(”Trust me, it’s sterile. The only raping here is Marlboro prices. Criminal! Hahaha! Bend over.”)

Pinch my perineum, because there is no way I’m not dreaming this news story out of New Jersey from NBC NY: NJ Officials Investigate Botched Booty Boosts. That’s some spiffy alliteration for what the video news report goes on to say is a medical concern of Kim “Badonkulous” Kardashian proportions. I’ll let Religious Programming Emmy Award winning correspondent Lynda Baquero revive and refresh an old standby:

The new Jersey health department is trying to get the word out about someone who is offering to enhance women’s rear ends, by using an injection that includes, believe it or not, cock.”

She went on to say, “Too late, bitches, you already forked over the Emmy.” Wait, hold on. OH! “Caulk.” See, you went with the antiquated and misleading medium of video reporting and we, the humble transcribers, come off as so much low rent closed captioners with tourettes.  Don’t crucify her yet, because the only excuse for irresponsible journalism is if it makes immature people do a spit take and feel good about the fact that they bothered to wake up. As far as I’m concerned, the report did not last even half as long as it should have, but the interviews yielded some goodies:

“Have you ever heard of caulk being used in someone’s body before?”

Did they say how the caulk felt in their bums? Was it something of an uncomfortable, full feeling, like you have to drop a deuce the size and shape of a walrus with elephantiasis? Well, Lynda, it was a miracle they could handle all that caulk in their rear ends, there was an awful lot of it. It’s a good thing this didn’t happen in the Middle East. You can get buried alive for having that kind of injection. Whachu gonna do with all that junk?

“Authorities say these women survived because they got swift medical attention.”

My word, that’s some powerful caulk. Hospital grade shit. Isn’t “medical attention” what got them into trouble in the first place? Some people never learn. Listen ladies, as a professed ass man, I was reticent to bring this story to the masses, because I would never want to discourage the Mix-A-Lot treatment. The report goes on to warn that you consult real physicians before offering your ass up for slicing in the back of the corner liquor store (it’s right next to the hardware store, dummy), as that was the mistake these Jersey sluts made, but that seems like a lot of work. I say: Just go for it. When the moment comes, and you hear your doctor/meth dealer giggling, it’s a good possibility that he’s about to turn your pooper into a living, jiggling pun. That’ll be your cue to take your business elsewhere, like a Mexican bait shop. Glad we had this talk.

"your waist is small and your curves are kickin, and I'm thinkin bout stickin" - Baby Got Back, circa 1992

By this, the good Sir was not, in fact, referring to industrial grade adhesives. But you should sue him for misleading women anyway, so he has to do another dumb Burger King and Sponge Bob cross-promotion for permission to sift through the dumpsters for food for another six months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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