(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.

(Um, herro? Is the invisible cerr-phone on?)

In the wake of this oil spill “siege,” and pundits opining on how much better a president Obama would be if he would just kiss more sea turtles and tongue clean more babies with Dawn, the weeks-long extinction of leadership qualification based on whether or not your average yokel would “have a beer” with said leader was resurrected like so much stinking, maggoty zombie. Then, the real enemy arrived at our gates, the World Cup, with all the glossed-over jingoism, ritual murders, and justified rioting that entails. A big story was North Korea’s entrance into the international competition, and only after 44 years of  absence from FIFA, 1 South Korean ship sunk, and innumerable shallow parodies of their diminutive leader on late night cartoons. It’s true, Kim Jong Il has been described as an intolerable despot, a dangerous wild card on the international landscape, an avid collector of mass killing machines to use on taller, better endowed nations. But you know what North Koreans have that we don’t? They don’t have to imagine what it would be like to throw back a brew and shoot some pool with their despot, and that’s not only because he’d be too short to reach the table.

So, given that we primitive capitalists don’t enjoy that particular luxury, what would having a beer with Kim Jong Il be like? You’d have to meet somewhere that he could survey all exits, squinting through those power specs from atop his perch on his bar stool, looking for all the world like the most paranoid, dangly-feet Asian midget this side of Kato.

He’ll probably ask for a Taedonggang beer, the “choice of the Dear Leader” (Reuters) with a name that sounds like a black belt raping technique consistent with North Korea’s human rights record. He’ll bitch and moan upon being reminded about the whole trading embargo thing, angrily pacing on top of the bar, ripping out tap handles and brandishing them as swords, until someone hands him a Heineken, and the familiar taste of urine calms him down.

The game will be on, the great savior of supposed companions in bars with nothing in common, and he’ll tell you, apropos of nothing except that you haven’t praised him in three minutes, how on his first day out on the golf course, he shot a modest 38 under par, made possible by a mere 5 holes-in-one. “It’s a matter of public record,” he’ll tell you, adding, “Tiger Woods is a fag.” It is at that point you’ll realize that this is why people abroad don’t want to think about having beers with the man who has the power of life and death over them. Kim Jong Il did not, in fact shoot 38 under par from a mere three feet off the ground in a jumpsuit that would make a Ghostbuster squirm; such a feat is physically impossible for even the West’s greatest athletes, but everybody in North Korea, when pressed, would tell you that their Beloved Leader is without a doubt the best golfer in the world.

I totally believe you, but Lee Trevino will need some convincing. That is his mildly incredulous face.

“Oh, and I bowled a perfect game on my first try, so yeah, win,” he’ll say, his yes-men nodding their heads in the way men do when they’ve witnessed waterboarding firsthand. You just don’t say no to a guy like that. Just like if you were to have a beer with W., and he told you God speaks to him, you better nod ’til you throw your neck out or you’ll be sent on a hunting trip with Cheney. You start to develop a grudging respect for North Koreans. At least they didn’t elect their liliputian nutball.

In an attempt to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortably blatant lies, you’ll compliment him on his country’s soccer team, making a surprising return to the World Cup after 44 years. You will fail. “I trained them myself,” he will insert with a proud, straight face. He’ll tell you about how he drafted some of his players, and you’ll imagine state-sanctioned kidnappings of North Korean families whose lives will be spared once the player wins the Glorious Leader one of those little gold painted statues they give out to all American girls, even if they didn’t win, just for trying their best. “Even though I couldn’t be there, I called most of the strategic shots from my palace. Soccer is like war, and I gave my generals the benefit of my enlightened tactics.” Then he’ll have to go make a tiny little boom boom, and demand you come tongue clean his pucker, and seem genuinely confused when you politely decline.

When he returns, you’ll point out to him, reasonably, that at no point were any of his people on the phone to anyone during their losing match, and he’ll retort, also reasonably, “All North Koreans have invisible cellular telephones implanted in their ears. I also invented those” [Time fucking Magazine, you don't believe me]. Your lip is trembling now, you are in serious danger of failing to hold back barks of mockery. You’ll recall that, when the militantly sequestered North Korean team was finally forced to talk to the press, that the coach had said as much, acknowledging the phone thing, attributing all credit for the team’s successes to their deified dictator, all the while knowing there was a good chance he and the rest of the team would be executed for the team’s much more  prevalent failures. “Yeah, I’ll execute his ass,” Kim Jong Il will tell you. “When they lost, that was when he didn’t do all the amazing shit I told him to do through the invisible cell phone.”

What kind of man needs to do this? you wonder. It boggles the mind to imagine a dude so insecure with himself that he has to have a country of people, media outlets, public records, everybody swearing to Christ that indefensible, obvious  untruths are gospel. They all know these things are blatant falsities, and that saying these things out loud would be as ludicrously embarrassing as if our Secretary of Defense held a press conference to describe what the Easter Bunny gave him, but if Kim casually mentions he has a four foot dick, all systems of linear measurement in North Korea would immediately be described in terms of Little Kims (it is very weird to have that phrase mean two different things to me now). “How deep is your pool?” “Oh, about 2 Dear Leader’s Astoundingly Huge Rods.”

You’ll want to point out to him that he’s the leader of a country, that his daddy issues don’t have to extend so far as to try to out ’splody him (George, that goes for you, too), no matter that the country kind of blows compared to some other ones. But you won’t, because he’ll try to invent an explosive out of a paper cocktail umbrella and an ashtray, and watching him fail without having someone around to tell him it worked would be too painful. Instead, four beers in and in a “fuck it” kind of mood, you’ll ask him if it really was on his orders that South Korean ship was torpedoed, seemingly out of nowhere. “You’re damned right it was me,” he’ll slur. “I wanted those bastards to know that, even if a shot hasn’t been fired in 60 years, we’re still at war, further economic sanctions be damned!”

You’ll imagine the child version of Kim, losing badly at Monopoly, getting up from the table until someone lands on Baltic, his sole property, enough times for him to get back in the game, returning periodically to randomly flick houses off the board, and send the top hat to jail for not publicly agreeing that he was the world’s best Monopoly player. You’ll realize that the saddest thing in the world is a grown man in a palace, surrounded by sycophants and ninjas, having a biggest dick competition with himself. It will be sobering enough to make you fit for driving, so you’ll stand, and politely make your excuses, offering to pay the tab. He’ll tell you he actually pissed the beers you’ve shared into glasses himself, that he has actually invented the human beer tap, that he is that hero, so there’s no need to waste your filthy American money. You’ll say, “Whatever you say, buddy,” tell him you’ll call him next weekend, that maybe you’ll show him this titty bar you’ve been frequenting, but you won’t, and you both know it.

As you stumble out to your car, fumbling for your keys, you’ll wonder why this deluded, simple man is considered one of the world’s gravest threats, when all the West has to do is send him a Fisher Price kitchen set and a sandbox, and allow him to invent warp drive, time travel, and carb-free soda in his brain, all the while building a giant play pen around him. You could think of a million baby-sitters that could drop by once in a while to make sure he isn’t playing with anything sharp or nuclear powered, and to make sure he finally drinks the milk his mother obviously failed to give him as a kid. It makes you think, why your own leaders spout enough propaganda to make you want to stab this man in the face, when really all he deserves is your pity, why our stances are always firmly entrenched, and not vaguely sad. Kind of makes you want to pity everybody you see, your leaders, your friends, even the guy in the bitchin’ Cadillac that cut you off because he is clearly better than you. Which in turn makes you want to go home and demand your wife stand on the balcony declaring your chicken cacciatore the best in the world, and that you can make her cum in negative five seconds, because who is going to argue, really?

(Good news! You are the recipient of the first successful face transplant in Spain, and the villagers are letting the torches lie, for now. Bad news: you now have to star in a movie with Cher.)

It’s been a particularly rough week for all of us, but mostly me, which is the part of “us” that really matters. They say it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile, but I’ve found an expression of spiteful indifference is free. Let’s offset the sour semen taste in all our mouths with some happy thoughts, like free tickets to donkey shows and happy hour at the tranny bar.

Science! Good News to all those who thought they would never be able to experience the novelty of making it with the retarded girl down the street (just once, you know, for laughs): turns out it’s only natural. Scientists have discovered that Europeans (white folks) have between one and four percent Neanderthal DNA floating about in their systems, which means early humans regularly went borderline bestiality with their progenitors, with some arguable incest sprinkled in there for good measure. Really good news for those with retarded moms then, I guess, though you should really consider punching your dad in the face after you’re done. (HP)

TeeVee! Good News for those who like Comedy Central shows that get canceled after half a season: The stubbornly hit-or-miss network plans to air a new show called JC, a look at what it might be like if Jesus moved out of his dad’s house and did stupid hipster shit in New York. How edgy! I bet he smokes weed, which was so badass never. What’s next, cartoon babies with cigars?  (HP)

Religion! Good News for those that think the aforementioned show is an asinine concept with about three episodes worth of material to draw from: the star just got hit by a car. That’s right, up in Northampton, MA, a dude by the name of Lord Jesus Christ was fender-banged by a chick calling herself Brittany Cantarella. Hey, that name doesn’t sound Jewish, stop trying to kill their savior! (HP)

Retail! Good news for Chicagoans who fucking hate madras: Two people got their asses capped in the big Old Navy at the Loop, shutting its doors for the duration of the investigation, and right in time for the summer release of shirts “as gay as Boy George in an Arbor Mist ad.” Stop trying to make pink happen for dudes, Old Navy, people are starting to talk. Also good news for Old Navy’s ad department: they have a great new slogan that pretty much writes itself – “Old Navy: Clothes To Die In A Hail of Funfire For!” Also good news for Chicagoans who hate Chicagoans: HuffPost reports, “After the shooting, crowds of pedestrians gathered on the sidewalk outside the shuttered store.” If the mentality in Chicago is to walk toward the gunshots, we’ll soon see a sharp decline in Styx members, and that’s good for everybody. (HP)

Sexy! Good news for those just speaking of trannies – - just me, huh? Oh well, good news for me: Riccardo Tisci has reportedly just cast a transsexual model for Givenchy’s fall-winter campaign (how do they know what will look good yet??). The announcement prompted many excited questions, predominant among which was, “Um, which one is it?”

(Maybe its the one that looks like a prettier Drew Barrymore? Naw, it’s the one with the prominent jaw. But they all have man jaws, except for that one guy. Maybe it’s the one looking at the camera like she’s made some terrible choices in her life…)

(And they all lived happily ever after in their comfortable little Christian allegory. That is, until a door to Narnia opened in a barn in Zimbabwe…)

For those of you who don’t dig on evolution, it’s cool, we’ve only been shown science putting the gifts under the tree at the pace of science, so you probably have a few years of petulant non-belief left. In the meantime, this story will go a ways in convincing you. Seems a lamb was c-section still-born in a village in Turkey with — get this — a Human face. Rock. And. Roll. Veterinarians are saying that the whole thing is a misunderstanding, the result of an “improper mutation” due to an abundance of vitamin A in the mother. Sure, that’s reasonable, probably “scientifically accurate” but my theory on what we have here is some – -

The governor of the province where the ugly goat was born [in a similar case in Zimbabwe] said that the little goat was the fruit of unnatural relationship between the female goat and a man… “This is evident (sic) that an adult human being was responsible. Evil powers caused this person to lose self control. We often hear cases of human beings who commit bestiality but this is the first time for such an act to produce a product with human features…”

Wow. That guy beat me to it. I… guess I don’t have a joke for this one. I can’t tell if it raises or lowers the comedy level when the governor of the province the abomination is born in immediately assumes that his people are banging livestock left and right, and the inevitable finally happened. Put in non-hoodoo language, this means evolution kicked in on all the barnyard rapin’ in that part of the world, said, “Fuck it, you’re going to

What's up, nuckas?

insist on dumping your spunk in these things so much, they might as well adapt to use it,” and the first Human/animal affront to nature was born.

It also means that some of the more sticky ethical questions we’ve been avoiding for the last century will inevitably have to be visited. For instance, if we’re going to continue fucking sheep after this new revelation, we should probably start using protection. And if we do, is it unethical to use a lambskin condom? For all you know, that’s your little boy you’re wrapping your pecker up with there. That’s all not to mention the feelings of the female who is apparently capable of bearing your child, and might not take kindly to a plowing with a Buchenwald phallus. Have you rubbed her hooves lately? She’s had a hard day.

The mutant baby born with a human-like head stayed alive for several hours until the frightened village residents killed him… and biologists had no chance to study the rare mutation.

No! I was going to name him Mr. Tumnus! You mean the thing could have lived, for biologists to study, or better yet, touring the world with a bearded lady and the world’s smallest man? At least let the thing live and see what it does! Try to toilet train it, or serve it curried goat. Or better yet, mate it to a Zebra and see what pops out. Who is letting these short-sighted, murderous villagers in, anyway? You know how easy it is to spook those guys. They have the Ghostbusters on speed dial in case one of those demon-possessed horseless carriages passes by on Safari. When something like this happens, shouldn’t your first call be to Dial-a-Bouncer? “Yes, you can come see the freak of nature. Cameras are allowed [joke, they don't have cameras], but you’ll have to leave your pitchforks and torches outside.” Next time Darwin decides to play a little joke from beyond the grave, he should do it in a civilized place like America, where we’ll preserve it as a visitation by Jesus, or at least Rocky Dennis.