(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.

(And yea, God will smite whosoever wet farts on the Holy Mother of Calcutta’s pillow.)

I don’t know if you know this, but in New York they have this Empire State Building thing, which is kind of a big deal. Not because it was named one of the seven wonders of the modern world by people who know about these things. Not because it is responsible for most of the broadcasting in the world’s largest media market. Not even because it is the headquarters of some of the most important companies and charities on the planet. That’s all sun-baked tripe compared to the Empire State Building’s super pretty lights. If you’ve been to the city on a holiday or the occasion of some arbitrary event, you’ve probably seen the obtrusive landmark’s gaudy display of passive acknowledgment.

But the landmark skyscraper’s owner [Anthony Malkin] has declined to illuminate it in honor of the late Mother Teresa’s. (HuffPost)

Dub-wha?? What a dick! Hey, Tony, what do you have against the corporate idolatry of a conveniently selected figurehead of an institution that specifically forbids idolatry? Oh, well, I guess there’s nothing we can do. It’s a privately owned building, it’s not like you can nun-rape a 102-story Art Deco tribute to American excess if Mr. Malkin isn’t down. Perhaps he just has the jungle fever, and reanimated Indian mummies aren’t his pack of Mentos. Maybe he was just out of Spiritual Guilt light bulbs. I guess there’s nothing that can be done when – -

“They’re bigots! They have an animus against Catholics!” Catholic League President Bill Donohue told The Associated Press on Tuesday.

Or that. That’s… reasonable. Nun-rape back on! I guess light displays for Christmas and Easter are too secular when combined in a list with those for Chanukkah and Eid al Fitr, which I can only speculate is a feast day consisting of a lot of hummus and brutally removed clitorides. Oh! You should take your righteous rage over to Paris and demand they stuff Mother Teresa’s body and put it in the Louvre. I hear they cave easy to people entering their country and spouting inciting rhetoric.

Now, another prominent New York Catholic is voicing her outrage. City Council Speaker Christine Quinn told the AP that she spoke Tuesday with Empire State Building owner Anthony Malkin. Although the real estate mogul was “very professional” and said he “would reflect on the points I made,” she said, he didn’t give her a satisfactory answer.

Jesus, a politician? An American politician? For fuck’s sake, before you stuck your idiot nose in, this was a quiet, over-before-it-began dispute between a private company and a tax exempt group of busy-bodies with no careers. I wonder what a satisfactory answer would have been. Is anyone else picturing an annoying, coked up cartoon squirrel when she talks? The kind that is invariably going to ask, “Can I have a cookie?” over and over and over again until you scream, “Yes, you can have a fucking cookie, you insignificant collection of cancer cells embedded in the colon of the baked goods industry! Just because you have a bushy, lice-ridden tail doesn’t make you not a rat, you know.”

It wouldn’t be all that bad if she didn’t have cronies. Councilman Ydanis Rodriguez and Councilman Peter Vallone plan to hold a press conference and rally to introduce a resolution demanding the Empire State Building light up for what would have been Mother Theresa’s 100th birthday; Which is kind of like the police generating a flash mob outside your neighbor’s house, threatening violence unless he puts up an illuminated plastic Michael Jackson in his front yard to celebrate Macaulay’s twentieth anniversary as a paranoid, jittery, shell of a person.

“Although we may not universally agree on all of her opinions and actions, Mother Teresa was undoubtedly an example of moral fortitude and self-sacrifice that we can all learn from,” said Rodriguez.

‘Kay. Take us to Mother Theresa school, Rodriguez. What are the best countries to open secret accounts so I can ferret away hundreds of millions in charity dollars so I don’t have to actually help any of the poor I claim to care so much about? What is the lowest standard of hygiene I can get away with and still call the death camp I maintain on the backs of young female slaves a hospital? How do I win the Nobel Peace Prize after directing thousands of salvageable poor people to an early grave, and still have time for an early dinner with Indira Ghandi, Jean-Claude Duvalier, and whatever notorious embezzlers want to give me a chunk of stolen change for an endorsement from a future saint? Is there some kind of franchised organization I can start to make as many people as possible suffer so I can reacquaint myself with Jesus and his sacrifices (a process that has since been named MelGibsoning in the DSM-IV-TR)? How do I clinically obsess over abortion and condoms like a Republican that hates gays just a little too much, but endorse forced sterilization of rounded-up poor people, and still manage to score a beatification from the Pope? Seriously, what IN GOD’S NAME do I have to do to make it so that, no matter what I do, criticism of me gets peoples’ nunderwears so hard in a bunch it is basically socially illegal? Because that’s the kind of moral fortitude I want tattooed on my dick before I dive headlong into a kiddie pool filled with cocaine and a couple of communist transsexual hookers. Of course, I’ll have to remove the one of Donny Osmond’s face that folds up to spell Satan when I go flaccid, but these are the sacrifices one makes for celebrity faux-piety that gets more press than Charlie Sheen’s erotic exploits.

Alright, so, Anthony Malkin’s documented “specific policy against any other lighting for religious figures or requests by religions and religious organizations,” and decisions that are “made at the sole discretion of the (company’s) ownership and management” are not satisfactory answers to why the ESB will not be flying the ole blue and white for the Troll with the Stole. I see, I see. Perhaps something even more exponentially reasonable than you already deserve, while still retaining enough directness so there’s no confusion. How about this: “Suck my billion-dollar, platinum plated dick and then get off my lawn. Tell you what, fuckshmear, make a whole mess of money, build your own sky scraper, and you can put a giant bronze nutsack on it for all I care, complete with a ten million dollar glass merkin by Dale Chihuly. In the meantime, hit the corner bodega, buy the biggest bottle of shut-your-cunt-mouth juice they have, because you’re going to need some refreshment on the express train straight to hell, where your saintly hero is waiting for you, jamming a dirty needle in John Paul’s dickhole in a criminally negligent hospital for the damned.”

I’m, uh, pretty sure I’ll be right behind you…

(Note: While we at the SBS offices love to pass around your hate mail, mocking you with the enthusiasm of a puppy surrounded by a classroom filled with retarded children, check out these links before you send a bunch of “nuh-uh”s, and remember that we see no point in assuming the best in people: here, here, here, wikifuckingpedia, here, here, here, here, clever, here, here… there’s more, which, in all seriousness, whether or not there’s truth to the criticism, is a good reason for a businessman to be wary of praising her with an expensive light show.)

… Feel These Nipples

(Her momma always told her she should practice really hard to achieve her dreams, hence the nipsicles)

The idea of mortality, the fragility of life and inevitability of death, strikes everyone at some point. Some people take it better than others, realizing it as an opportunity to bang out a will so that stupid bitch doesn’t get the vinyl collection, or taking up a recreational addiction because, why the shit not, right? You could foster a closer relationship with gin, or what the hell, your kids who need the love and attention in this life because nobody knows what’s next. Nah, fuck that.

“Britney Spears found the whole ‘cryongenic freezing’ thing so interesting she spent most of her Mother’s Day trip to Disneyland researching the subject on the internet while a nanny took the boys round the park.” (Sun)

I’m going to have to get out my Alanis International Dictionary, but I’d bet my collection of Canadian moose porn we can place that statement squarely in the realm of ironic. It’s like rain at am outdoor picnic for wicked witches and their kittens. When you’re that concerned with immortality, with garnering as much of life’s experiences as you can, internet research into questionable medical technology should definitely fall above quality time with your children on your bucket list. It’s like a health nut, so concerned with being healthy they never actually enjoy life, except you can take a break every five minutes to watch porn. Save your Mother’s Day hugs for Tigger, you little brats, Mommy’s spending her day trying to be more like the crazy anti-semite who built the place.

“She looked into having her ashes turned into diamonds after she is gone but settled on the chance of getting to live in the future.”

For someone who wants to cryogenically freeze herself, you have all the forethought of a dingleberry. You do realize that no matter how much you Mel Gibson out, you’re going to have to die someday, right? You can still go the way of Michael Jackson’s unfortunate Pepsi hair, only you can be space diamonds! Would your daffy ass attention span like that? Space diamonds? What are you hoping to find in the future, anyway? We have plenty of backup dancers with unwashed hair that need love in this time period. The only difference between them and Zarxon Federline is theirs aren’t lazer razors that are sitting unused amongst the cigarette butts and Axe body spray on the bathroom counter.

Anyway, this liquid nitrogen gunk ain’t free, and your dad’s hanging on pretty tight to your green. How does he feel about this?

“Jamie is quite happy to let Brit have her little obsessions, especially when it means she’s holed up on the internet safely or watching the Discovery Channel. And if she wants to invest her money in cryogenics that’s fine, we’re only talking $350,000 tops [oh, tops]. However, much more than that and he may change his mind.”

What does the Discovery Channel have to say about starving children in Africa? There has got to be a way to steer her obsessions toward something productive, like the cure for condoms, or firing Sarah Palin out into space, or genetically engineering women that piss beer and don’t complain that the chains in my basement are too tight. Especially since the company you were neglecting your children to invest in, Alcor, is about 20 years into illegitimacy, and the smart money is on hydrogen sulfide based Ikaria. You should start marinading yourself in orange cream now, because all future humans will have to look forward to from this venture is a very large Britsicle. And that’s only if the company’s employees don’t put your body to use ironically, like when they (sure, allegedly, but that takes the fun out of it) used Ted Williams’s head for batting practice. In which case, expect them to walk on your body barefoot and pee on you.

(The staff thought you’d like to be found in the same way you lived. They’re considerate like that.)

Somebody should tell Britney that internet research on a company involves more than LOLcats and Jack Daniels. Also, that’s actually a Fischer Price toy phone you’re talking on, and you’ve been cooking plastic dinners for your kids ever since you got them back. We don’t trust you with nice things anymore. Happy Mother’s Day, though.

(Remember when that actually meant something? Maybe FOX was just trying to covertly warn us.)

Because LeBron threw the series against Boston since he’d rather have the Knicks run a train on his mom than the Bulls, and free strippers or something like that, and because I had all kinds of faith in my Celts, negating my need to actually witness the Orlando owning, I had nothing to watch last night. So, I flipped channels, which, in this climate of dancing idols and Family Guy dead horse beatings has become the most inadvisable practice on the planet. Case in point: I switch to Fox and see the redoubtable Neil Patrick Harris, a man whom I will watch do anything. I assume this is a sentiment shared by many, but if teh NPH starred in the Holocaust it would be a triple-threat laugh riot, so I left it on Fox.

NPH: Available to "Doogie Up" all funerals, wakes, and racial exterminations. Italian kid available upon request.

Mistake. I tried this fucking Glee thing when it started, and was comfortable in my conclusion that this attention starved, pus-oozing mousy cutter teenage girl of a show was a travesty bound for greatness in the semi-conscious Stretch Armstrong “mind” of the American populace, and I had no business in that world. After five solid episodes, I saw what it was about, and it was a good try, but band geeks and singers that are too fugly to be cheerleaders get their asses kicked in high school. It’s been that way since the middle ages, and no amount of big jawed, slightly overweight lungs-with-lips you put on the screen is going to change it, so why should I watch the television equivalent of CATS for an hour once a week? “Oh, she’s ugly, but she has ‘personality.’ Boys in wheelchairs deserve love too.” Gross. That’s like native Americans eating the lung cancer out of a buffalo because they don’t want to waste anything. To music.

Then I wake up to see this shit flavored toaster strudel of a report from Contact Music:

In an apparent effort to distance itself as far as possible from the likes of any potential wardrobe malfunction, Fox has given its hit new series Glee the plum post-Super Bowl time slot and, according to widespread accounts, also plans to mount the half-time period around performances by the cast.

For realz?? I always wished America’s biggest holiday, celebrating the athleticism of demigods playing the sport that defines our culture, could be tempered by shoving the people that were too weak to play the game and too dumb for chess club in our faces. With the exception of the otherworldly and touchingly modest performance by Prince some years back, the Super Bowl halftime show has been the hallmark of the “fuck football fans on their biggest day” movement. So, I get it if you’re going to throw a Janet or a Britney up there, appeal to the wife and kids, and the lechery of the only one in the house that gives a damn about why we’re in front of the TV. But GLEE? Have any of you even been to high school? Glee club is, and has always been, G-H-E-Y ghhhhhhhey. I tolerated this shit when it was your own little brainwashing Tupperware  and vibrator party, and we were forewarned when we shouldn’t be turning on channel 5, but seriously, the line needs to be drawn somewhere. Like this year on CBS, when it didn’t matter what your stance on abortion was, you didn’t need this shoved in your face just to find out just how much ass Drew Brees kicks:

Ewww, Tim Tebow. You're not invited to my Glee season finale party.

If you need more evidence that people who like football don’t also like Glee (I don’t know why we have to do this, seriously, give us the fucking Superbowl back already), let’s talk about the Nagasaki-caliber promo the inexplicably popular show has set to waddle onto network dicklickery next (?) season:

Susan Boyle is rumored to appear on the the hit Fox series Glee in a season two Christmas episode! “I have two words for you: Lunch. Lady,” Glee co-creator Ryan Murphy tells EW of Susans’s character. (JustJared)

I got out of grad school not two years ago, and I am so confused. Normally when somebody comes up to you and says, “I have two words for you,” it is followed by something like, “Cocaine. Pancakes.” or “Edward. Fortyhands.” which is where you strap two cold forties to your hands with hardcore masking tape, and you don’t get to use those hands for anything until you finish the forties, and the first person to ralph wins, or something like that. You can call bullshit if you want, but I come from a family of lunch ladies, and nobody has ever come up to me and been like, “It’s pizza day, dood, let’s put on a hairnet and sing a fucking song about it.” Especially when there’s a global conspiracy trying to hide the obvious fact that the lunch lady is dangerously retarded, and is being used like a trained seal at the Coney Island aquarium to sell bangers and mash, or whatever the hell they eat at British concerts.

Opera legend DAME KIRI TE KANAWA has dismissed Susan Boyle’s success – insisting she’s “not interested” in the Scottish singing sensation’s rise to fame.  (CM)

Thank you, chick I’ve never heard of! When you put an old ass woman with serious mental problems in a talent competition, you can’t  expect her to Britney out right away. She has to practice and get used to the spotlight before she throws hysterical fits in airports and verbally abuses passersby.

Either she just won another award, or she's pooping. I dare you to tell the difference.

Kanawa, the New Zealand-born soprano is currently conducting her own talent search with the BBC to find a new opera star, and was asked for her thoughts on Boyle… but the star was angered by the suggestion her musical genre is linked to Boyle’s – and is adamant the unlikely superstar’s fame will be fleeting.

I see, so… her rise to fame on a televised talent show is different than your new star’s rise to fame on a televised talent show because…

“Let’s get off that subject. Move on. I’m doing something classical, not whizz-bang. Whizz-bang disappears. It goes ‘whizz’ and then ‘bang’.”

What? Are we still talking about music? Or are we impersonating Liza Minnelli broadcasting a NASCAR event? We don’t need drug addicts like you in our camp, “Dame,” it weakens our case. Let’s just leave it at: There’s a global conspiracy to cover up that Susan Boyle is straight-up retarded, but not as retarded as Glee, and no amount of Neil Patrick Harris can polish that turd into a twenty dollar hooker.

(Yes, it had to be Jimmy Stewart. I don’t answer to you.)

The next entry in the business models file of what-the-fuckery, Switzerland unleashes on Europe the ‘Hotshot.’ Sounds awesome, right? What are Hotshots? Cinnamon candies featuring head explodey? RC cars that breaks the sound barrier? Charlie Sheen sex dolls? Lloyd Bridges sex dolls (ew)?

A Switzerland-based condom manufacturer (Lamprecht AG) recently started marketing extra-small condoms, under the name “Hotshot” for boys age 12 to 14, who often have problems with regular size condoms being too large. (Vibrator)

Something that would sell less than a Lloyd Bridges sex doll. Bold choice. Of course, moms who are too busy blogging to devote any time to real parenting are crabwalking all over themselves over this. Probably because AIDS batter sloshing over the deck of the larger poon balloons is the better option. Don’t worry moms, nobody will buy these, even with the slick product name and the bold neon colors.

Like birthday party baloons for midgets!

Aw, they’re adorable, like little baby bottle nipples! And like baby bottle nipples, the only way it’s getting anywhere near a grown woman’s mouth is if she’s on ecstasy, and just HAS to suck on something. See moms, you can safely unbunch your granny panties, because nobody is going to buy them. When faced with the choice between  asking the sales clerk for a goose noose for his lilliputian member, and actually enjoying sex the way your God intended, he’s going to choose the latter. Your kid will continue to knock up his school chums at Friday night pubic lice burning parties like normal, the status quo safely intact, at least until the girls realize college guys have fully developed dongs that don’t feel like a worn-down pencil stabbing inexpertly at the shallow depths of a mud puddle.

The release comes in the wake of “something I heard on the radio,” about Janice Dickinson claiming Mick Jagger’s dick is super tiny; though before you judge, you have to wonder what your dick would do if you saw her naked.

Like the Pacific in January: Shrinkage, by Janice Dickinson

Even adult males have puny puds, but once again, your business model sucks. Who goes up to the druggist’s counter and publicly announces his penile shortcomings by demanding the dog house of head sheds? “Uh, no, the pretty pink ones, please. I want my G.I. Jane to look as much like a shrimp from a little girl’s kitchen playset as possible. Over to the left, under the tampons, yes.”

In related news, the Australian city of Townsville now has something more embarrassing to boast than being named by a whispily pretentious avant garde  novelist with too much to say. It now has to outsource its jizz from the good ole USofA. And they say manufacturing is dead in this country. So kids, hang on to those fun colored mini milk misers, because they’re paying $700 an ampule.* Which raises some incredible comic potential, if Americans have the balls to punk the shit out of Australia. Seriously, send them the sperm from the Hotshots, and decrease the average Australian penis size by a huge percentage. We play our cards right, we won’t have to see another Paul Hogan or Steve Irwin for all the self-conscious lack of confidence. In fact, why stop there? Let’s start sending them entire batches of midget spunk, or albino splooge. They’ll be all, “Crikey, I’ll drop a bikkie for you to close the blinds, mate! I feel like a shrimp on the barbie next to flourescent lights.” I don’t even know if albinism a genetic thing, but is the slimmest chance of being responsible for an entire town full of albino Australian children worth taking the time to look it up? I say, “Nay, sir!”

*I had to look it up too. Don’t worry, even your dicklet can fill it.

(Eh, we should probably just let this one go. He’s going to be real disappointed when he gets out.)

So you say you want something even more stupidly polarizing than the newly announced Ipad release? You’re tired of hearing OS idealists, whose minds will never change, fight like girls, with one side saying, “OMG new Apple product, I hope I don’t piss myself in girlish glee,” and the other saying, “So I can insert my Ipod and my Iphone, how about my Inutsack?” while lewdly grabbing their crotches?* Do you just want to scream, “Then don’t fucking buy it!”? Or, “That sounds like an electronic panty-liner with headphones!”? Well here’s something you can’t avoid, because by law you are required to watch the Super Bowl, and the big game makes everything, even Dominos and beer that tastes like piss, as important as a yearly visit to the gynecologist.

The short of it is, Focus on the Family somehow gathered the 3 mil or so it takes to advertise on CBS during the Super Bowl, and used the opportunity to get Heisman Trophy winner Tim Tebow and his mom to talk for the duration of the ad about Focus’ pro-life message. Seems Tebow’s mother chose to give her son life in the face of some pretty tough odds, and as a result we have an guy who is over paid to play a game, so abortion is bad.  On the surface, it is a tad annoying that proselytizing is something you’d want to impose during the Super Bowl, but perfectly within the realm of allow-ability. Hey, they came up with the bones, and that seems to be enough for CBS, and therefore should be enough for the hundred bajillion people of all faiths and political ideologies that are going to be drinking heavily and getting really angry and competitive about things they see on television while watching the Super Bowl. Timothy McVeigh says, “Good idea.”

But if it were that easy, everybody could just relax, and we need to keep up our global lead on heart attacks and “having a cow.” The problem, according to the people who want the ad pulled, stems from a lack of precedent — indeed, a standing policy against — among those airing Super Bowls to allow commercial time to any political entity or advocacy group with nothing tangible to sell except their ability to whip their dicks out. They also like to throw around hyperbole and rhetoric like it’s food fight day at Tiger Woods’ sex rehab (I think I just grossed myself out). NARAL Pro-Choice America says:

Focus on the Family has an unmistakable anti-choice, anti-birth-control, anti-sex-education, anti-gay agenda. If that isn’t bad enough, its views on women are just plain insulting and dangerous. For example, its web site urges women facing an unintended pregnancy to seek “wise advice” because “the hormones and extreme emotions of pregnancy make reasonable decisions more difficult.”

Tell us how you really feel, NARAL. You’ve got the demonizing of the other side down pat, right down to the anti-buzzwords. After all “danger” is the number one cause of fear. But to truly be considered Hitler-esque, you should be more specific, like “Fetuses are taking over the banks.” And you might have to kill some bitches, though Christians already have you pegged for that. Oh, and that last bit, while probably a direct quote, was not given proper citation, so context goes the way of last night’s 3 pound burrito. No, you continue to be the spokespeople for that side of the debate. When someone on your side says, “Who died and made you advocate?” just say “Ted Kennedy.”

Read more ridiculousness after the jump.

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