(”And thus did the tanks of Seaworld run red with the lifeblood of the Orca, and the Israelites were blessed by God for putting the Killer Whale to death with a season and a half of great harvest, until a Rapist Chinchilla in San Diego had its way with a toddler.” Book of Eatme 12:31)

The controversy over killer whales doing their eponymous job has gone Old Testament, and this connoisseur of the overblown is grinning like suicide bomber heaven’s millionth customer. Let’s start with how Huffington Post presented the story, then go on to the site that called the following cetacean jihad.

The American Family Association, a religious right group, is urging that Tillikum (Tilly), the killer whale that killed a trainer at SeaWorld Orlando, be put down, preferably by stoning.

Do they even make bongs big enough to give that monster an overdose? Please say yes… Oh, you mean like the deadly community circle jerk and lentil festival. Fair enough. Nothing better than a brutally slow, torturous death if one is called for. If only old Tilly had the forethought to yell “God wills it!” before mangling his bipedal friend, they might have granted him a subaqueous fiefdom. No seriously, I’m in. Haven’t been to a good stoning since I was in Haiti teaching a village what “poetic justice” meant, and out of nowhere Pat Robertson decided to visit. Remind me real quick, AFA, why are we dusting off the oldest form of execution by committee for a marine mammal, and not William Wallacing it?

“When an ox gores a man or woman to death, the ox shall be stoned, and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner shall not be liable.” (Exodus 21:28)

As a creative person, I get a little disappointed when a god tells me how I should kill something, when I have all these ideas floating around in my head. The god of the Hebrew Scriptures is like a grade school math teacher; it’s long division, not competitive ice carving, I’ll show your mom my “work.” No, this time I’m all about the literalistic scripture interpretation (though where whales fit into a story specifically about oxen I’ll leave the convenience scholars to decide), if only for sheer entertainment value. Sea World should sell tickets to this thing, fill those uncomfortable bleachers with sticky human spawn. Get a couple hundred devotees  of this group, and let them go to towns. They might kill the thing, but not before those pebbles bounce off the whale’s rubbery hide and piss it off enough to take at least half of them out. For all we know, old Tilly will just wait under water until they’re out of ammo, learning to spit them back at the bastards. Those plastic ponchos will sell for at least a hunsky  in those conditions.

Exodus is so helpful it even goes on to say what happens if further incidents occur: if your ox kills a second time, “the ox shall be stoned, and its owner also shall be put to death,” (Exodus 21:29) because this time he should have known his ox was a slasher film villain. But how to smite, God? You can’t hold my hand up to this point and then leave me to my own murderous devices. Take me to murder school!And how does one go about killing “Seaworld.” Does that include the guests? What about the harmless rays and fish in the naughty touch tank? Screw it, kill ‘em all, just to be sure. Not the penguins though. They’re nature’s retards, and Seaworld isn’t in Texas.

It doesn’t matter anyway because:

Chalk another death up to animal rights insanity and to the ongoing failure of the West to take counsel on practical matters from the Scripture. The Sentinel recounts that Tilly had killed a trainer back in 1991 in front of spectators…  Then in 1999 he killed a man who sneaked into SeaWorld to swim with the whales and was found the next morning draped dead across Tilly’s back. His body had been bit and the killer whale had torn off his swimming trunks [actually, it was underwear, but i know that's a dirty word in Christendom] after he had died. [How do you know that?]

Can you imagine what would have happened if those animal rights psychos had their own way from the beginning and these murderous sunzabitches were allowed to live in the wild? Then who would we stone, fags? Because that’s illegal still, right? All the fun ones are.

I see your point on the first one, though: according to Exodus the whale should have been pelted with prehistoric hand-grenades in 1991. But the dude who sneaked into Seaworld in the middle of the night to swim with a killer whale in his tighty whiteys? Tilly only removed the dude’s “trunks” to get at his genitals so the world, should he survive an Orca attack, could be free of his dumbfuck genes. Give the whale a pass, guys, it was doing us a favor.

Huffington post helpfully chimes in: “SeaWorld has no plans to execute Tilly.” Because, as the seriously misinterpreted Jesus said about stoning, “Let he who is without sin pack the first bong.” Man, is Aramaic ever hard.

(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.

(This picture from the What’s Coming To You archive, reminding everyone that if you’re going to act like a bitch you better be in the kitchen making me dinner.)

Perez Hilton is to this profession what Sarah Jessica Parker’s womb is to her, ugly and beyond useless. And while it hasn’t been my stated goal to tear that weird, whiny megalomaniac down… let’s just say that feather in my cap would be a big, male peacock euphemism. He’s garnered some noise about this 7+ minute masturbatory, ego-boost video blog he posted on YouTube and his own site, and it has provided me my first angle of attack. It is titled “On Dating & Men” which is an adorable affectation that almost makes it look like he’s a real actual writer. Kind of like when you see a baby in a sailor suit, and you throw up in your mouth a little and hope for his sake his mom dies and he gets placed with a family that actually loves him. I sure as shit am not posting the video here (you can click the link), because that would just give him even more exposure than he deserves, but here are some excerpts for you to guffaw at.

The crux of the speech is just how super hard it is to date, both in general, as a celebrity, and as a connoisseur of cock. It is a hard-hitting, insistent push on the boundaries of how much we’re supposed to give a shit about the love life of any celebrity, let alone a negative Z celebrity, and one can’t help but grunt and tear up at the pressure. Was that too subtle?

“I just need to put this out there in the Universe. Own it, give it away, and hopefully… be free from it, learn from it, grow from it, and also express how I’m feeling and what I want and need and maybe some of you will relate to what I have to say.”

Great, so for the next seven minutes, fans of Perez (they exist) can expect to have imposed upon them a greasy, sacharine bitch-burger that he readily admits is pretty common and relatable. Sign me up for that! I can’t wait to hear about the personal growth of a dude who makes a career out of being a celebrity parasite, all topped off with a Santa list of the shit we’re not laying at his feet like we should be. Continue, sir.

“So, for the longest time, I did not want to date. [super punctuation] … I didn’t even want to get naked with someone… I was extremely overweight, and I didn’t want anyone to seeing me naked. So for the longest time — I’m talkin’ loooong time — after i started doing the website I was practically celibate. By choice.”

Yeah, that is definitely why you weren’t getting any. Because you chose not to. Try to Brillo the image of a fat, naked Perez Hilton the fuck out of your mind as we strap ourselves in for this ride.

“In my mind, I thought ‘Gosh, when I get in shape and start lookin’ good, it’s going to be so easy to date.’ WRONG! I have become painfully aware that dating is. not. easy…”

Thanks for the update, Roger Lodge. Nobody has ever had dating trouble before, especially after a “self imposed” period without practice. In fact, I would go so far as to say this love fest couldn’t get more self-indulgent – -

“AND dating is even harder when you have a certain level of fame… AND dating is even THAT MUCH HARDER when you’re me.”

I gotta stop saying that. Mira! It’s the world’s tiniest red piano playing just for you, Perez. Nevermind you wrote, produced, and starred in it.

He then goes off on this Chicken Soup for the Soul for Gays for Dummies trip, in which he employs every cliche (I hate having to use that word ever, and I’m adding it to the list, you bastard) and trope you’ve ever heard about the difficulties of dating, peppered liberally with the least creative (and sometimes kind of gross), 13-year-old girl poetry metaphors. It’s not worth quoting here, but let me paraphrase: *ahem* Dating is like picking a scab and picking and picking and picking and I just want my wounds to heal and you have to get past Perez the celebrity to get to me and Perez is me but only partly me you have to learn the real Perez and people in LA are so fake and I thought I knew how to spot fakers but I was so wrong and dating is like hitting a bullseye its all about timing in relationships and its SO HARD and I guess if it wasn’t we’d all be in relationships…

Spare me. Oh, wait there’s still more than 2 minutes left? Well, at least I saved you guys from five minutes of Saved By The Bell story hour.

“And there was this one guy, whom shall remain nameless [groan], who totally played me. He PLAYED ME so. hard. Let me tell you something, I do not make out with my friends, so don’t make out with me if we’re friends, if we want to be more than friends… then we can make out.”

Then he made a face like a constipated Incredible Hulk and made some kind of unattractive groaning sound, and continued on about how being hurt sucks. Making out? Being hurt “really sucks”? Put it in your pink diary with the dainty ineffective little clasp, you second rate diva. We get that you’re gay, dude, but you’re also purportedly – as the sistas like to say – a “grown ass man.” This guy is the ugliest high school freshman girl I have ever seen, and somehow he is one of the premier bloggers in this, the heyday of blogging. Although, I have to say, blurbs under pictures saying “You go, girl” does not a blogger make. He has influence and fans, and hob-knobs with celebrities who don’t even like him. And he makes a crap load of money! When the Teacher’s Manifesto comes out, militantly demanding better pay and a better dress code, a big picture of his ass better be on the Kinko’s glossy cover. You thought Haiti was bad, I can’t wait to see what Pat Robertson has to say when the devil cashes in his deal with this incredible dweeb.

You think you have it bad, Perez, with people wanting to suck you off to get closer to real, actual celebrities? Frankly that sounds like gravy laced with gold flakes to me. Take a look at the people out there with real dating problems. Like also-ran Democrat John Edwards, who finally came out today as the father of already admittedly his mistress’ kid.

Edwards earlier admitted that he had an affair with Rielle Hunter while he was campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination. Hunter gave birth in February 2008 to a baby girl. She is widely reported to have named the girl Quinn. [Widely reported? What the hell kind of journalistic fact-avoidance is that?] Edwards denied that he was the girl’s father for more than a year, saying the affair was over before Hunter became pregnant.

It takes some real stones to admit paternity the rest of the world already knew about anyway. I swear to the great FSM, when I am supreme ruler of Earth and all the Human space plantation colonies, I am appointing Maury Povich as Scandal Czar. It will be such a fucking party every time a politician shtupps the wrong gold-digging bimbo that the world’s power will go out with all the popcorn we’ll be microwaving. We’ll be all popping the Red Duck (the cheapest, most excellent champagne on the market) and yelling at the TV like black people in a movie theater every time they announce a baby-daddy. Isn’t that enough to get me elected Emperor? Or, barring that, enough at least for the acknowledgment Perez Hilton is getting?

P.S. I hope you all appreciate what I went through to write this. Perez’ blog wasn’t transcribed or anything, for good reason, so I had to do all of that myself. You know, rewinding bits to get the wording right, in the face of the ultimate adversity: listening to his grating patter for any longer than I had to. That is how dedicated I am to loving you, the reader, and hating that guy.

California: Scumbag Style has tentative plans to hang at the Coachella Music Festival 2010, the lineup of which was announced today. A lot of exciting acts are up this year, like Passion Pit, Phoenix, the Specials, Grizzly Bear, Dirty Projectors, Camera Obscura, Spoon, The Dead Weather, MUTEMATH, Frightened Rabbit, Gary Numan, etc. For those of you who are coming to party with us, SBS is happy to provide a guide (pictured above) for what to do when the inconsequentials are onstage. Feel free to adapt the helpful suggestions to your own schedule; you never know when the desire to drink another beer will come around, and perhaps fucking in the Port-o-Potty seems more hygienic than the mud.

Haiti: As nations across the globe rush food, medical aid, and hookers over to naturally devastated Port Au Prince, Faith Comes By Hearing, a US based faith group is sending 600 solar powered audio bibles, with more on the way. Designed for “poor and illiterate people,” their website says, the bibles are “self-powered and can play the Bible in the jungle, desert or … even on the moon!” We send a lot of illiterate people to the moon. No longer will space monkeys have to endure the cold vacuum without knowing that Peleg begot Reu! Not for nothing, can we get a cost comparison analysis for how much these wonderful pieces of technology cost compared to rice? People are being buried by the dozerfull, I’m sure audio books are the way to go. One resident of Haiti’s capital, left homeless and with a broken leg after the catastrophe, said, “Can somebody begat a brother some Band-Aids?”

Space: There may be hope for our criminally under-funded space program yet! Scientists are postulating that Neptune and Uranus (when was the last time you had a good laugh at that name? High school? Go ahead, nobody’s looking) might have “oceans of liquid diamond… with chunks of solid diamond floating like icebergs.” If the impending doom of the species on Earth as warned by people like Stephen Hawking, or even the depletion of our natural resources, wasn’t enough to convince people that our space programs aren’t more important than ever, maybe a good healthy gold rush, and the chance to enslave some people to retrieve it, is what is called for to get these people off their asses. Fire up the engines, boys, Uranus is the new California. Imagine the hippy music festivals we’ll be able to have there!

(”I’m going to keep talking as long as you guys keep giving me free press.”)

Over the past few days, people have been asking me to do a write-up on the Pat Robertson scandal. People are yelling across the intertubes, masturbating each other’s deep Shakespearean-ass anger over his statements earlier in the week concerning Haiti and their flu or whatever it is. They want me to seizure with them or something, spewing the piss of outrage and the vomit of indignation to intermingle whorishly in the Olympic sized pool of the shit the ‘net already houses. I wasn’t going to, because its already a sagging, splintering bandwagon and there didn’t seem to be a point, and because I celebrated the death of Oral Roberts drunk and naked, so my readers already know my thoughts. But there was another, more important reason, which seems to have been ignored in every commentary I’ve seen so far, so let’s get this out of the way, once and for all.

Ours is a country that salivates for scandal like Tom Cruise for cock, and like him we will make a church of scandal out of anything just to have an outlet to express our outrage. This week that addiction to pure pap escalated to new Corky heights to getting angry over Pat Robertson saying that a devastating natural disaster was the result of a deal Haitians made with the devil. And everyone is right, that kind of talk should not be tolerated. The thing is, it’s only a scandal if you expected something different. What did you want to hear, tuning into The 700 Club? Who even has that channel anymore? There is no reason that Pat Robertson should be treated like a politician or a celebrity. He is a doddering, bigoted, old cult leader who has never had anything interesting to say, and has never done anything good for anyone. His comments concerning the French pull0ut from Haiti only brand him as an outdated colonialist ideologue with no concept of contextual history. Getting outraged is only justifying his statements, and acknowledging him at all means his words carry weight, which they don’t, because he is a aging, senile thief.

The worst thing is that we have been demanding an apology from the wrinkled little fruitcake. Demanding an apology used to mean something in this country. Who cares if he says he is sorry? First of all, he is not, no matter what he says. Secondly, I don’t much care to have an apology from someone who isn’t relevant to the situation, and would be hard pressed to find relevancy outside the situation. The guy is the white Al Sharpton; a racist fool who has answers for every question nobody asked him, and who involves himself in tricky situations to confuse and anger people for the wrong reasons. Think about it: in the past decade, has the world weathered a disaster, natural or man-made, without one of these cunt-rockets assuring us it all comes from their imaginary friend’s wrath? It was homosexuality, it was abortion, it was Pokemon, it was whatever barbed wire was up their rotten, scowling, build-your-own-Jesus vaginas that pissed God off enough to wipe out a few thousand innocents. It’s asinine, but CNN covers each one with the regularity of a fifteen-year-old on a diet completely consistent of Metamucil and bran muffins.

Can’t you see he’s playing us, just like he plays the idiots that he cozens into sending him money every month? “No press is bad press” is a truism for everyone except Tiger Woods, who is now paying for his black deal with the devil in “sex rehab,” which is the silliest concept ever. Sit down, smoke a bowl, and think clearly. UPS is sending boxes under 50 pounds to Haiti for free, and American Airlines is flying doctors and nurses out there gratis. You can friggin’ text 10 bucks worth of aid, right from where you’re standing on your indignity box. Forget Pat Robertson, because he is not worth wasting breath over, and do something you can be proud of. Like joining team Conan.