(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.

(I’m mommy’s toy! Don’t worry guys, i’m sure she can find a way to make you all feel useful again! Uh, except you, Sarge. You are made of plastic stabs.)

The number one box-office smash in the world right now is the family favorite Toy Story 3.* The final (until Pixar and/or Randy Newman feel irrelevant again) installment of the beloved cash cow concerns young Andy’s passage into the Lucius Apuleius [Ancient Roman porn, not as fun as it sounds - ed.] playbook that is college, and is reportedly as touching as Tim Allen is legally allowed to get with assembled minors. But did you know it is also the feel-good pro-life affirmation of the year? Jesus’s blog says, “FUCK TO THE YES!”

For the sake of context, here’s the film’s plot as I’ve gathered while intermittently listening to Kathy Lee’s little brat Nepotism Cody spray it: See, the toy cowboy and the toy astronaut have an existential crisis when they realize Andy’s keg stands will be seriously impeded by holding a couple of dolls, and while a third mind-numbing adventure of self-discovery and purportedly clever size jokes (look they’re in a car, but they’re too small!) would be pretty rad, banging the mousy freshman down the hall is sounding pretty friggin’ good, too. Will the toys be wanted, cared for, loved any more? Will it ever be like the old times, watching Andy punish his pubescent sausage under his Buzz Lightyear comforter in the middle of the night because he plays with dolls instead of talking to girls? So, the whole nutty cast hatches an evil plot to follow Andy to college, ruin his social life, and get him into D&D, thereby ensuring his only friends are talking piggy banks, hen-pecked re-mutilatable potatoes, and snarky dog slinkies… No?

The question the film must answer is whether each toy is valuable for its own sake, as an end and not merely a means to something else. And the answer is that every toy, regardless of usefulness or “newness” or brokenness, is special. That’s the message Toy Story 3 ultimately affirms. (LifeSiteNews)

LifeSite! I missed you guys! What’s the matter, a life of deranged programming of the masses tiring? That’s cool, I’m just glad you’re putting the bike helmet and backwards galoshes back on in time to turn the touching message of eternal friendship, and the importance of realizing one’s worth after a lifetime of fulfilling service, on its head for us.

We’re debating the same question in America today — only about human beings, not fictional toys. And it plays out in the controversies over abortion, euthanasia and embryo-destructive** research.

Thar she blows, like a Catholic school girl with no encouragement! Also, Predator was about the homosexual agenda, Good Night and Good Luck clearly illustrated the anti-Catholic bias of the media, and the Woodsman… well, that was just plain hawt. Well, at least the first part. Doesn’t really carry through that well. Like the first half of Enough when the Rocketeer is beating the hell out of Jenifer Lopez, but then it all takes a turn for the worse, and if you don’t turn it off on time, you totally lose your erection.

The point is, if you put on a blindfold in the middle of a Nickelback concert and start blindly stabbing around with a Samurai sword, you’re bound to hit a queer. Sans incredibly crass metaphor (but why?): You can impose any message you want on a cartoon if you grasp at enough straws. For example: were I to make the mistake of having kids, I would tell my son as we left the theater, “Boy,” because I wouldn’t bother to memorize his name in addition to his gender.

I’d say, “Boy, Toy Story 3 is about making Pixar a fuck-ton of money on the nostalgia people have from before that sentimental piece of shit Up came out, and about the truth of evolution, and a justification for wholesale abortion. See, you might think you’re more important than the plants and animals of this world. That’s what AM radio calls ‘human exceptionalism’ when they’re talking about Jesus, ‘American exceptionalism’ when they’re talking about smelly foreigners. But if a carved block of wood and a cheaply cobbled collection of fragile plastic and inferior paint have a sense of consciousness and a better vocabulary than their human counterpart, doesn’t that put things in perspective? If a person’s toy can worry about its specialness and purpose, not to mention its future, don’t you think you’re more like semi-articulate dogshit in the grand scheme of the cosmos? And in that case, is it our place to impose our narrow view of where dogshit comes from – or when it becomes dogshit, or when the dogshit has sun dried to the point it should be discarded as finally entirely useless – on anyone else? When you’re 18, I’ma take you out and buy you your first coat hanger, boy. Always best to be prepared.”

If you don’t think that’s correct, LifeSite, it is probably because our theories were randomly fished and pulled out of different asses.

I’m not mad though, because you are owed so very many props for the singular racist article of the summer. Way to set the bar higher for the rest of us scumbags!

*Data not even remotely authenticated or even presumed true by the author. Just so you know where we stand, reader: Fuck you.
** Catholic propaganda websites: keeping Merriam Webster in business even when you thought there were no more fake-ass terms to formulate.

That new acronym stands for “Not Safe For Brains,” a moniker that could safely be applied to an ad in Miami Living Magazine that’s causing more of an unjustified uproar than Snooki getting her well-deserved knuckle sammich. Turns out EstablishedMen.com, a dating site seemingly designed to cut out the middle (class) man, slipped what prudes and the humorless are calling a bit of not-safe-for-workery into their ad space in the popular magazine. See if you can spot it…

Um, excuse me, miss, you have a little uh... nevermind.

Oh, for crissakes FOX News! It isn’t enough that you are the leading supplier of termites to the foundation of our rapidly crumbling Fourth Estate, you have to be the asshole neighbor kid that comes over and circles all the instances of Waldo in our books? Trust me, I can bloodhound a dick joke, I don’t need your help.

“”Did they not see this, or have magazines become so desperate for ad space that they’ll ‘overlook’ something like this?” media and publishing expert Penny C. Sansevieri asked FoxNews.com. “But I find that every time something like this happens it elevates the exposure, good or bad – and issues will get snapped up very quickly.” (HuffPost)

I feel like these are the questions you ask after the really glaring ones are addressed. Such as: “What exactly is the marketing angle here?” Is this a dating site for men with unfortunate, God-despises-you type birthmark fetishes? Is God a fifth grader with an infantile sense of humor? Or were these two young ladies taking turns mammorially pleasuring this disembodied member at the exact moment of nuclear holocaust, and the image of a cock was permanently nuclear shadowed on the blond’s chest?

When the aliens discovered the devastation of WWIII, a grave misunderstanding would forever label Chicago "City of Trannies" across the Galaxy.

I’m just saying, how is the image of another dude’s pecker – a pecker belonging, presumably, to an infuriatingly well-endowed professional penis model – going to persuade me to bring my “gold digging slut” dollar to your company? Perhaps the ad illustrates the porn training all of the site’s female members received at some kind of Trophy Whore finishing school on how to look at the camera, no matter what, despite an impending money shot. I could see how that might intrigue me enough for a closer look, it’s a valuable skill. If that’s not the case, what are they looking at, his wallet? I don’t want my menage-a-trois to dissemble into shouts of, “I’m over here ladies!” The least you could do is pretend the most fascinating thing in the world to your girls is my manhood.

So, the issue isn’t how the ad got into Miami Living with a sexually suggestive image, or even why the Uptight Republican Brigade has their secret crotchless panties in a bunch over an ad that shows less than a high school anatomy text, but what the agency thought the site would get out of it in the first place.

“When we created the ad, we never imagined a magazine like Miami Living would approve it, but judging by the amount of sign-ups we received since the magazine has come out, this ’shadow penis’ ad seems to work and might become a staple of our campaign,” the [Established Men] rep said.

Atta boy! When life gives you lemonade… um, Sharpie the hell out of the advertising landscape until it resembles the bathroom at a home for sex addicted middle-school boys? Proverbs and adages were never my gift. He continued: “This ad is definitely a true reflection of what EstablishedMen.com is all about – connecting professional men with beautiful women for mutually beneficial relationships.” Fuck eHarmony and their 27 levels of compatibility! That sciencey shit is for short-sighted suckers with scruples about putting the same pair of white-haired, wrinkly nuts in their mouth for a couple of years for the big pay day on the horizon. Personality breeds congeniality, but fellatio is faster… io. Whatever, I’m not your rhyme monkey.

Oh! … but anal is fiscal? Or facile. You know what I mean.

By contributor Professor Sean Torrie

(To be perfectly fair, Mr. Thomasson was trying to hire a cook.)

I got an email from a friend of mine a few days ago. He’s a funny guy, it’s always either extremely patriotic “pray for our troops” stuff, or naked women. I prefer the naked women; one would never have guessed that about me from the 2 terabyte hard drives I have filled with such imagery, but it’s a surprising truth.

In this case, the email I received was about the 2010 census and was inspired by this article here: Sending A Message With The Census from The National Review.

The interesting part to this is that it goes directly against a very personal opinion of mine. The article in point states that, instead of filling in your specific ethnicity, you write in “American” for your denomination. For me, this has always been an issue. Using as an example the fact that certain groups get extra points on their SATs just for spelling their name right, or that anyone who is 1/64th Native Indian (one of the newer PC terms for the people who were handed small-pox-blankets and instructed to take a nap) will be given a free college education on behalf of the US government, and for that matter only specific people can say specific words on television, I’ve always been annoyed that, being Irish, I never got any bonus points from society.

You may not be aware of this, because world history turns a blind eye to bullshit of this variety, but the Irish are a remarkably oppressed people. The first example I can think of is when the Romans chased the Gauls out of the very region named after them, and up to the British Isles.

Years later, Emperor Hadrian would be credited with building a wall all across the northern portion of the primary island to keep the Gauls (the name slowly mutated to Gaelic) in the colder region and away from their civilized territory. That same wall is, to this day, still considered the border between England and Scotland. If that’s not segregation on an almost eugenicist level, I don’t know what the fuck is.

Oh wait! Yes I do!

After the fall of the Roman empire, when the English decided that whole global domination thing sounded like a lot of fun, and they should take after their forefathers, they started nice and early on with shipping northerners, such as the Scottish, that while unkempt and savage, were considered more civilized than the Irish, over to Ireland so that they could breed them into civility. While I can admit, most of my relatives aren’t exactly the most balanced people in the world, I’d like to think that no one is trying to breed them into something more palatable, like so much Labradoodle.

(After the jump, so much more Mick you’ll start pissing Guiness and liking cabbage. Do it!)

Continue Reading…

(”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.)

(Story-board from Under The Smallpox Sheets, a period piece. The dialogue will be something like, “What are you doing with that Maize?”)

So much of the Internet pornography library is devoted to what we will call “Erotic Schadenfreude,” the feeling watching somebody suffer can offer another person. But where can a scumbag go when he’s seen the same stable of lesser beings beaten over and over with the same riding crop, or a redundancy of the same humiliated losers in tutus watching their purported wives get boned? Where does the jaded, discriminating erotica enthusiast go when the rape scenes seem forced and insincere and every french maid on the planet seems to have been spanked? And seriously, does anybody find those ridiculous leather and metal and latex suits sexy anymore?

I have an idea. It’s not a long term solution, but something to hold us over until the next genius of perversion invents a genre that will sprain wrists for at least a decade. I call it “Disillusionment Porn,” and you are going to spend hours in the company restroom thinking about it. It is all about the moment when you see all innocence drain from someone’s face in the course of thirty seconds, or the horror of having a life-long belief ripped from the very bowels of your soul and the resulting mess. Only disillusionment porn will take it to the next level, and use sex to make sure each subject’s internal concept of virtue and goodness is reduced to the part of the animal the dogs won’t eat off the floor.

Here are some treatments I’ve devised to give you, the reader, an idea of what I mean, and a starting block for producers in case they want to gank my idea and give me moneys. You’ll notice that several of them will fit neatly into various sub-categories and niche genres like granny porn and incest. We’ll start with the obvious:

Holly Bears the Frown – Setting: A Catholic school classroom, December. Holly (played by a member of the barely 18 set, I’m not going to jail for this) is very excited for Christmas this year, and expounds to her classmates all the goodies she hopes to receive from Santa Claus for being such a good girl. Her classmates taunt her for believing in Santa Claus at an age when she is clearly able to develop curves and get breast implants. They point out all of the reasons Santa cannot exist, and tell her it is actually her parents putting the gifts under the tree. Holly’s eyes widen, and begin to tear up, her lip starts to tremble; she is clearly devastated by the news. Her classmates then bend her over a desk and take turns fucking her, using her tears of disillusionment as lube, as she retreats into herself, contemplating why anyone chooses good over evil without the omnipresent moral compass of a fat slave driver with flying reindeer. (Alternate idea: “White Christmas.” Same scenario, only all of Sally’s classmates have big black cocks exclusively. I know, it’s niche.)

Somewhere Obscene - Setting: American Suburb. Throughout Dick’s courtship of Jane, she has been an attentive, loving companion. She cooks delicious meals, and even cleans his shoddy bachelor pad while he’s at work. She’s even a pretty good lay. He sees no reason he shouldn’t marry her. Fast forward to nine months after the marriage. The house hasn’t been clean in weeks, they’ve eaten Taco Bell every day, and Jane’s pregnancy has started to show. A new round of layoffs is coming at the office, and Dick’s mother-in-law is coming to live the spare room that was originally designated as his office. It has all been coming for months, but never before the moment his shitty, cheap gin runs out while surveying the new nursery does the magnitude of how screwed he is hits him. He falls to his knees, yells “WHY?!” at the ceiling, before his mother-in-law’s Mahjong group comes in and rapes him with strap-ons.

Play My Guy - Setting: Santa Monica. Jimmy spent his entire childhood playing video games, learning the ins and outs of every aspect of the industry, forsaking the outside world, a social life, and his volunteer work. His mother said he was wasting his time and that it would lead to nothing, and Jimmy was determined to prove her wrong. One day, his hours of gaming paid off and he landed his dream job: a video game tester at Blizzard headquarters. He would be able to play his games all day — and get paid to do it! On his first day on the job, he soon realized that being a video game tester amounts to hours and hours of tedious, mind-numbing work, playing the same levels over and over again looking for minute, insignificant glitches. At the end of the day, he is tired and disillusioned. As he picks up his coat to leave, his mother bursts into his office dressed like Bowser and power rapes him while yelling “I told you so!” over and over again.

Modern Magdalene – Setting: Wherever, US. Sheena is a good Christian, and wants only to witness Christ’s goodness to anyone that gives her an opportunity. All of her acquaintances think she’s a pious little twat. When, at one time, Sheena quotes the gospel verse in which Jesus says that people are blessed who persevere in their belief in him even when people challenge them or make fun of them, one of her friends points out the unbelievable ridiculousness of that statement, and all of the color runs out of her face in one moment of terrifying clarity. She then turns to vile Requiem For a Dream style prostitution because there really is no reason to try anymore, and her friends like her now because of what she will do for a quarter and half of a three day old tuna sandwich.

Too Old to Rock and Roll - A DJ whose life has just moved up from Bat Mitzvahs to running the local karaoke bar thinks he has done pretty well for himself until a patron points out to him that his artist directory for “Tull, Jethro” makes him an insufferable retard who should not be trusted with dispensing music to anyone. Disillusioned, not only by the fact that Jethro Tull is a band and not a person as he believed his whole life, but by the fact that his life’s ambitions have been nothing but fraud, the DJ quits his job, loses his studio apartment, and ends up homeless ally’s new prison bitch. (Sorry, the first part of that actually happened recently, and I wanted to express my dissatisfaction.)

Fail to the Chief - Setting: Washington D.C., the White House. An idealistic young senator is elected President of the United States under a platform of progressive reform, only to find out that the system of special interest groups, campaign contributors, and incompetent financial management techniques he has inherited will force him to deal with war and depression instead of the issues he promised his constituents he would work on. Staring down the barrel of four years of declining faith in Humanity, and the ultimate powerlessness of his office, the President huddles fetally on his desk sucking his thumb, while an endless train of pundits and politicians is run on his ass, each thrust pushing him closer and closer to the fabled Red Button that will finally put him out of his misery.

If you made it this far in one sitting with both hands above the keyboard, you have more restraint than me, good reader. Remember, the trick is to make the sex angle the insult that compounds the injury, and it is always better if they cry. When I win all kinds of Woodies for this, and they shower me with more money and bitches than I know what to do with, I promise to hire a team of monkeys to continue to provide quality Scumbag Style entertainment.