(This has nothing to do with the article, I just have a fetish for brightly manicured coffin nails. She was just blowing you a kiss, fuckin’ bitch judge!)

The  unemployment rate for the entire United States is at last check, what, nine and half percent? Luckily, we have our government officials working to stem the tide of homelessness, disease, and hunger that plagues those Americans not lucky enough to be born into “screwer” class, right? The leaders we elected to drag uncomplaining (so far as we can hear) American paupers from their “screwee” roles are on top of this bitch, sodomizing poverty, grinding her cunt face into the hot summer pavement, blinding her with the sharp gravel of our dangerously untended roads… Well, just as soon as they get their buds reelected.

Look, you just ate, like, Monday, and these smear ads aren't going to run themselves.

Hey, foreclosed traditional nuclear family that doesn’t know where their next meal is coming from, let alone where they’ll be sleeping next week, how do you feel about 200 mil in unabashed corporate avarice going to make sure potential elected officials are in Sharpies, lawn signs, campaign headquarters and rock star tour buses? I’m sorry, what? Those figures, that came out today, are already outdated? You say that “the total could rise to roughly $300 million if it includes additional pledges for campaign spending from Americans for Prosperity, promising $45 million, the Club for Growth, $24 million, the National Rifle Association, $20 million, and the Susan B. Anthony List, $6 million?” Somebody needs to explain to me why the NRA needs to have Lex Luthor’s annual salary in foldin’ money.

Welp, because government shuts down every other year – because elections take about 9 months, and the other 3 are for siestas for the poor, tired politicians – and we’ll have to wait until November to start filibustering potential “poverty czars,” in the meantime we’re going to need an enemy we can all agree to be distracted with hate for. Here’s an idea: Those lazy assed, mouth breathing, sister humping marine animals. Seriously, call your sister and see if a starfish doesn’t answer the phone, smoking a cigarette and yelling at her for a fresh beer. I’m sorry you had to hear about it this way, bro.

In March, we reported (read: made a bunch of totally hilarious/hysterically insensitive jokes) on this, a story about a group of fundamentalist Christians that wanted to ritually slaughter a performing killer whale for doing its eponymous job, mangling the shit out of anything smaller than it, this time its trainer. The best part was they wanted to stone it, Old Testament style…

Well, to be honest, the BEST part was my bitchin' photoshop.

Literally Old Testament style, as their justification was copied and pasted from their favorite version of Exodus, and they insisted that God willed it. There is no greater justification in America for us to slowly and brutally execute a person, let alone one of His own creatures whose only method of intelligible communication puts him on the level of Joey fucking Fatone. With myriad national concerns that, while infinitely more pressing than a cetacean expressing captivity rage, are seemingly unsolvable without the application of a day’s, maybe even a week’s, consideration, the United States had found in subaqueous wildlife its new enemy. Let the floodgates open! JI-fuckin-HAD!

My favorite headline of last week was this: BP Burning Endangered Sea Turles Alive. Talk about biblical. The purportedly tragic implications of the story aside (whatever, hippies), can you think of a better headline to define our generation in a special edition future issue of LIFE Magazine? Well, I mean, I can. “BP Shoving Live Orphan Kittens Feet-First Into Rusty Meat Grinders,” comes to mind. That’s as viscerally stimulating as a handy from a phone-sex operator with Tourettes, but perhaps a little verbose for page 6. What about: “How Many Rabid Porcupines Can BP Fit Into the Anuses of These 5 Year-Old Cancer Patients?” I give up. If brevity is the soul of wit, just call me Corky.

Leave it to the internet meme guys to show my bombastic ass up. lulz.

In true American fashion, we’re exporting our aquatic animus to developing countries that need our moral guidance to advance to the next level of the XBox game called Democracy… Oh, and they need our moneys. Argentinians have been sending death threats to a psychic octopus in Germany.

Aside: When deciding to enroll in a Masters program in Creative Writing, I specifically wrote on the application that I

Pictured: As convincing a psychic as any I've ever seen.

did not want to have to study Milton, nor did I, under any circumstance, ever want to have to write the exact sentence I just wrote. Needless to say, The Reason for Church-Government Urged Against Prelaty was a laugh riot page-turner.

Moving on: The alarmingly superstitious Argentinians – it’s bad enough we believe in psychics in this country, let alone animal ones (imagine the reality teevee potential, though!) – don’t want to savagely murder the embattled cephalopod clairvoyant for the sake of God’s righteousness like good Americans would, but that’s never stopped us before. I mean, the Jews want to rebuild Solomon’s Temple because they believe it will usher in a new era of prosperity for their people, right? And America’s Christian leaders want the Temple rebuilt so that the world will end, their misuse of the planet’s resources will be justified, and Jesus, Charlton Heston, and Sarah Palin can finally separate the Democrats into “the damned” and “personal sex slaves (the more damned)”. Despite our differing motivations, we seem to be working well together, so why not Argentina?

Paul, the oracle octopus whose prescient premonitions perfectly predicted the outcome of all six German World Cup games, first generated anger from Argentinian fans who believe his percipient pick doomed Argentina in the quarterfinals. (HuffPost)

Ah. Soccer. You’re on your own there, filthy savages.

By Sean Torrie

(The bespectacled, unwitting victim to Apple’s evil plot. You wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, would you, Mr. Jobs?)

Have I got a conspiracy for YOU!

I’ve got a buddy of mine that I like to… let’s just say promote the mental instability of. As a running gag. He’s a bit of a conspiracy nut, so every so often I’ll find something a little conspiratorial and send it his way. By the time I finished sending it, I realized this might be something worth sending to everyone on this fine, and upstanding website.

Let me start by saying that store cards, not the credit cards, but the members cards, have always struck me as mighty creepy, and underhandedly Orwellian. You need them in order to get your discounts at your local drug store, supermarket, pet supplies store, etc., and without them you end up paying more than you need to. Once you get one though, they expect you to fill it out, and it’s true when they say your private information won’t be given out. What is shared elsewhere is your age/sex/income/ethnicity/family statistics, coupled with your purchasing statistics in order to brew it into a nice formula for how to advertise to you, to make sure you go where the advertisers want you to be. I’d like to say that this is all part of an elaborate scheme to create a perpetual energy device by putting conductors over the grave of George Orwell, in order to pull in all the energy being created by his corpse spinning, but I sincerely doubt it.

When I found this initial article, just rummaging through one of my favorite game sites I got a little uncomfortable. (And here, here, and here)

Go ahead and read the articles, but the short of it is, Apple wasn’t (it’s since changed after the last link) accepting paper money for their ipads (the same policy applied, for some time, to the iphone). The singular purpose was to track who buys them. That is to say: not theoretically track who might or might not buy one, but to actually track and limit the number that a single person could buy! How’s that conductor over Orwell’s grave sound now? Cuz I’ve got a feeling we’ll be pulling more energy out of that British plot than we lost per day out of the Gulf of Mexico last week.

Now, I’ve openly not been a fan of Apple for a while now. It was when they switched over from the underdog company that had to sell their wares to schools who wanted discounts for the bulk purchase of computers that had no place in the professional world, but could still claim they were teaching your kids how to use one; to the Imac. The same way we claim that gym class enforces healthy activity, and isn’t a device to employ people who just couldn’t cut it at a real job, and felt that the space that could occupy 6 classrooms would be better used for playing with balls (insert priest joke here).

I remember seeing the Imac as a great big “HI! So you are openly computer retarded, and too lazy to learn new things, but still want to feel like you’re keeping up with the late 90s, try this out!” The Ipod followed, and I’ll admit it was a great idea then, but I can also recall a sensation of, “Gosh, that’s an awful lot of money for something electronic that doesn’t have buttons.”

It was in the early 2000s (did we ever come up with a name we all agreed on for this decade?), when Apple started to collect a new generation of following that wasn’t computer elitists who preferred a pure, underdog system, and mutated into hipsters who wanted, what was now, a fashion accessory, that I got turned off. I don’t know about you, but Ipod Minis looked an awful lot like Tamagotchi for teenagers. It doesn’t take much to turn me off of something popular. What can I say? I’m a rebel. I ride into the sunset on my Harley after righting a wrong in a small town, not waiting for my reward, only content in knowing that I changed a corrupt status quo.

Apple continued to become more chic, and Microsoft released Vista. Apple quickly became more chic. I wasn’t terribly happy with that either.

It was when this ipad thing started getting whispers that I got kinda curious. I mean, the thing is right out of Star Trek: The Next Generation, the same way cell phones clearly evolved out of Gene Roddenberry’s wet-dream communicators from the original series. Of course, because the new target audience ceased being productivity-minded personal computer elitists and people who want expensive toys, that’s what they ended up selling, I lost interest pretty quickly after the initial demos. It was when I found these links, that I felt some things were worth pointing out.

These sales are said to limit the number that can be sent over seas, and this is, in my opinion, specifically because: the frightening and ever-powerful Euro that was certain to eliminate the Dollar and destroy the US is going down faster than a hooker on a Friday night who hasn’t had a fix in 5 hours and is shaking like Michael J Fox after drinking 5 Redbulls.

Check the 3rd link and the estimated price in Euros has jumped for the release date, that says to me that they’re very quietly getting ready for Europe to become a post-apocalyptic economic hellscape… That they’re still very willing to exploit while their money is still worth something, but they want to make sure they get the proper profit from their electronic-toy-seeking-public. I’m seeing Mad Max, mixed with Deep Space 9, but with more ethnic cleansing and overpriced Apple products.

Further more, I’m guessing this is being done to better track who does what on them, since with G3 on it, you’ll have internet access in all places, which is also why you need a physical, HOME, address in order to register it for internet use (which is it’s only real function, having no significant hard drive). Do keep in mind that this still only applies to US addresses, even if you ship one over seas, you won’t be able to use it unless your buddy allows you to borrow his home address. This way, when you look up those schematics for a nuclear weapon, they’ll know to at least raid someone’s house, even if it’s the wrong guy. This also applies now that they’ve revoked the new cash policy.

Suffice to say: once you buy your Ipad with cash, you’ll be required to register it to your home to do almost anything with it. One could argue that this is similar to owning a car, but I’ll counter argue that I can’t drive an ipad through a crowd of people at the mall parking lot, and drive away untraceable. Frankly it’s a step towards limiting the availability of information to people who use free wireless hotspots. I’m just simply not okay with anything that takes a step in a direction that limits what I’m allowed to anonymously know. If a guy wants to take a netbook into a dark secluded room, hook it up to free wireless, and do lewd things on Chatroulette, then he’d probably also like to do so without his netbook’s MAC address being linked right to his family’s home address. What his wife doesn’t know about his closeted sexual preferences can’t hurt her.

Besides, if you’re on Chatroulette, you should be completely ready to be seeing a lot of cock. It’s not like you weren’t made aware of the website specifically because of the ratio of man-parts.

I’m hereby changing my personal policy from not liking Apple, to outright renouncing it. Mr. Jobs, you’ve crossed a line. You’re no longer the struggling rebel alliance fighting for liberty in a free market that is greatly against you, you’re the high-fashion industry, controlling what people can do, and contorting the very nature of the free market, and for that matter, personal privacy.

You can manipulate the fools and computer illiterate into buying things they don’t need, that’s been going on for eons, but when you start tracking and controlling purchases, that’s when I’ve gotta step in and tell you to cut the crap. Don’t make me sick Zombie-Orwell on you.

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.