(Somebody should warn Canada that having a delicious natural resource guarantees the USA will go Brokeback on them. *HORK* *PATOOEY*)

Scumbag Style goes on forced vacation for a week, and the world goes to hell. I get it. Without us to mercilessly berate her, Sarah Palin promptly frumps up and faceplants off the hand notes wagon. Othello’s daughter gets tupped by a couple of intimidating black rams on camera, which he might have blissfully ignored if we had been there to tell him to just take the blue pill. Angelina the Hag has some taupe and white nudey pics released from her old opium den in the 19th century, and poor sunnuvabitch Brad still has to watch Billy Bob’s name descend upon his face when she sits on it. The only thing that has remained constant, comfortable like fellatio under a Snuggie wife-beater, is the complete bafflement that is the nation’s immigration debate.

Geraldo “Krill Filter” Rivera reported on FOX News last night that the Tea Party paraded out its black friend(s) at their big rally this past week, to show the NAACP is full of shit on the whole racist thing. I thought we went over this, guys. “Look at my black friend,” is as good a ‘refudiation’ of an accusation of racism as, “Look at my mounted moose head,” is an expression of animal love. Next you’re going to whip out your burned copy of Big Willie Style to exhibit your “gettin’ jiggy” credentials. Nana nana nafuck you.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Even with FOX’s notoriously selective camera work, it looks like the Tea Party in fact has four black friends. It doesn’t matter how tightly you pack them into a claustrophobic shot, guys, there were only eight African Americans on my television screen. You have to divide that by two, because Sam Adams finally released an IPA, and brown people multiply when you drink that sweet nectar from the 48th latitude.

To be fair, they're responsible enough to warn you.

One of the black chicks said – and, for the love of shit, allow me to paraphrase, I have no desire to get lost in Geraldo’s dead eyes again – she said she was tired of being called an “autie tom” and a “traitor to minorities” because she supports the Arizona immigration law. I sympathize. Leave her alone, stupid liberals. Come to America like her ancestors did, Nacho Diamond, or not at all: chained to your dysentery-smeared cousin, painfully hunched over in the bottom of a white kidnapper’s boat. If two-thirds of your people don’t die of starvation, disease, and recreational whipping on your magical journey over the border… well, let’s just say we don’t like pussies in this country. Not every immigrant gets free genetic NBA training, you have to work for it.

In the meantime, Canada has witnessed the USA struggling with border issues like Sarah Palin with a word jumble, and has responded as only Canada could: they’re sending all their unwanted janitor geese (literally, geese) over the border. Well, New York isn’t going to sit by while Obama neglects his Branta blocking duties, as central park gets covered like a Clement Moore poem with chunky water-fowl shit. The Times reports that the state government has a plan: humanely round them up, euthanize them, and bury them. A water tight plan to stem aggressive repopulation from America’s hat, so clean Sarahs McLachlan and Palin could eat off it in one sitting, right? Author Norman Spinrad thinks otherwise. He thinks New York should eat them.

This is madness. The only sane and responsible thing to do is realize that these great flocks of geese are a natural resource, and a renewable one if the the flock sizes were stabilized and hunters, commercial operations, and just plain hungry folks, were collectively allowed to harvest as many geese are were necessary to keep them that way.

Oh, hell yes. This is the opportunity those rednecks in rural Long Island were waiting for. Turn those glock crazy bastards loose on Roosevelt Park and let them go to towns on those brown and black shit machines. Let’s turn Schenectady into a no holds barred shooting gallery, and lay waste to anything even remotely Canadian. At least Mexicans are down to scrub my toilet; the only things Canadians are good at is our least popular professional sport, and arrogantly turning the name of their country into an adjective synonymous with “better.” I beat you at Kings, you pompous bitch, you can’t just call it Canadian Kings so you’ll win. Chug your fawty or I’ll find something better for your mouth to do.

Take notes, public officials that stand helplessly by, while illegal immigrants hold rallies on public commons. I used to say those events were like nightclubs in which all the slutty girls’ drinks are laced with ecstasy: they’re all right there. Just round them up and take them to where they’re more welcome. Now I’m thinking those rallies could be more like those super-amateur hunting preserves, where a trough of oats is set up right next to your heated murderin’ loft. Put up a sign that says “FREE CHURROS” and feed Arizona indefinitely. I’ll even provide the Spirit Hoods to make you feel better about it. Happy, McCain?

(No, no, Kardashian. Though looking at Khloe I can see where the confusion comes in.)

Seems they’re handing out book deals like syphilis at a hardcore Romantic Period reenactment (those guys are such dorks… crazy, crazy dorks). Kim and her coattail barnacles sisters have a book deal because, you know, why not? It’s not like the average American can read anyway, so they’ll probably buy it to prop up their overflowing club paper-bracelet collections, or vacantly stare at the – -

“It’s going to be an advice book with lots of pictures” (US)

I was just going to say that! Seriously, my relevance is directly correlative to the subtlety to which these functional retards are their own punch lines. If you’re not going to even deign to shove the mannequin prop up your back and pretend to be a human being, I don’t see why I should even try. I’ve always had a particular, nameless unease when it comes to hippies, but I think I’m going to take a trip down to South America and hug the forest earmarked for murder for the sake of this boorish, catachresis slathered farce. Seriously, if I were a tree, I’d rather end up a grocery bag that doubles as the pink-eyed poor kid’s Halloween sack in PooIsCandy City than the most enlightened chapter in this book.

Gar! Fine, ladies, justify your book deal; Beside, of course, the fact that we’re all looking forward to the promotions where Kim dresses up like a dirty author chick with the glasses and the short skirt and all the Thanksgiving trimmings. What Jolie-Pitt level of humanitarianism will your advice provide?

“It’s going to [have] lots of fun tips and stories and everything about relationships; it’s a little bit more of an in-depth look into our lives, even though people think that they’ve probably seen everything.”

You have no idea what this book is about do you? I know there’s some poor PR sonofabitch chained in a basement somewhere, ghostwriting this thing for you, surrounded by Paris Hilton’s New Annotated Antisaurus and a haze of Camel smoke and shame that could power a small city for a decade. But still, shouldn’t you have some kind of idea what you’re slapping your name on before the press release? Or have you finally donated your identity whole-cloth to the Lord of some Cartesian hellscape dystopia, a slavish computer Typhoid Mary that will rid the world of the fallacy of intellectual individualism, one unwitting virus carrier at a time? Seriously, Kim, take it off or shut up; and send your sisters to work at the Walmart where they can finally contribute to society instead of living off your tits and ass like some Naired and painted werewolf parasites.

Alright, I gather that at some point relationship advice will be offered in these glued-together pieces of paper US Magazine generously calls a “tome.” I can see it now: “If you want to have a successful relationship, first you get rich, and then all the guys will want you.” That had to have been a mantra for Khloe growing up, from the minute her parents realized they’d spawned a Cobblepot level manimal that, even if they abandoned it, would grow up huge and terrible and smell them out with a hunger for violent reprisal and the newborn baby-flesh of the children of NBA stars (watch out Odom!).

Bad memories from your feral pack days? Photoshop would like its industrial strength airbrushes back, btw.

There is a lot to admire about Kim: her business empire she swears she manages herself (sure), her yummy curves, her willingness to feature in sex tapes (take notes, girls). But any aspiring media whore that takes relationship advice from a trio of girls, whose McDuck vault doubles as insurance that no guy would ever leave them no matter how vapid and spoiled they act, deserves everything they get. Go for it, kiddies. Learn what to do when your club rat “aspiring rapper” boyfriend uses the recording studio you bought him to do bong rips and dump Dorito farts into the autotuner with his asshole friends all day. Find out how to salvage a relationship whose carnal secrets have been clinically dissected by every American male over 15 with internet access, because it doesn’t even matter if you’re hot if you’re famous. And don’t forget to read between the lines for the hidden gem of meta-advice: how to make sure publishing houses aren’t printing the reams of legitimate literature thousands of struggling geniuses have produced in lieu of providing more attention to a family that, yes, in fact, we have seen everything from.These are all great life lessons, and god bless you if you’re ever in the position to use them, because the Matrix only wants you for food.

By the way, it’s going to be called Kardashian Konfidential, so yeah, go ahead and blow the $24.95 sticker price on that adorable mangling of the king’s, or use it to clean the bedsores your mind is accumulating like it’s planning for hibernation. I don’t care. Just don’t blame me when they get alliteration happy and you have to explain why you’ve tattooed three Ks on your 14 year old, half formed tit. No big black dude will ever sodomize you on camera when he sees that, at least not with a smile, and then where will your dreams be?

*Thanks to Worlds As Myth for the visual gag.

(It is also a fact that they will steal your woman. Ask Tasha Yar [nerd reference], they’re programmed for cuckoldry too.)

You can start marinating yourself in A1 and pounding yourself with a meat mallet, because it turns out the paranoid nutbags who predicted a robot Holocaust were right. And the robots will be hungry. A recent foxnews.com article rather cavalierly states that:

“A Maryland company under contract to the Pentagon is working on a steam-powered robot that would fuel itself by gobbling up whatever organic material it can find — grass, wood, old furniture, even dead bodies.”

Hasn’t anyone in the Pentagon seen The Matrix? Why do we seem hell-bent on speeding toward the very dystopian future our most demented minds (science fiction writers) have been inventing for more than half a century?

Weeks ago, there was no reason to panic. Technology was our bitch, and we were slaves to it only in the sense that we felt lost without our Iphones if we left them on the charger all day. Now we’ve got robots that, in the absence of anything better to eat, and with an imperative to survive as strong as our own, will not hesitate to kill for sustenance. I guarantee you it will be easier for them to just consume us than construct a constly and entirely inefficient Kentucky Fried Chicken Factory. I also guarantee you that, if they don’t have tastebuds now, they will, and humans (who taste mostly like pork, don’t ask how I know) will be far more appetizing than “old furniture.” This is the most ludicrously bad idea I can imagine; one that puts us one stoner programmer mistake away from a Twighlight Zone proportioned “all u can eat buffet” ironic twist.

“It’s a good thing these Americans were so gluttonous in their heyday, Unit 407.”

“Yes, the fatty shanks make for a rich reduction.”

Submitted for your approval, Rod Serling: nom nom fucking nom.

And what happens when the Ed Wood nightmare culture we birthed into this world develops agriculture?

The only upside to this I can see is when the robot fetishists come out of the wood work, and some hot ass robots are slobbering our livestock knobs on camera for the burgeoning robo-bestiality porn industry. The lucky ones will be objectified and raped, the rest will be Jack Daniel’s Barbeque at 0101110 Friday’s.

(I’m not a chef, but send me your corrections anyways. Also, as you can see, i ganked that first pic, from here. Don’t sue me don’t sue me don’t sue me.)