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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Thanks to Worlds As Myth for the visual gag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I have a real job that sometimes requires me to do actual writing (fuck that shit, right?), and because Walgreens has posted armed guards, Fort Knoxing my prescribed supply of mood stabilizers, so you won’t want to hear what comes out of my diseased mind today anyway, I present another chapter from my creative nonfiction masters thesis Silly Scabs. It was my very first foray into essay writing, and coincidentally, I used to use it to shirk writing new assignments in every new class I attended, so I guess that means I respect you about as much as I did the second string undergraduate professors that bought it every time. Still, it went over way better than it ought to have almost every time (except for that one crack whore that thought essays about flower strewn beds on the night of a young lady’s awkward carnal awakening were the only good kind). The result, which we should have seen coming really, is that I tell you assholes four or five dick jokes a week and call it a second job. The land of opportunity sans any modicum of foresight, that’s what America is…

(Clowns teach hilarious lessons, like: When you have a colleague with tard strength, don’t dress like his favorite snack. A proverb for our times, really.)

Chuckles Goes to Bermuda

(Note: before you bitch about the questionable politics and childish rhetoric, remember I was like 19 when I wrote this.)

America seems to me to be a difficult subject to broach these days. We live in an era where half of the American population takes its cues from Jesus freaks with slick silver media pulpits, and the other half can’t see past the wafting steam of its patchouli stank; and anyway nobody wants to be told anything that doesn’t jam a thick wooden support beam up the rectum of their deeply entrenched ideas, so it all degenerates into a bulleted list of talking points. Meanwhile, young, idealistic high school students are told they could be President one day if they just followed the rules, embracing their ambitions while swallowing them just enough to appear humble and, oddly enough, not ambitious. How is a young American man, presented with the inherent contradictions in the system, supposed to trust that his hard work will lead to success later down the road? In the span of two years, I believe I learned just where a lower middle class boy could expect to end up in the new century. In this anecdotal journey, I can not expect you to consider me a hero on par with Aeneas, but I beg of my reader to think of me as a young Hercules, who does not yet know where his youth and ambition can bring him.

Continue Reading…

(John McCain never should have played God.)

The bummer about the world is that it is not more like Saturday morning cartoons. Oh, wait, I spoke too soon…

[Arizona's] governor enlisted the help of former vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin on Saturday to defend a new law cracking down on illegal immigration. (HP)

"Make moose and squirrel to produce papers."

Not listed were newly appointed aids Gargamel and Boris Badenov. It used to be, when you wanted to go full-on Snidely Whiplash with a cause, you had to grow a mustache and twist it, or rub your hands together greedily, or time your villainous laugh with a lightning storm. Now all you have to do to doctor your doom is have Sarah Palin endorse you. It’s a frigging formula at this point, a steaming cauldr0n filled with tongue of jingoism, nappy cunt hair of bigotry, and eye of plumber. Seriously, who is writing this country’s biography? Bram Stoker? Because we haven’t seen a more reliable barometer for evil since the 3rd-degree adorable face of Emperor Palpatine shuffled off of the Death Star and into our hearts.

“It’s time for Americans across this great country to stand up and say, ‘We’re all Arizonans now,’” Palin said. “And in clear unison we say, ‘Mr. President: Do your job. Secure our border.’”

They’ve stopped inviting me to the “make less sense” contests, because I studied under Lewis Carroll, but that just leaves Palin to win them all. I don’t get it, are you punishing Obama for not doing his job by doing it yourself, in the worst way ever? Are you suggesting that the most blatant, government sponsored racial profiling since the 1960s is our first black president’s fault? That’s kind of like a mother spanking her son because she spilled some milk, and then spanking the child again for making her have to spank the kid in the first place.

What is clear is that she is now directing our make-believe time, like the most boring episode of Sesame Street ever. “Hey kids, let’s pretend we’re from an unforgiving tract of retired old people and sand. You know what that color is? Sepia!” You will not commandeer my imagination, you Redbook cover-honky. Not unless its the one where I fuck the republican right the hell out of your eskimo pie.

The former Alaska governor appeared with Brewer at a brief news conference on Saturday. The event launched a website that…  includes a list of politicians and organizations calling for the boycotts and asks visitors to call or e-mail to “let them know that you support Arizona.”

Permit me an aside: I went to a public high school in the wake of Columbine and similar, less marketable tragedies. In that paranoid, punchy atmosphere, lists of any kind were as strictly forbidden as planned pregnancies and names ending in “illo” or “ez” on the honors rosters. It didn’t matter what the list concerned: guests for a birthday party, the principal roles in the school play, or, in the foreboding shadows under the stairs, participants in a Dungeons and Dragons game. If your name was on a list, you might as well have been earmarked for swiss-cheesing by a semi-automatic owned by  the father of some black nail-polished pizza face in a black coat. It may have been an extreme, sweeping measure, but to the school’s credit, the bullies that were getting laid in high school lived on to become the heroin addicts and gym teachers they are today.

I submit to you that my semi-urban, afterthought of a high school, where Latino gang fights and cheerleader brawls were a guaranteed daily source of entertainment, had way more concern for safety than Sarah Palin. This is the second time the failed governor has publicly posted lists of people who find her, and the party that controls her like so much Pinocchio, as offensive as Paul Giamatti at a nude beach. I suppose we should be thankful that, in the time since the last incident, she’s grown a feeble, preemie sense of subtlety, and didn’t literally put rifle targets on the names this time. I am sure she would be just as baffled as she was last time to hear that some NRA bumpkins might take that as a cue to posse up and get some murderin’ done, even though that was exactly the result of the last list. “We just want to let those people know we support Arizona.” What is it like supporting a geographical location? Let’s make sure we are being very clear about this: Is it Arizona we are supposed to be supporting in order to keep ourselves off the kill list, or just the proclamations of an inept governor? I just want to know, because if I can’t keep hating on the Hoover Dam, I’m going to have to pick some other miracle of human engineering to shit all over on my other blog, “If You Can’t Build It In A Day, It Sucks.” Maybe the Panama Canal. Snide little conduit for maritime trade, thinks it’s such a great alternative to the overland Darien Scheme… (oh, fine)

(Those Russians, always looking out for us.)

This oil spill in the Gulf has justifiably been the biggest story this past week or so, and the conspiracies surrounding the blame game have been the stuff of Dan Brown’s most punishing nocturnal emissions. Was it an act of God, as Texas governor Rick Perry suggests? Robert F. Kennedy reminds us that anything a Texas governor says falls squarely in the realm of “bullshit a squatting Sarah Palin couldn’t produce on a steady diet of prunes and Metamucil,” (it was Cheney’s fault, bt-dubs). Was it Obama getting tired of throwing Alka Seltzer at seagulls, and opting for a more efficient chocolately genocide? Who cares really? Just show me where to sign up to help clean the oil off those poor exposed New Orleans breasts. I just want to be part of the solution. The Russians would like us to know they also don’t really give a shit about the whys, and that they have a Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius solution for us.

Why not just nuke it? “It’s so simple, in fact, that the Soviet Union, a major oil exporter, used this method five times to deal with petrocalamities,” added Moscow reporter Julia Ioffe. (The Raw Story)

Oh, hey, good idea, we should totally – - HEY, WAIT A MINUTE! Anybody else feel like Russia is grabbing our arms and making us hit ourselves, like a bored older brother who just declared a tickle-fight cease fire? Sure, comrades, we’ll get right on nuking ourselves. In the long, impoverished wake of losing the Cold War, Palin’s pesky neighbors have gotten all crafty on us. It’s like they just woke up from the biggest, 30 year vodka bender, and realized they hadn’t turned LA into a pile of glowing rubble yet. Good thinking, though. Seriously, why bomb someone if you can get them to bomb themselves? You got to get up pretty early in the morning to make Americans go all Three Stooges and poke all our Floridian old peoples’ eyes with the Hiroshima Finger. Check your time zones, we get up WAY earlier than you.  Not to mention, the whole situation gives Tar Baby a hysterical new meaning. You know, because it’s black and liquidy, and it tricked the bunny… go read a book, douche.

“The first happened in Uzbekistan, on September 30, 1966 with a blast 1.5 times the strength of the Hiroshima bomb and at a depth of 1.5 kilometers. KP also notes that subterranean nuclear blasts were used as much as 169 times in the Soviet Union to accomplish fairly mundane tasks like creating underground storage spaces for gas or building canals.”

“Is no big deal, okay? In Russia, we use plutonium to clean cars, make super shining. Vladimir can’t afford toothpaste, he uses spent plutonium.* Cannot even look him directly in face, so shining. We have cocktail called Tall Furry Hat, is vodka, plutonium, and fly agarics all shooked up. Gregory Rasputin used to put in his cereal.” Who do you think you’re kidding, Russia? Somebody ask Jack Bauer what he thinks about this. Oh, wait, he’s already torturing people. Such a go getter, that guy.

Even if the Russians aren’t screwing with us, and they are genuinely giving us some advice on how to blow up our problems like so much Afghanistan (I bet they loved that), are we seriously considering taking advice from the Russians? For all we know, all that subterranean, horror movie strip mining is what made them all third world, fucked up cartoon enjoying crazies. How else do you explain an entire country thinking they were hosting the 1980 Olympics, when the U.S. clearly told them they weren’t? Or these features of a Moscow playground:

(Hey kids, come play on the freakish octopus monster in a top hat! Or, if that made you need to change your diaper a dozen times over, how about the terrified giraffe’s vagina?)

To be fair, the best British Petrolium has come up with is the “crumb under the refigerator” plan, sweeping the oil spill under a big dome and hoping nobody will notice. Shouldn’t there be some other ways of fixing this thing, other than covering it up and pretending it’s not there, and bombing the bejesus out of it? Like, couldn’t we build a giant robot monster that runs on crude to suck it all up? Then another giant monster to kill it when it goes all Mecha-Godzilla on us? Or we could just do it nature’s way, and sop it up with all of the world’s seagulls. Throw all the pigeons in too, get all the flying rats out of the way at once. Annoying bird death, tuppence a fucking bag. I know these plans are remarkably short sighted, but I’m not the president. I’m just trying to help. Also, I hate seagulls. Those are my goddamned fried clams, you squealing mass of God-fail and white poop.

*Thanks Mick.

(Fun Fact: Oompa Loompas  weren’t considered even human until 1971, when Wonka’s Underground Chocolate Ferry began providing them with paying jobs. Doompity doo.)

Somebody get my boy Al Sharpton on the phizzone, there’s another totally legitimate racial battle to be fought, and all the spoils of media exposure, unearned righteous indignity, and self-imposed segregation are there for the shameless gobbling. “What’s Up” Doc Thompson filled in for Glenn Beck earlier today, on the Olson caliber redundancy he calls a radio show, and expertly matched the regular host’s dedication to real actual news.

Racism has been dropped at my front door and the front door of all lighter-skinned Americans. The health care bill the president just signed into law includes a 10 percent tax on all indoor tanning sessions starting July 1st, and I say, who uses tanning? Is it dark-skinned people? I don’t think so.

I thought we were homies, Mr. President. We played some Scrabble together, shot some dice, made health care affordable to thousands of Americans that would otherwise have died or lost their homes, or at least never would have gotten the divorce they so desperately needed (no shit).  We broke the color barrier together, Barack! I feel… I feel like you just taxed my drinking fountain. Like I’ve been forced to the back of the melanin bus.

Why would the President of the United States of America — a man who says he understands racism, a man who has been confronted with racism — why would he sign such a racist law? Why would he agree to do that? Well now I feel the pain of racism.

I have a dream, today! Is it too much of a stretch to say a man named Doc can be called “Doctor” Martin Luther Thompson? Jr.? Preach it reverend! In an unscheduled press conference, the President responded by saying, “Ha! Doesn’t feel so good, does it, bitch? You’ll have to get your melanoma in the cotton fields like the rest of us now.” Then he walked around the White House lawn and stole a bunch of white guys’ girlfriends to show them the new definition of “administration,” all while talking about the white man’s contribution to the discovery of grape jelly. The communist.

Here’s a solution, Sojourner Honkey: Why don’t we tax the shit out of menthol cigarettes and cocoa butter. If you have to be pale, they have to be ashy as Vesuvius’ walk of shame the morning after. Bonus: neither party will have useless cancer the taxpayers will have to foot the bill for. It’ll have to be slightly sterner than the “sin taxes” we already have going. Let’s see… it will have to be a word expressing indemnification, an evening or smoothing over for this heinous act of bigotry… should probably come from the French or Latin, you know, to make it sound all legal-ish. Oh! We’ll call it “reparations”!

Seriously though, this calls attention to an industry that, in my opinion, has a dastardly history of discrimination. No, I’m not talking about the blatant omission of kitten restraints in 85% of the indoor tanning establishments I’ve considered patronizing. I devote an entire essay to that infuriating subject in my forthcoming book, Just J: Stuck Fo’ Mah Papers, Metaphorically Speaking. No, I’m referring to the tanning industry’s continued racism against the Irish. All I ever see coming out of those places are orange ass guidos and tiny-nosed French women (sorry, I didn’t take Stupid Frogs 101 in college). How about some non-canned alternatives for those that burst into flame when going near light bulbs over 30 watts? Right now, we have the varied options of  “carrot” and “over-baked potato,” making us the Shepherd’s Pie of spring break. Nobody wants to be the poster child for 3 Zillion SPF at bronzed, glistening Greek week on MTV, and our pasty asses aren’t so cute when a puppy pulls our bottoms down.

(Fuck you, Coppertone.)

I had a class action lawsuit going with a group of albino advocates, but the lawyers said suing the sun would tie us up in court for longer than it’s worth, so I’ve decided to take my pain out on beautiful people. Why don’t you mention that on the radio, Doc? Why doesn’t Al Sharpton stick his ugly mug on a camera or two over this injustice? Is it because we can’t dunk? Chew on that, Long Island guidos.

(”You should stick around for the double feature. It’s supposed to be a surprise, but I’ll give you a hint: what’s smaller than a breadbox, and covered in cum? I’m sorry, I’m not good at this.)

My man Martin Ssempa over there in Uganda has the right idea. He’s a pastor in a country that makes homosexual acts illegal, with sentences as severe as death, and he makes damned sure his parishioners don’t slip up, and live to the ripe old age of 30.

“The major argument homosexuals have is that what people do in the privacy of their bedrooms is nobody’s business but do you know what they do in their bedrooms?,” the pastor asked. Ssempa then displayed a slide show of [hardcore] gay pornographic pictures… “This one is eating another man’s anus (eds: correct),” the pastor said, before going into graphic scatological descriptions.

Atta boy! Pillow biting movie time for Jesus! This guy is a goddamned genius, showing his 300 strong congregation (that’s including children, for those of you keeping score on your home edition of Super-Perv) hardcore porn to keep them from fagging out. Gather round, kids! Take it from an American, here’s nothing less fun than watching porn. When everybody sees how unpleasant porn makes sex appear to be, they may never want to so much as shower without a burlap body condom on again. Children will wear ties in the pools, and men will dam their anuses with Wrigley’s and duct tape rather than do the horrific things in those – - hey, was that an orgasm?

Wait, what are you going to do about the people, who have never been exposed to homosexuality outside of constant demonization, and think to themselves, “Hey, that looks like a pretty swell time!”? Or lean over and say to their wives, “Say that looks just like when I give you a Mexican Facial, and that’s always an enjoyable experience. Perhaps I should consider broadening my horizons.” Wouldn’t you just be giving your followers an illustrated

I am very wealthy, as you can see by the many chickens I have brought for choking.

how-to class on opening their own 24-hour fudge packing sweat shop? I mean, sure, you could probably set an armed guard to waste anyone leaving with an obvious boner, and you might even be able to tell who’s coming back for seconds with their tuggin’ pants on and put them in the special poisoned wine line. Some will undoubtedly get through the net; they look just like real people, what can you do? You’ll get a whole bunch though, so nobody can say you didn’t do your part in the murderin’. The only problem I see with your adult book store arcade/church is the expense of mending all the glory holes these guys will drill into your pews. I swear, they must walk around with those comically large, drywall sodomizing corkscrews you see in ’60s spy movies in their fanny packs at all times.

[The new law, of which Father Knucklehead is a major proponent] would criminalise public discussion of homosexuality and could penalise an individual who knowingly rents property to a homosexual.

Dude, isn’t having to clean the scent of potpourri and Arbor Mist out of the apartment punishment enough? If discussion of homosexuality is illegal, how are you going to brainwash your people that it’s evil? Not to mention, you can straight forget about your dude-centric movie nights when the law passes. What do you say to your detractors who might claim the punishment harsh, if not downright impossible to prove in the first place? Or ask you why you have so much gay porn laying around, which, I know, is so totally beside the point it might as well be the world’s biggest “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt?

However Ssempa has remained unrepentant, claiming he will take the pornography to the parliament.

Whew, I thought you wouldn’t have a rational, totally not retardo plan for this contingency. A priest that promises to roll up to parliament with a slide-show of tea-baggin’ jesus-hurtin’ pucker-blastin’ semen-gurglin’ analingus and three-ways has my full attention. Especially if they don’t donate a Ssempa wing to the local asylum. Let me follow you and learn of your ways, Rabbi! Sensei’s got a black belt in letting bitches know where he stands, and the dojo just exploded for not being able to contain his crazy cajones.

The pastor, whose previous feats included publishing the names of homosexuals in newspapers, said he wanted the bill to be passed as law by Easter Sunday — April 4 — as “an Easter present to the people of Uganda”.

To which Jesus responded, “I’m so happy I could just die… again!” and everyone shared a hearty 80’s sitcom closing laugh, complete with the ubitquitous queer burning.

(I got this story here, here, and here, all of which have slightly different interpretations. If you care then you’ve missed the point of this site, and will have to stay after school.)

(Also, Chicago blues sucks, and their pizza is awful. Detroit is full of ignorant grease monkeys, Boston is a bastion for drunken micks, and San Francisco is a big queer pig pile.)

Alright, cut the shit, Obama. Personages of my ilk (sexy, but relatively unimportant) have stood by waiting for you to get your reelection so you can do the things you promised us, like gay rights, retracting the retarded illegalization of pot, forced sodomy on Bush’s puppeteer staff. But another disparaging remark about Vegas? It is one thing for doucheyer world leaders to demonize Cuba, Russia, England, Romulus, and whatever for the sake of propaganda, but Vegas is a struggling city in your own country, and it isn’t like we’re Communists.* You can take your time with the good you said you’d do, it is a black stereotype to be lazy and you have to play to the blindly adoring constituents, but don’t start doing harm a mere three years before we have to vote for you instead of Sarah “Hostess Brand Fruitcake” Palin again.

“When times are tough, you tighten your belts. You don’t go buying a boat when you can barely pay your mortgage. You don’t blow a bunch of cash on Vegas when you’re trying to save for college. You prioritize. You make tough choices. It’s time your government did the same.”

Oh, you cunt rocket. This is the second fucking time in less than a year, and the fact that it was an offhand remark instead of intentionally damaging one doesn’t matter this time, considering your history. You know what the illiterate smallfolk hear when you say things like that? “My president’s go-to evil, when he really wants to reference a real issue he has with the populace, is Las Vegas. Off the top of the leader of the free world’s head, Vegas is the closest existent allegory to Satan, and I would rather suck off a Klingon** than bring my legitimate business there.”

True, the literally ignorant verbal diarrhea you spouted last year concerning Vegas was exponentially worse and cost a hard won (in the election) state and the companies that call it home — no exaggeration — millions of dollars. Demonizing corporate conventions in a specific city from the podium, calling it a taxpayer drain when, honestly, Vegas is arguably the most cost effective place to hold any event, means people will intentionally avoid the city, if only because the President of the United fucking States said to (I am also wearing an American Flag as an anal tampon. Suck it). “Profligate” is still a word, and you’re not helping to distance yourself from inflammatory and decularizing  Republican tactics like you say you want to with these kinds of statements. Companies that would normally have come to Vegas for their essential mass meetings for the right price, with no intention of using taxpayer money to gamble and see some titties, went to more expensive cities like Miami and New York instead. If the attendees philandered and partied on their own dime, behind their wives’ backs, off the clock, it would only have benefited Nevada’s economy. So, not only did last year’s scorched-earth dumbfuckery show a lack of class and leadership, it was downright uninformed, like Perez Hilton showing up at a glass art All You Can Blow fair with bells on his cock ring.

“I hope you know that during my town hall today, I wasn’t saying anything negative about Las Vegas,” Obama wrote. “I was making the simple point that families use vacation dollars, not college tuition money, to have fun. There is no place better to have fun than Vegas, one of our country’s great destinations. I have always enjoyed my visits, look forward to visiting in a few weeks and hope folks will visit in record numbers this year.”

Too little, like the amount of midget reality shows (there will never be enough “midgets doing real people things” shows), way too fucking late. After this second statement, there is no doubt that the city that pulled its overly religious (surprised? Try living here), redneck head out of its ass to help elect you is compartmentalized in your subconscious with slavery and WW3. And by the way, what are you coming here “in a few weeks” for? Is waking up next to your monster first-old-lady getting to you (death threats on Chachi!), and you need hookers? Gonna hit up Fremont Street for the last remaining nickel slots and cheap pizza? Can’t resist the urge to see the club where Jessie Spano got naked?

Obama is expected in the city later this month to raise money for Nevada Democrats… “There’s nothing like a quick trip to Vegas in the middle of the week.”

Indeed! When you’ve got Air Force One and a staff to do all your work for you, and there’s no chance of your being violated before boarding a $600 plane flight, there’s nothing better than a lazy Wednesday in Sin City. I have no idea why the liberal parties are called elitists, it must have something to do with a decent education. And “Raising money for Nevada Democrats” is so asininely vague, my head is wrapping around it at the pace of growing ivy. How about raising the money that your wild statements have already cost Vegas, a city that 90% depends on the hospitality industry you so callously tore up like so much Randy Quaid personal check? I understand you were referring to allocation of bailout money, but that just makes you the most well-intentioned Tazmanian Devil we’ve had in office in a couple decades. Look before you leap, dude, else you’ll fuck up the whole suicide.

*I can say “we” because I’ve lived in Vegas for a year and half, which is more than enough to learn the ins, outs, and the holes that go both ways. Giggidy.
**My girlfriend and I have decided, after billions of Star Trek viewing hours, that Klingons have barbed penises like cats do, so the victim lucky recipient can’t get away without injuring their vag. I declare us correct, and Michael Dorn the man.

(The consequences of using the term Booger Head. That is our word.)

Have you ever noticed that, when news sources actually get the point, it is an event? Some pundit, or parody of one, gets more than one solid point across in an interview, and the interviewee is declared “owned,” and political commentators and bloggers alike begin to publicly ponder why said new possession hasn’t yet fell on his sword from a thirty story building out of shame yet. It’s a real post-burrito circus, and kind of embarrassing for us as a country when we have to be shocked that one of our citizens said something smart on the tee-vee, so I’m pretty stoked Huffington Post wore a blindfold to the bazooka accuracy contest today.

Joseph Gullotta [mob] told two of his students, ages 9 and 10, to settle an argument with a classroom fight… [heh, one of those kids is really happy with that call]  One of the students suffered a cut lip, and the other sustained a bruised and swollen head during the Jan. 28 incident at P.S. 65 in the Ozone Park neighborhood… [blah blah blah, reading reading reading] After the boys began fighting, prosecutors said, Gullotta told a third student to close the classroom door… [Yes, yes, and...?] Gullotta then instructed the other students to back up to give the boys room to fight, prosecutors said. When Gullotta sent one of the boys to the school nurse two periods later, authorities said, he told him to lie and say he was hurt by bumping into another student while trying to pick up a pencil from the floor. [Yeah, more deception, but...] Authorities said they learned about what happened after one of the boys’ parents overheard him talking about it. [fair enough, keep reading] Gullotta and Abraham Fox, a teacher’s aide who prosecutors say witnessed the incident, are charged with two counts of endangering the welfare of a child, a misdemeanor. [You mean there's a law?] If convicted, each faces a maximum one year in jail.

Whoa! Reign that journalistic wild horse and buggy in! We’re jumping right to sentencing? Isn’t there a crucial component missing here? Like, did it work? Did the boys bro-hug it out after, stop at the cafeteria for some chocolate milk to talk it out? Can we stop children from bickering over Ghostbusters lunch pails and Velcro sneakers by making them beat the Christ out of each other? “The second rule of fourth grade is: no shirts, no shoes, no slap bracelets, cuz those things sting something awful.”

We see this kind of thing all the time when innovators come onto the scene, and Huffington Post is perpetuating it by jumping straight to sentencing without mentioning the outcome. Can you imagine if The Marinara Times or Track Suit Quarterly published a headline like, “Galileo Sentenced To House Arrest For Bullshit Heliocentric Theory,” and no scientists followed up? This is not to mention that the article also mentions nothing about the cause of the disagreement, which can sometimes be equally as important as the “whose blood is that” stage. Just saying, this Gullotta guy might be on to something with his Irish countryside meets gladiator concept of middle school justice. It took the entirety of The Quiet Man for John Wayne to work up the balls to hit his brother-in-law, but when they finally did pummel the bejesus out of each other, they ended up best friends with lovable drunken mick Barry Fitzgerald, a real Hollywood happy ending that is more than close enough to the point.

What’s needed here is a semi-controlled study, doing something similar in classrooms across the country. For instance: throw up some hidden cameras, give little Adam some bubble tape, and suggest it might be fun to stick it

Mr. Durden and Mr. King, reading and social studies, respectively

in little Caightlyn’s hair after it runs out of flavor in 20 seconds. If she doesn’t turn around and belt him on the spot, turn the desks into a boxing ring, and the row of computers into a bet analyzing pit. Teachers seem to be able to manipulate desks into any other ridiculous formation, like the Eiffel Tower for French Week, or a “Heads-Up 7-Up” conducive shape on Shut Up, Little Bastards Hangover Tuesday. My money is on Adam, because he’s bigger and less of a dweeb and pees standing up (does he pull his pants down at the urinal? Irrelevant!), but chicks get murderously angry over the stupidest shit, so this could go either way. So here, they are learning to resolve their differences without a learned, state-appointed arbitrator, who would just get in the way when fists would be so much easier, and – - bonus – - learning how to manage money at the same time.

And what if these classrooms are just a microcosm of our much larger society? Can we afford to miss the kind of opportunity that may end up benefiting all of mankind, by teaching us how to coexist? Like, how about, instead of whining and bickering over this pro-life Super Bowl ad thing, we just pit a fetus against a Clydesdale and see if a hate group or a beer company gets the spot? Or we could have Obama duke it out with the CEO of BofA for his billions in milk money. Those American bible-humpers that tried to abscond with Haitian devil-0wned children should be made to fight with the still existing parents and see who really deserves to have the kids. China’s new issue with sexual frustration causing social problems could be solved by fucking it out in public. Seemed to work for the Romans. The Gullotta Method, as we’re going to call it, has myriad applications. But yeah, throw his ass in jail for a year. That will teach him to take the ole noodle out for a walk and not scoop the poop.

“Stay tuned for “Randomly Selected Texan vs. Cartoon Cucumber” on Gullotta’s Justice! In this grudge match, each contender vows that winning with points is for pussies, and will make the mat his enemy’s burial shroud.” Ok, I’m done.