A retort…

(The plot was so convoluted and obvious, even BROSNAN Bond thinks we’re assholes for missing it.)

Contributor Sean Torrie, while an upstanding gentleman and a friend of the highest credentials, is a verbose prick. While his article on the so-called “Ground Zero Mosque” made some important points, his love of the sound of his own keyboard tapping diluted the argument so that his claim of final-say book-closing on the subject got lost in the translation. I will also chock some of that up to his insidious optimism (that I do not share), both in humanity itself and this experiment we call the United States. Here’s the bare bones, with less of the anecdotal apologetics, and none of the pandering. Seriously, dude, are you considering running for office? I was always under the impression you would be seizing power, to hell with the politics.

Sean was certainly right about one thing: despite our posturing and wailing over the past ten years, despite our cries from the respective religious and political pulpits, the terrorists have officially won. Our reaction to the racquetball courts a Muslim group plans to build near the site is exactly what our attackers intended. But where Sean developed whiskey dick and couldn’t close the deal is where he stopped short of the reality none of us want to face: The United States of America, as an experiment, has failed, from the common man to the tops of our four branches of government (include media before you call me a fuck head). Pack it up, it’s over. The Russians won, the Germans won, the Terrorists won, even the fucking British won. Because in this fundamental issue, this test of our fortitude in the face of what Sean would correctly call the “weakling bully,” we did not live up to the potential we fought every single war in our short history over.

Continue Reading…

(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?

By Sean “Kiss The Cook’s Cock” Torrie

(Hand me a spatula, baby! There’s a fatwa out on cows and I haven’t jihaded all day!)

I was at my buddy Kane’s place last weekend. He’s been a close buddy of mine for over a decade… but we all make mistakes. He had some guests other than myself and the plan was to grill some burgers and bratwurst. The ladies announced they were hungry, and he agreed that it was time to cook, never hesitant to give a nice girl a healthy dose of his meat, then looked at me and said something along the lines of, “I’ll turn this thing on and get to business unless you’d like to take over.” He paused and looked a bit anxious.

Now, as men, we’ve had most of the manly tasks taken from us for the sake of equality, but fortunately we still have the chief task of cooking outdoors with flame and coal. Everyone with a Y chromosome will rue the day when we formally make that something else we’ve sacrificed to equality. Aware of this fact, I politely said, “Well I don’t want to take the rite from you.” And I did mean rite, not right.

Kane politely responded with an, “Oh no, please, I’d prefer you cook.”

I don’t dick around with food, especially when I’ve been drinking and man the grill. Parties hosted at my home, most notably the soon to be 11th annual New Years party, are always garnished with freshly out-door grilled food, no matter the weather. And unless I drink as much as my Gaelic genes want me to, and accidentally forget there’s a grill for a half an hour, there are always stunning compliments for my hot and abundant meat. Everyone loves my sausage.

Penis.

When I cook, I enjoy the wealth of variety available even in my suburban supermarkets. My all-American-burgers are always soaked in some nice Asian teriyaki, hot dogs are a must, but some German Bratwurst are preferred for the connoisseur of processed meats, I like to get my burgers served on an English muffin for texture, with some Romaine lettuce for effect, and always some nice Indian maize as a side. Perhaps some chicken seasoned in Italian dressing for those of us that don’t like red meat, and Tabasco hot sauce available to top it all.

Yea, you guessed it, I’m warming up for a seemingly unrelated statement.

Lemme tell you why extremist Islam is afraid of us. And I can’t emphasize enough that it’s a branch of the religion, not the entire religion itself. They’re afraid of us because our culture is DELICIOUS. The idea of Westernization passed when Britain gave up India, and was buried when Hong Kong was returned to the Chinese. What you have to call it now is Americanization, because we created TV and the internet, and let us be completely honest: those are the things that run the world now. It’s a fact that Russia had issues with the transition because they have a different alphabet, and our qwerty keyboards were incompatible with their language so they had to adapt to our preferences.

We have, on top of these impenetrable forces of change, placed in them formulas for entertainment that are guaranteed to snatch up the minds of the easily entertained. You aren’t watching Jersey Shore, Intervention, and regularly visiting TMZ because they’re cultured entertainment, you’re watching them because we enjoy watching living shit-shows look terrible, or people do desperate, desperate things for attention at the expense of their families.

When I saw this article in the Times like… an hour ago (because when I get pumped, the text flows the hell out of me),
I could almost hear bombs exploding in a major city some time in the future. Can you imagine how scary Islam Idol has gotta be to the guy living in a cave protecting his mal-adapted faith structure?

What is the world coming to when a silly hat isn't enough to evangelize the youth?

Can you hear Martin Luther (the German guy, not the guy we name crime infested streets after) spinning in his grave mumbling about not planning a social exit strategy for the printing press giving the world the ability to read, and individually interpret the bible, and then cursing this newfangled internet thingy?

I mean… a reality show about Islam? In another country no less! How far reaching can our culture be? I’m afraid the only answer is: inescapable. This, to any culture – not just Muslim extremists – that adheres to not changing and always keeping things the way that they were two or more hundred years ago must be like staring into the face of a man as he puts the finishing touches on his golden calf. The scary thing is that the show is popular, and already plans are set for a second season, which implies that a religious leader for the faith will be selected not once, but twice by the single most American method possible, short of having pundits lie about their abilities for an hour every day for 9 months.

Our culture is so inalienably and powerfully assimilating that even portions of our own population find it scary and confusing (insert callus joke about incest, religion and rednecks here). We have a wonderful knack for shaving off the gristle of your culture, your wife beating, maybe your genital mutilation, perhaps your caste system, and keeping your ideas for food, your work ethic, and especially what South America considers appropriate beach attire. Even when it backfires and you get a whole lot of overweight man-ass that you just didn’t want.

Ah, the things our eyes will endure for a glance at some boobies we will never touch.

At no point in any of this should you consider me making an excuse for irrational violence (the above picture is another story) – though don’t interpret that statement as me being a pacifist; I’m Irish and I even express affection with my fists. I fucking knocked the wind out of my dear editor when I met up with him at a local bar and hadn’t seen him in a year. But then the Irish were never very good at assimilating, just drinking and reproducing. I think what I’m really saying here is: I understand coming from a culture that doesn’t adapt to rules well, but get over it, move a large portion of your population to a single major city in the US, stake a claim in two senators in that state, and stop your explosive whining before we destroy your culture with reality TV worse than we’re doing to our own.

(Now, Barbara Kent. She was a real looker of a whore.)

Peter Lauria is a media reporter like Animal is a drummer: really good at his job, but bystanders should probably make sure their immunizations and rabies shots are up to date. Which means not only should Jenny McCarthy’s kids stay at least a mile from him – and her; enjoy your slow, painful death kids – but also, here and there he’s going to piss someone off. This time, he gave the journalistic titty-twist to notorious dirty old hobgoblin and Viacom owner Sumner Redstone (pictured below),* who Lauria’s inside source says is ‘forcing’ MTV to produce a shitty reality show. Break out the big arm twisting machine, this is going to be tough. That’s like asking the decidedly crazy homeless guy on the offramp to eat some fresh dog shit: it’s all a matter of how much booze he can get with the money you give him to forget what an infected boil he is on the taint of society.

The Daily Beast has learned that Redstone is so smitten with a scantily clad new all-girl group dubbed the Electric Barbarellas that he has paid to fly its six members out to New York to meet with record labels—and forced MTV to shoot a pilot for a reality-TV series about the group… The show and music are so bad that MTV executives  object to it [and may quit over it]. (DailyBeast)

Like Jane Fonda? She knew how to work for a contract.

“Hey sweetie, you want to join the Reptile Pie Club? What? WHAT? Goddurn hearing aid. ‘The Mile High’… Wow. I have been doing that all wrong.” So your boss is a disgustingly rich dirty old man and wants to spend his last days around some tits and ass that can’t talk back? He owns you, get over it. Don’t pretend you have scruples or anything, you aired My Super Sweet 16 without giving any thought to how many pedophiles were at home rubbing one off to what they would do spoiled brats on entitlement steroids in the back of their new Lexus.

Anyway, Redstone isn’t all gone, as evidenced by the fact that he left Lauria the best voicemail since Alec Baldwin came down with buyer’s remorse over a defective offspring. A sample? Why sure:

“I know you may be reluctant… we have to have the name of the person who gave you that story. We’re not going to kill him. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to fire him. We just want to talk to him.” (DailyBeast)

We’re not going to break his legs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to throw him in a concrete pit with junkyard dogs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to make him walk the plank and send him Davey Jones’ Locker. Wait… Anyway, if you could also fax over the names of his wife, kids, parents, and beloved pet, that would be great.

We will protect you completely. There are several sources that could give us that name. Including a certain guy that works for a law firm that works for MTV.

Who? You, know, a ‘certain guy.’ Just like Bricks Brassi and Richie the Savant are ‘certain guys’ what get ‘certain’ things done for us. Fuck it, you know what? Murdering things. If I want to go all Corleone in my advanced, diseased years over a tray of assorted fuckmeats that couldn’t maintain a Myspace page let alone a legitimate career, that’s my prerogative. Tell you what. When you own the fourth largest media conglomerate in the world, you can fill the casting couch with as much dick as you want, and your pansy ass can be as sugar & spice about it as it wants. No shit, the Electric Barbarellas suck. They’re a girl band that got their name from a Duran Duran song about naked mannequins, British masturbation, and a bald Mr. Bean. They describe themselves as “a cross between the Pussycat Dolls and Spice Girls, except raunchier.” They’re just some dumb bitches that want their American 15 minutes, and I’m going to give it to them in December, which gives them just enough time to take turns tongue bathing my shriveled, liver-spotted balls in teams of two, until the doctor says I have to go on dialysis and avoid having fun at all costs. Here’s a wad of hundreds; use it to plug up that gushing cunny before I open a sterling silver Shirley Temple factory between your legs.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do when I hear one of my Viacom slaves talked some shit about me? Give me the name of the snitch, or I’ll just plant a bomb under every car in the parking lot to make sure I get him. It’ll send Ted “Limp Dick” Turner a message, too. You want that on your head, Lauria? What are they going to do, give me the death penalty? I’m a hundred and sixty, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention I look like something primitive African tribes would burn as a demon, in a plaid suit you have to have a senior citizen ID to even buy. You might as well build me a cross and deify me on FOX News right now. And speaking of that, Rupert, my boy. You know I agree with everything you put on your fine network – not only do I own CBS, the premiere channel for crotchety old biddies that remember the McCarthy days fondly, I’m also a client – but do you have to hire such angry people? I watch FOX News before I go to bed, I get so agitated I poop myself at least three times while I sleep. We old conservatives like our news like we like our Cream of Wheat: drippy, bland, and not a little bit racist. Oh, and that Megyn Kelly. You should get her one of those water massagers they have in the Sears Roebuck catalog, because she’s a hot little spitfire but I think she’s a little… backed up. All jawin’ on about nothin’ over other sensible folks, makin’ a mess of the negro problem. [see how deep you can get into this hot mess before you throw up like you're on a roller coaster at Lean Pockets World] Medical paroxysm, that’s the ticket! We have a ‘certain guy’ for that, if you need some help.

Will relieve your women of hysteria, no questions asked.

So, reality TV is going Italian mafia gang busters now, which is going to be really ironic for The Situation, because he thinks he’s one of them, but they are going to scalp him and use his petrified blowout as an emery board for their cats.

*Ha! You can’t steal this one Stewart/Colbert! You call this man massa.

(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.

(THIS is reality tv I can get behind. If only the rest of the format had such obvious… talent.)

I know I said that my festering, moldy faith in humanity was entirely extinguished when Argentinians were sending death threats to a psychic octopus in Germany over soccer. There was no recuperation time between the words in that sentence for my species empathy to deal with the rapid-fire asinine. Every facet, every syllable of that collection of utterances, contained so much wrong that I saw no recovery for us as a people. My belief in the essential goodness of man flat-lined then, and I assumed all was lost, and I would spend the rest of my life waiting for the day we all worked in tandem to drown the human race in something that would really embarrass us throughout the galaxy, like Mrs. Butterworth’s or melted popsicles. But over the weekend, people began to puzzle me again. An aspect of human behavior actually made me think, and against all sound reasoning – selfless and with no thought to my personal safety – I followed my brain cramp down the badger hole as far as it would take me.

Like all great lines of reasoning, mine starts at People Magazine, where Hills star Kristin Cavallari offers, without even the courtesy of a spoiler alert, the biggest shock of, perhaps, this modern age post-Christ. Second, of course, to when I learned that Woody Harrelson is getting way more tail than any of us combined:

“Nothing you see on TV is real,” Cavallari, 23, tells PEOPLE. “Fans need to understand it’s all entertainment. It’s all in fun. I would never put my close friends or a real relationship on a show.”

Let’s get this straight: if you ever watched five minutes of The Hills and thought a millisecond of it wasn’t meticulously scripted, sponsored, planned, airbrushed, and filmed… If you thought you were experiencing life and love, joy and suffering with these people – and this is no judgment on your character – you should start fund raising, because you are uniquely qualified to board the short bus, express to Elected Official Town. You’re that special kind of mongoloid they keep in padded basements because you are a danger to yourself and others. And to those with the capacity to believe literally anything people tell you, I have only this to offer: Icy Hot feels really good when you rub it on your balls and/or clit. Of course The Hills isn’t real reality teevee! They’re all too genuinely pretty, and i could spend the rest of the day berating you, but that brings me to the part that seriously confuses me. What the fuck is up with reality TV?*

I know its a question that’s plagued intelligent people for coming up on 20 years, but I want to make a confession. Some time ago, I made my peace with reality television. Something finally clicked for me, and while it never became my cup of strange urine, I got it. With the advent of The Real World and Road Rules came television for morons-by-choice, that species of dingleberry that can afford to be willfully ignorant of book-learnin’ and the world around them. It was either because they were rich, or because they were so strikingly attractive that people bought things for them, or both, which really is just the true crime of the century. And they deserve entertainment too, which is why reality television came along, so that the dumb jocks, the ditsy assed cheerleaders, and the insufferably boring could relate to the characters they saw without having to waste their precious few braincells on useless minutia like symbolism, plot structure, meta-details, etc. Fat chicks could pretend that, if they cared deeply enough about these real people, that they had popular friends. Closeted teenagers could experience all the drama they so desperately craved without coming out and risking becoming walking hate crimes everywhere they went (this was the early nineties, after all). No matter what, this shit was solidly marketable, even into the sticky, sulfurous depths of over-saturation,  and that commercial viability relied one very important factor: everyone was slammin’. Topics like taint-rash (clinically: grundelous itchysaurus) and barely alcoholic anise liqueur, things that would alternately bore and disgust any other human being, sounded downright interesting out of the mouth belonging to the fake double Ds you were staring at. Viewers would pay rapt attention to a man talking about how he does his hair because he was pretty and because, frankly, Murphy Brown was way too confusing. Oh, let’s face it, these people would need the Cliff’s Notes to an episode of Designing Women or Full House.

So, wait, is the black guy banging Delta Burke? Why is he always there? Does he like floral upholstery?

So, that was all good. Without The Real World, MTV would have ended up showing C-Span reruns with color commentary by Carson Daly, since music was out of the question, so you were going to be flipping past that channel anyway. Let the D students have their fun, and if you happened to catch some masturbation fodder on your way past it, so much the better for everyone except the angels you killed. As predicted, the virus spread, because it was cheap as hell and required no effort to make, a formula that dollar signs are attracted to like maggots to the improvised amputee experiment in my basement. Soon, every channel had reality shows, even the supposedly educational ones like History and Oxygen, and the beautiful people you were replacing your spouse with when you closed your eyes during relations were spewing their beautiful absurdities across the airwaves.

But, reality fans, now that it’s 2010, what is the fucking deal with your chosen format? Look at this objectively for a minute. These are the people you’re glued to your television over in this, the third decade of rtv’s existence:

This is not, in fact, a collage from arts & crafts time at the home for the deranged.

I know you don’t like to do this, but try to concentrate. What do all of those people have in common, beside fake tans? If you guessed, “They are all insurmountably, devastatingly fugly,” you should buy the Scumbag Style home version game, because your friends will be impressed that you’ve finally found something you’re good at besides getting herpes and pounding energy drinks.Yes, those people are genuinely aesthetically unpleasant,* and suddenly reality stars rutting indiscriminately, trading VD and hair gel with each other like bubblegum cards with each other loses a bit of its luster. The truly befuddling part of this is that reality fans don’t see it. To make up for the fact that these people couldn’t get past the bouncer at a Chick-fil-A, they paint these people up with tans and makeup, and give them damaging perms and eyeliner Marilyn Manson would call a tad whorish. They are literally wearing masks! If you think these people are actually attractive, you probably thought Alf was a fucking documentary.

Have we truly run through all the beautiful people with no self respect? Have we, with our insatiable thirst for vacuous pap, deflated the nation’s supply of superficial narcissists to shells of their former hollow selves, resembling a pile of used condoms more than actual people?  Or did we just lose them to the titty bars that can offer more dignity to the aspiring attention whore? Every day a new crop of reality shows enters the pseudo-entertainment landscape, pushing up the corners of our television consciousness like mutant weeds on a stone tiled patio. But – and I genuinely want to know this – what pillar of shallow callousness have you invented to support it, now that all your hot sluts are used-up dish rags for Paco to sweep off the floor of Lot 8? Because the industry must be doing well, it’s everywhere! Look, as an example, this piece about the “winner” of The Bachelor was in the real actual news:

Vienna Girardi’s ex-boyfriend Lee Smith has once again cashed in on their on-again, off-again relationship–that he says overlapped with Vienna’s engagement to Bachelor Jake Pavelka… “We were in my truck hooking up, her shirt was off and Jake just kept calling over and over again,” Lee told Radar. “She said, ‘I can’t just ignore his calls or he’ll freak out and call every minute.’” (HuffPost)

So she’s a whore. The show is months over and she is still using her cooch for money and fame.  That was news when the girls on these shows looked like the girl next door you spied on when she did camel-toe pilates in the back yard,

Spoiled because nobody ever told her, "Hahaha no thanks."

operating the binoculars with one hand, and not like some baggy eyed emaciate that fell face first off the train to Auschwitz. There might have been some anthropological interest in deciding why a 10 might have low enough self-esteem to put herself through the gynecological rigors of a reality season and its aftermath, but everyone knows dogs need physical intimacy to replace the real emotional connections they feel incapable of creating with anyone other than their many cats. They do anal on principle and the second date. No amount of hair and makeup doctors can hide the fact she’s not good looking, and yet we all seem to be pretending she is. So I ask you again: how do you, the fans, justify this? What the hell is so interesting about this that you will sit through a half hour of product placements and corporate brainwashing to see it?

It certainly isn’t the writing, which in true reality television means concepting, I suppose. Not only does the viewer have to look at someone they could see walking down the street on any given day in rural Tennessee, they have to deal with the most insufferable, from-concentrate, packaged loutishness out of the mouths of these fugmos. Do you genuinely give two shits about the nuptials of the middle-aged third banana from a spin-off of another reality show based on a terrible menstrual drama no sane person ever watched? Because that’s what you’re getting on Bethenny Getting Married. Why should I care about the cat fights and infidelities of rich old cunts (Real Housewives of Orange County) who have to create adversity because life isn’t handing them enough? Why do I have to see how they do it in different towns (Real Housewives of Everywhere Else)? I literally hate you for populating the earth with 13 small versions of you, and you think you can bitch at me about how hard it is to raise them? Drown the little bastards, and put some fucking Star Trek reruns on. The Bachelor seems to me to be less of a contest than a game of Russian Roulette with the bullet being a towering stack of illegible divorce papers to wade through in three months. Tila Tequila is not, in fact, hot; she only lasted because you all thought you’d see some lesbian shit on basic cable, when, if you throw down for Cinemax, you can see actually attractive chicks go at it nightly. If throwing a bunch of tards in a big apartment isn’t holding your viewers like it did in ’92, and your solution is to grasp at flimsy devices – devices like  “Who has the constitution to blow Flava Flav” – then maybe you should go back to being a Bon Jovi roadie.

Jersey Shore would be an incredible metafictional exploration of the limits of the reality subculture, a sociological experiment worthy of the attention we give the drug culture from 50 years ago, except for one thing: The target audience. You can meticulously arrange your elements so that the true-to-life action you capture on camera is a vivid criticism of reality television from the POV of an avid and honest fan, but as long as you put it on MTV it will be like serving vichyssoise to a starving homeless guy. The apparent star of Jersey Shore, Snooki, is the walking summation to this entire argument:

The smallest Jersey Shore guidette told the senator’s daughter [in an interview that could only have been conceived from the dastardly mechinations of Satan's masturbations when he's on pot] that she voted for McCain in 2008 because, “he was really cute and I liked when he did his speeches.”

Indeed. I wonder, if Elizabeth Cady Stanton could see forward in time, would she put a revolver in her mouth before or after Seneca Falls? Assuming Snooki’s motivations were even slightly defensible – and assuming she could name one thing about how he “did his speeches” outside of lulling her to sleep like a grandpa with a worn copy of Goodnight Moon – assuming all this, McCain was the cuter of the candidates? I thought you reality girls all feel a terrible emptiness inside when a big black cock isn’t lodged firmly in your derrieres. Maybe she has a thing for stubby arms and comb-overs, but these considerations all become moot when you see a picture of this bitch.

They don't make enough watery Bud Light for anyone to call this any more than a 2

Oh, I’m sorry, were you talking? I was just spacing, thinking about a culture that glorifies shallow idiots that aren’t even remotely attractive. You know, the kinds they used to put in homes as the malfunctioning piles of hardened genetic stew that would never be of any use to society whatsoever. We treat our mentally challenged people better nowadays, but we don’t need to be putting them on television when shows like Arrested Development get the ax. We already redefined talent to include “being hot,” we really don’t want to have to open the books for you dumb assholes again. As long as you, the reality tv fan, continue to absorb this schlock like a musty sponge in red wine vomit, it will never be commercially viable to bring intelligence and wit to people who like to use their brains. And that’s fine, we’re good to go read a book, but if this shit is going to continue to exist, conquering cable and network wholecloth like the machines in The Matrix, we’re really going to have to ask for just one damned good reason.

*I’m not even talking about the fashion ones or the singing ones or the cooking ones. At least an argument can be made that those showcase some kind of talent.
**That’s not even the worst of it, I just don’t know the genre enough to look up pictures of specific painted up monsters I’ve surfed past recently.

By Sean “I Care About Facts” Torrie

(Nail on the head, good sir! And with all the cultural sensitivity of mercilessly tickling a child of Thalidomide.)

I love the Tea Party Movement. I really do, I mean that. I’m a huge fan of a free show; this is why I go to the mall after I’m done with all my Christmas shopping, just to watch other people look insane. I feel like the Tea Baggers have all the potential to pull the severely retarded members of the Republican party out and into a third team and maybe we’ll have at least one political party that can function without a complete and undisputed majority, or without referring to their dark master for instructions on how to further deplete the United States of post-Enlightenment thought.

What I really enjoy is the complete lack of research with these folks. Are there any economists in this team? Is there a single lawyer who hasn’t been disbarred?

“Oh Sean, you’ve just been reading the wrong sources, you’ve been corrupted by your generation’s hard-on for ‘hope,’ and ‘yes you can’.”

No. But fuck you very much for judging me. I voted for Nader. I did it with a smile on my face because this Obama guy seemed too idealistic, and McCain TOTALLY SOLD OUT TO PANDER TO THE FAR RIGHT REPUBLICANS. I dug McCain as a presidential candidate, until he became a presidential candidate.

I’d have also loved to see a New Yorker in the White House, but Giuliani is a whore.

I’ve digressed.

Do you know what happens with the ginormous bank that you borrowed money from becomes bankrupt and has to close down? The answer isn’t that you get to own your partially paid for house. I’m not even sorry, you’re a nitwit if that was your answer. Your house gets sold and you get much, much less than a fair notice of eviction. Odds are good your house will be purchased by a less ass-backwards corporation who will know to demand a higher credit rating than the bank did, and either way you’re homeless. Then the government can pay for the construction of a few million shelters. We saw how well they did with that task in Louisiana a few years ago. [All dirtying up the Superdome with the filthy riff-raff and assorted hoipoloi - ed.]

I think it is pretty fair to say that the bank bailout was with a great deal of the “representation of the people” that the Tea Party claims a lack of. If your concern with this is a fear of socialism then you have a series of other concerns to address: like the fact we’ve been a socialist republic since the ’30s, or that while socialism is communism’s cousin, it’s communism’s cousin that got a degree in stable economics, not totalitarian politics.

“But Sean, the Nazis were socialist, that makes it bad, right?”

Ok. This is important, kids, and I think it is something everyone should know: under the correct temporal circumstances, everybody is Hitler.  I’ll shorten Godwin’s Law for you: The first person to bring a comparison to Nazis into an argument loses. It’s a god damned cop-out. You’re not thinking creatively enough to be winning an argument and have not only lost that argument, but for the sake of argument, all of your friends and loved ones because they don’t respect you anymore.

Lemme tell you about Nazis for a minute here. The fun things. Nazis had one of the strongest nationwide anti-smoking campaigns in history. That’s right, they were militantly against smoking cigarettes. Hitler was a vegetarian. He didn’t eat meat because he felt it was cruel. Hitler was also militantly loyal to his girlfriend. They got married like 2 days before his documented suicide. Never cheated on her. Ever. Period.

To be fair, his hobby of making adorable striped pajamas for mice didn't leave much time for browsing JDate.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if you wanna worry about Nazis, then I’d be far, far more concerned about a pair of unmarried heterosexual life-partners who shop at Wholefoods, than a blink-of-the-eye decision to save a few million homes by throwing money at a failing bank, in order to protect the people of a nation. Frankly, people who shop at Wholefoods kinda make me uncomfortable anyway. Stop taking Eastern thought and forcing it down my throat with your Western approach of indoctrinating everyone around you.

This, however, again brings me all the way back to the point I was working to.

I’m a New Yorker. I’m amazingly proud of it. We are an aggressive, mean spirited, and cutthroat people who live (in the metropolitan area, anyway) in one of the wealthiest, most intelligent (average IQ here is the second highest in the world – and I hear living in Tokyo is hell) places on earth. Despite this, our local economy is in the gutter and now we’re taxing the living hell out of cigarettes, with a 20% increase that rolled around on July that will be impacting the entire state (not just the civilized part) and there’s word that Nassau county will be pushing another raise shortly, and further word that there’ll be a beer tax soon. Happy 4th of July: it’s $14 a pack in Manhattan if you wanna celebrate liberty in flavor country.

Now in one of the wealthiest states in the union, certainly we’re the only one with our own central bank, I find it impossible that it is a lack of proper funds responsible as much as an overt mismanagement of finance, and a nurturing attention to pork fat spending. So that, let us just assume, it isn’t so much that we don’t have enough money to run the county, as much as  the elected officials need to eat vegetarian meals with their long-term monogamous sexual counterparts, and not smoke cigarettes after sex, only to later ensure the county pays for the new story on their home, and corporations can jump through a tax loophole and not distribute their wealth. This, my dear readers, is some overt taxation without representation. Meanwhile there was a near-miss vote to close a school in the local district? Call me silly, but education seems kinda important to me. Undereducated people is how you get a standard for education lowered in a region: poorer performance becomes acceptable in colleges, and dumber (or socially ignorant, and therefore morally complacent) people getting business degrees, running the economy into the ground and causing a need for a bailout.

BA-ZING!!! How does he do it?

Now I get that the whole Tea Party thing is a primarily Midwestern thing and all, so would someone mind if I borrowed a small army of unemployment-beneficiary rednecks that are anti-socialism so that I can host either a protest or riot (whatever happens, right?) to get my cigars (sorry, if I’m putting a phallus in my mouth, lighting it on fire and nurturingly puffing on it, it’s gonna be HUGE) back down to a reasonable price? New York’s governor is black and blind too! So that should be all the motivation they need to really get going.

By Sean Torrie

(Sadly, Puff Daddy’s assessment concerning the motivation of most of the citizenry was astoundingly astute.)

You know what’s been driving me nuts?

Damned near everything, but this one in particular.

For the sake of presenting an argument, I’ll warm up the topic.

Terrorism (ohhh yea, that’s where I’m going with this) is something I’ve had to view and review since the day after I turned 18, and our nation either entered, or was finally made aware that we’d been in a holy war for some time. From the start I had this amazing sensation that something was being collectively shoved down our throats, and that thinking about the nature of the problem would only get in the way of the intended progress, so it being in my nature to be a total dick, I decided to start examining what terrorism really is, as opposed to what we’re told to understand it as.

Eventually I found my way to a Sociology of Terrorism class at my university. Yea, a leftist suburban university in New York. I was expecting a wonderful shit show where the class was divided by colored war paint, and the distinctive odors of ganja and crude oil on either side. Instead I was given the complete disappointment of having myself the single most educational class in my entire college experience. I hate it when I actually learn things in thousand dollar classes.

The really key element we were presented is the hackneyed expression of, “History is written by the victors.” If the American Revolution wasn’t a carefully machinated 200 year old Freemason conspiracy started by Sir Francis Bacon, I’m sure Ben Franklin would be remembered as the Bin Laden of his time, while we ritualistically took turns spitting on his grave every 4th of July, which would be called “Bollocks to the Bloody Rebels” day. Instead we were the victors, and the rebels against the norm are heroes of liberty and the New Order of the Ages based in freedom of rights, not the inalienable correctness of the crown. Bully to you, good sir.

The issue of modern terrorism is that it was planned over the internet. These fuckers might live in caves, murder innocent people, and mutilate their women’s genitals but they learned some tricks from Gandhi that will ring true as long as communication continues to advance: there is no bad publicity; unless you’re in politics. The element these fuckers planned on was that every time a soldier fucked up, it’d find it’s way to the internet, and then the previously useless 24 news stations would pick up the clips, over-air, over-analyze, and brainwash the people watching. Thus perpetuating a war of ignorance and fear and… something… something… darkside.

You’ll never hear on the blasted news that the news it self was obviously the key element in the plan for modern terrorism. This fact is accented by the fact they fell right for it. Leaving a news story with a DVD of video on a giant mouse trap could have only been slightly more obvious than a terrorist leader who gives out taped recordings only slightly more regularly than J. D. Salinger.

Essentially my point here is that what one can define as terrorism, I choose to define as poorly negotiated, below the belt jabs at resolving cultural conflict while being a total prick about it. One could easily label Chuck Manson as a terrorist, the extremist hippy, but considering the number of women he kept as pets, I’m just gonna call him a personal hero.

With the topic properly raised and addressed I’d like to head to my point, with but a little bit more spit and shine. They say that buying drugs supports terrorism. There’s truth to that. Mexico is a shithole because of their drug cartels are running the nation on a larger scale than the Italian Mafia did the US in the ’30s. However, no one really cares about the Mexican government, we’ve proven that a few times over. So when they say terrorism they mean that it supports Middle Eastern Terrorism, which relates specifically back to opium, and by relation, heroin sales. That’s it. No other drugs. Sorry. This, however, is another mistruth being presented by another collection of people with different social preferences than others. I don’t know how many anti-pot or cigarette commercials I’ve seen that were so trite and terrible that I felt it was a terrorist attack on my mind. Buy your heroin addict buddy a case of Bud, ask him to stay off the needle for the night, and you’ll have done your part.

No less, this brings it all back to my initial and well concealed point. When a terrorist group finds a means to advertise their philosophy, and a means to fund it at the same time, you have (in this case, intentionally) created a monster. I don’t care how much you care about fluffy or intelligent animals in this context, I personally prefer the company of dogs to most people, and feel that sea mammals are an interesting and bright-minded group worthy of protecting, but despite this: by watching the television show Whale Wars -YOU ARE SUPPORTING TERRORISM.

I mean… am I the only guy who has noticed this? People are watching this show, and cheering on these people who are intentionally disrupting the lives of hard working people who are doing something morally dubious, but legal. This is on the other end of lighting an abortion clinic on fire. The difference here is that bombing an abortion doctor’s car (is there a name for a guy that does that for a living? other than soulless? Sorry, I’m all about your choice and stuff, but doing that for a living has got to be more morbid than being a grave digger) is disrupting the life of a physician who is making an otherwise (other than the bombing and fire and violent protest part of it – these protesters are also terrorists by the way, I’m just putting that out there) comfortable living, in an otherwise safe location. These guys on the whaling boats… I mean, just go watch Deadliest Catch. It simply can’t be that far off. This isn’t an easy job, and it has to be hazardous on a rather exceptional level. Now these unemployed attention whore hipsters have to go and bother them while they’re trying to make a living?

We don't come down to where you work and slap the itchy hemp Jesus Robe out of your bong.

The hipsters can go home to their applauding supporters, and what do the whalers have to go home to? Their hungry families they spent months risking their lives for. Isn’t there a tree these people should be hugging? Did they bring the recipient of their Dendrophilia onto the ship and just hump that tree at night when the cameras are off? Is it like the boat’s town-bicycle-tree? Do they gang-bang the tree at night? It’d be a lot easier, and less sloppy seconds if they just stayed on the shore and humped separate trees the way God intended, and spent their time trying to get laws changed, and not harassing fishermen.

(Braaaaaaiiiiinnns. Braaaaaad’s Braaaaaiiiinnnns.)

Rumors are swirling that Bradley Cooper popped the big question to girlfriend Renee Zellwegger, delivering a glimmer of hope to burn victims everywh – -

Wait, before we get started: The World Cup started today with a real pants pisser of a draw befitting the complete Schiavo the sport has come to represent to anyone that can handle more rules than a game of Popomatic Trouble in their spectator events. Seriously, Americans invented the concept of overtime before we even came up with electricity. Catch up.

That’s not what I want to talk about today, I’m just required to throw one PSA a week on this mofo, so just a warning: You never notice just how many fucking numb tongued foreigners live in your town until the World Cup comes around. Seriously, it’s like they come out of the woodwork like cockroaches when Wakim Phoenix leaves a thirty pound hunk of pork fat on the table. Very suddenly, you are going to find your local bars are packed to the brim with European trash in brightly colored, uncomfortable looking shirts, spouting weird shit like, “Let’s have a lager to celebrate that wicked bend,” or whatever. Shifty-eyed South Americans will spend way too long looking at you, telepathically assuring you that if you turn your back for even one second, they will fucking bite your left ass cheek off. Just remember, Slovenia is a country, not a slur on your mother; The Netherlands and Denmark seriously do need two separate teams for some reason; Just because they wear collars on their jerseys, it doesn’t mean they’re working less hard than people in real American sports (it’s a symptom, not the disease); They don’t know how to read, so whipping out your Webster’s and pointing out that “hooligan” is a negative term won’t phase them, or convince them to change it to “tampon”; New Zealand’s team is not comprised entirely of Hobbits. Killing any of these people is still a crime punishable by a stern lecturing and the removal of your Playstation 3 from your bedroom for one full week, so be careful. And no, really, they couldn’t wait for the fucking NBA finals to be over, even if it means you have to share a bar stool with Sven and his tiny penis. That is all.

(Ugh, when will the nerds invent a short-term cryogenic freezing system that will get us to football season in a sweet, baseball- and soccer-free coma?)

“The More You Know…”

So yeah, anyway, Renee Zellweger was in the vicinity of some white dresses this one time, which totally means Bradley Cooper wants to buy the cow in the most scrupulous sense that phrase can be taken in. Which is just plain silly, because who keeps white dresses under an old stone bridge? Also, not for nothin’, but after you’ve been owned and used up by a Country Western star like Kenny Chesney, the appropriate wedding dress color is Pabst blue with accents in puce, the most shameful of all the secondary colors.

Anyway, the Post is sure as shit Brad II is going to make the kind of mistake for which you spend the rest of your life apologizing to your traumatized dick, coaxing it lovingly out of soft, frightened paralysis. Their bridal announcement combines the humdingin’ evidence, consisting of a rich actress that likes to shop, with this damning follow up that put my doubts to rest once and for all:

Second, she and Cooper had lunch with her parents yesterday at the Tribeca Grand. Could it be he asked her father for her hand in marriage?

The author of this article must have had a pretty shit childhood that the only reason she can imagine for having dinner with her parents is to perform a courtship ritual so archaic it fell off the edge of Wikipedia. Your mountain of evidence is impressive, understandably nameless bollocks-slinger, but allow me to play devil’s advocate with your face.

First of all, Bradley Cooper asks no man for permission to do anything. He was half the reason the most successful comedy film of the decade will not hit TNT for a full three weeks longer than most movies do when they need some place to die, and the star of the A-Team reboot that will make tons of money because America can’t help but repress the memory of traumas like Inspector Gadget, Miami Vice, Bewitched, and Land of The Lost. Thanks to him, the greased up wavy quaffeur, that blessedly went the way of Luke Skywalker, now creates a sea of immovable blond locks wherever douchey twenty-somethings congregate. Bradley Cooper is less of an asker than a civilized pillager.

Secondly: As a man who knows his way around a fetish or two, I can see very clearly something that the Post’s finest gossip columnist – not at all under any pressure to print something, anything, validity be damned excepting that of the very oxygen she breathes  – can not. The guy was married to the uncomfortably violable Jennifer Esposito for four months before bailing because the Bradley Coopers of the world don’t need to get married to get their dick wet a couple thousand times a day. This relationship with the Beast What Can’t Be Killed is fetishism at its best, a dalliance into the world of condoned bestiality. Seriously, this guy would have done just as well, or his wife, for that matter. In between long, unabashedly narcissistic glances of his sweaty, naked form in the mirror, he looks down at the melty, painfully squinting face and mismatched pancake boobs of the Daughter of the Black Lagoon he’s tupping*, and swells lustily with how filthy and degrading the situations he gets himself into are. Also, ugly chicks do anal, so that’s probably keeping him eating chips on her couch longer than is required to prove you’re not so shallow you won’t deign to kiss lips that look like two halves of the bottom of a blistered foot for the sake of a “good personality.”

It's like some maniac threw Nicole Kidman in a pit with 50 starved and rabid raccoons, and then used battery acid instead of Bactine to treat the wounds.

But guys like that, with some kinks to work out of their system, don’t marry the receptacles of their sticky peccadilloes. Like his equally hunky namesake that came before him, Brad knows he needs but raise his hands like Moses and part the Pink Sea wherever he goes. When he gets bored because nobody with more clout than Scumbag Style will bat an eye at this effrontery to the gods masquerading as a relationship, he’ll leave her and go on a humping spree to put John Mayer to shame twenty times over. Then, when he’s ready, he’ll marry a cute, vanilla, non-threatening girl, like a celebrity cellist or a ventriloquist, whatever passes for entertainment in the 2020s. And Renee Zellweger, the public morbid fascination depleted, will slither back into the sarcophagus from whence she came, never to be seen again until some kid hits an unlucky roll in Jumanji.

*Yeah, that’s an Abbot & Costello reference and a Shakespeare reference in the same sentence. You come here for quality, we deliver.

(“You’ve got seven months before we can’t cover it up, boys! Go to towns while you can!”)

Hey! You can’t use my line!

There’s a call out for the Pope to prove his innocence in the willful decimation of the lives of hundreds of kids, to provide some evidence, talk directly to the media, or show even a glimmer of desire to provide the world with some kind of Vatican transparency. Tough titties, but he will do this:

The Vatican… sought to reach out to victims of the sex abuse scandal rocking the Catholic Church, saying Friday that Pope Benedict XVI is willing to meet with them and take part in the church’s healing process.

Man, you’d think at this point they’d hire somebody to watch the vocabulary in these official notices. The Pope wants to “reach out” and “take part in the healing process”? So, what, he wants to play doctor with the victims? I’m sorry, were I one of these victims, I think I’d take a little investigative cooperation over walking into the castle where they say “sorry” the naughty way to talk to their king. These “victims” are like 40 now, what do you think you’re going to accomplish by meeting them? They’re just a little too advanced in age for the old “our little secret” trick to work. It’s especially comforting since that announcement came like two hours before the media announced that cover up letters were found, signed by Ratzinger himself. Yeah, we’ll come talk when every idle hand in that richly appointed snake den of yours is safely cuffed behind their respective backs, and the construction workers are elbow deep turning Rome into one big combo Pizza Hut and Wicken bookstore.

But according to Life Site News, the Catholic digital rag that spews irretrievably absurd propaganda like a snow blower beefed up with a superconducting magnet from the LHC, a fresh decree from the Vatican can fix it all. “The paper said that the new rules will be modeled on the ‘zero tolerance’ policy instituted by the U.S. bishops in 2002.” As opposed to the “some tolerance” policy they were working under before.  “Rome Reports says that the new rules are expected to be issued in the autumn,” so you priests better get your child abuse in while the gettin’s good, because after the summer, “I tripped and fell into that kid’s asshole” isn’t going to cut the mustard or get you some paid vacation at Supple Young Flesh Island anymore.

Lombardi renewed some of that [media bashing] rhetoric on Friday, saying the media have failed to portray the pervasiveness of child sex abuse in modern society and the way the church’s experience can be useful to society at large.

Again with the vocabulary. What other institution in the world would proudly claim to be the leading expert on child sex abuse? They have so much experience with child sex abuse, they can totally be useful to society in that regard. Like the one in California, from the affore mentioned letter, where then Cardinal Ratzinger covered up the priest “tying up and molesting two altar boys” by sending him to work in youth ministry, where he molested “tons” more kids. His words. The Church would totally be willing to step in and pinch hit on that one. “You’re going to want to use a Killick’s Hitch knot when you tie up that one. That visit from Boy Scout Troop 7 was fun and educational!” Backseat drivers, am I right?

But for the sake of argument, and in the interest of media fairness, let’s look at some of the sex abuse that’s been in the news recently that is way more OK than the stuff the sheriff of Rape Town is accused of.

1. Cheerleaders pissing in their teammates’ drinks. “A group of [Saginaw] Texas cheerleaders is in hot water after mixing [pee] in their teammates’ beverages.” [HuffPost] While I sincerely applaud the barely veiled, hilariously obvious pun of the author, let’s get serious. I personally know a lot of people that would pay for real actual cheerleaders to do just that. Is this a crime, or a gift? Those girls should seriously think about just how well they could capitalize on their suspension time. It just so happens Tiger Woods lost his Gatorade sponsorship, and lemon-lime is a popular flavor. Just sayin’.

2. A man that had a nine month emotional and sexual relationship with a dolphin in the seventies, and has just finished writing a book about it. With a literary straight face, he says the dolphin came on to him, but you believe a lot of things on acid. “I would say it’s sort of like Romeo and Juliet. Instead in this book, Juliet is a 400 pound marine mammal,” he said. (FilmDrunk) Keep piling those fetishes on the public record, dude. You’re a dolphin fucker AND a chubby chaser? Pretty weird, I guess, but both things are legal in Florida, so you’re still on the hook there, Catholics.

3. The swim coaches across the country abusing their charges, including “Brian Hindson of Indiana, [who] was sentenced to a 33-year federal prison term after he was found to have secretly taped multiple girls in a ‘special’ shower room.” (HuffPost) Well what did you expect, parading that talent around in those skimpy swim caps? For swim coaches, every day is like spring break, and the privilege of participating means putting the hell out. Gotta get them to sign those waivers, guys.

4. What I did to my computer screen the minute of these new Kim Kardashian pictures were released.

Whoever coined the phrase "not leaving much to the imagination" doesn't excersize his very often.

Bam! You could fit a mushroom metropolis of very happy smurfs in that monster valley. Anyone else feel like you could blow down the back of her bathing suit and make whistling noises, like kids do with thick blades of grass? I volunteer to be the scientist running that experiment. That pooper bulge is so intoxicatingly inhuman, that at the right angle, you probably have to look at it through one of those cardboard solar eclipse boxes you make in grade school. Permanent retinal damage by bum, for. the. win. Seriously guys, nobody tell her she’s shopping in the kid’s section for her bathing suits, k?

Also, didn’t I promise?

[Stole those pics from The Superficial. I doubt a lawsuit against spreading happiness will last long in court, but I'm covering my bases.]