chocolate Truffles, because if she agreed to any part of this, she’ll probably die over this if she isn’t disappointed she didn’t get to kill the pig herself. I don’t know what your girlfriend will find more romantic: getting their Valentine’s meal in individual boxes, or alternating with you all night on the can with stock-piled military grade Febreeze. The marketing department, in it’s defense, has probably never actually eaten at a White Castle (When asked, one said, “gross, dude”), so is probably not aware that a visit to the restaurant is an exercise in intestinal masochism. “We’ll even upload a photo of your romantic rendezvous to our website,” which, after V-day, will serve as The National Sex Offenders Registry website for undatable men*. After the ludicrous suggestion that you bring a Valentine’s date to White Castle, the website has the balls to suggest: “Get your sweetie some Craver Gear. And maybe they’ll slip into something a little more comfortable.” Like their car, to get the tits out of Dodge, and go to a place that recognizes the term “insult to rectal injury.”

For some reason, dropping Cosby’s kids off at the pool isn’t everyone’s idea of the spirit of the holiday, so how bout fuckin’ there? Mildred’s Temple Kitchen in Canada is a restaurant opening it’s stalls from the 12th-15th for “sexual escapades.” They’ll have a French maid cleaning up, and Karma Sutras in each stall for encouragement, so that will be fun, especially for the guy next door who just wants to take a dump and has to listen to you grunt your way to an awkwardly positioned climax into your unimpressed girlfriend. They won’t provide condoms, but they do offer to sell you a $55 “naughty love hamper” that includes fuzzy handcuffs, which definitely doesn’t have kidnapping disaster written all over it. Screw the hamper (how can a hamper be naughty?),  how much for the maid?

If you’ve already got your dinner plans for the Big Ripoff, it’s time to start thinking about dessert, nudge nudge. I meant bangin’. My plan is to get at least one of my girlfriends something sexy from ‘Ohh! La, La! Couture,’ the lingerie line with punctuation tourettes launched and modeled by BFFs… Noah Cyrus and Emily Grace. For those of you keeping score at home (I’m lookin’ at you NH RSA 632-A:3, III), these savvy entrepreneurs are 9. Not “so hot she’s almost a 10.” So excited she’s almost ten years old. Seems Billy Ray is betting that all the genetic talent went to his first daughter (and then some, sir) and gearing his younger daughter up for a socialite career, with a rich and otherwise useless best friend (she’s 9, what’s your excuse Richie?), a sticky-with-filth reputation, and entitlement issues that would make Tila Tequila piss herself. But the problem isn’t that she’s too young to be promoting, designing, and modeling lingerie, dressing up as a dominatrix for halloween, or have more hooker boots than Ninth and Benton. It’s that she’s ugly as sin. And don’t even try to tell me that’s unfair. If you or your legal guardian are going to put you out there as a sex object, I am going to judge you as such. And my judgment isn’t even a three. Chick’s got baby fat instead of tits, limp hair, I’m pretty sure her makeup artist is a coroner, and her face looks like someone lit it on fire and put it out with a rake. It’s like God had a bad day before making her and wouldn’t put down the potato masher, and sent the stork to Corky and Swamp Thing’s love nest. Seriously, she is so fugly she could make a theater full of black people scream until they puked fried chicken and purple drink.*

(Jesus diaper-shitting Christ, put it away! Sumbitch, now I’m going to have nightmares.)

*Parents, don’t go there. I just found 7 registered sex offenders in my neighborhood, one up the block named Dennis Hittler, which isn’t ominous at all. Don’t worry, Mom. All the offenders in your town live near Grandma.
** Just taking it for a spin, now that it’s all good.

(For the sake of our sanity, the one who didn’t ruin herself by having children, and the one even remotely deserving of celbrity. You’re welcome. Also included: her fabulous pooper.)

It’s always the weakest link in a conspiracy that ends up ruining it for everyone else. This time it is the myth that giving birth is a difficult process that’s finally been disproven. Kourtney “The Ugly One” Kardashian told the press today, “It was surprisingly easy and just an incredible experience. I always thought your first is supposed to be really hard, but it was easy,” adding that she even invited the whole family in to watch. Despite how gross we all find that to be, we do have to extend a word or two of gratitude to Kourtney for being a dumb bitch.

Every other woman on the planet knows popping a miniature person out of a canal the size of a drinking straw is no big deal. But you’re supposed to actlike it is the most testicle-stranglingly excrutiating experience of all time so you can rake in all the sympathy and free labor your baby-daddy is expected to languish upon you for a couple of months afterward. Then you’re supposed to invent non-existant symptoms like post-partem depression to extend that doting attention as long as your man will possibly buy it.

After all is said and done, you’re supposed to say stupid crap like, “Women are so much stronger than men. Men could never handle the agony of child birth. That’s scientifically proven.” That is one of my biggest pet peeves. Just because you want to believe something really really bad doesn’t mean it is scientifically proven. That statement is the exact opposite of scientifically proven, because thus far, it is impossible for someone without a vagina to give birth vaginally. You can’t just make shit up to take away the one last thing men actually have over women. It’s like me saying, “It is scientifically proven that Kelly Brook can’t get enough of my cock, and wants desperately to join my harem for the privilege of being in its presence.” When that happens, it may very well be true, but I wouldn’t ring up Stephen Hawking until we see it in action.

A rare digression. The point is, Kourtney, you just gave up the secret in the most public way possible, and ruined it for the rest of womandom, and for that we thank you. No longer will men be the sole bottle warmers, shit wipes, and midnight comforters of early parenting for the sake of their delicate and slightly fatter women. Get on the treadmill and get back to work, new moms, the gravy train is over. It’s either that or Kourtney Kardashian’s pussy is so loose you could fit a basket ball through it without causing discomfort, and we wouldn’t want to imply that a beloved American neo-celebrity is a whore, would we?

(A google search for “Cuisine of Holland” yielded this as its first result. While they certainly have solved the age-old problem of hotdog to bun ratios, I’m concerned it raises more questions than it answers.)

Over in Holland they’re finding new ways of ruining your dining experience. Not content with simply slathering unnecessarily thick fries with mayonaise and deep-throating raw herring, scientists over there (they have ‘em) have found a way to create pork in a lab. They extracted some specialized cells used for muscle regrowth, and then…

“The cells were then incubated in a solution containing nutrients to encourage them to multiply indefinitely. This nutritious “broth” is derived from the blood products of animal foetuses.”

Bloody fetus broth sounds delicious. Every time we’re told there’s a way to eat something without harming it, we’re left wanting. You have to be really careful too, because the hippies that don’t want us eating animals have taken lies to a militant extent, trying to pass off anything from cardboard to dish detergent as a suitable meat substitute. I was at a food fair recently, and tucked in the corner was a vegan table. “It’s made of tofu,” they said, “but it tastes just like bacon and sausage!” Authorities have ruled their deaths an accident because of a lack of evidence. You don’t tell a man he’s going to get bacon, and hand him a limp grey piece of used dish towel. Especially when you can’t tell the difference, because you don’t eat bacon. I’ve never had a Jew come up and tell me his matzoh tasted ”just like shrimp” or whatever, because they have the decency to not decide what other people’s food tastes just like.

 “’You could take the meat from one animal and create the volume of meat previously provided by a million animals,’ said Mark Post, professor of physiology at Eindhoven University, who is leading the Dutch government-funded research.”

So, now the question becomes: who’s the lucky animal that gets to sacrifice himself so that millions can live? It will have to be a virgin, so Arkansas pigs are safe… Screw it, I think we should make a member of PETA choose, they care so damned much.

“So far the scientists have not tasted it, but they believe the breakthrough could lead to sausages and other processed products being made from laboratory meat in as little as five years’ time.”

The scientists won’t even eat it! Tell you what: Meat comes from the corpse of a living, walking animal that has been bred to maximum deliciousness. I’m as big a trekkie as anyone in this joint, and I’ve murdered my share of Boca Burgers, but you’re never going to convince me that something “is meat” or “tastes just like meat” when it is not, in fact meat. So Holland, continue eating your Dutch pea soup, also called Snert (come on), and drink your famous “beer” Heineken (famous for tasting skunked no matter when you drink it, that is), and leave the meat to people who understand what belongs on a bun. But thank you for making “bloody fetus broth” a tag on Scumbag Style.