(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.

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.

(Note how he looks murderous, but refuses to give the finger. Classy. White. To make this work we’ll need at least 700 clones of this guy.)

We’re going to put Georgia in the corner for a little while, maybe bring back the dunce cap. Why? Because only in Georgia would an all-white basketball league even be considered. The organization responsible approached the mayor of Augusta, asking him to endorse a team in the city, and to his credit, he said something like, “Don’t be a cock basket.” Still, the idea was conceived of somewhere around Atlanta, and that’s enough for the state to take a good, hard cracker look at itself. What drives a man to even pitch an idea that is bound to be as controversial and dividing as a mayonaise basketball league? Mayhap Don “Moose” Lewis, the commissioner of the All-American Basketball Alliance (dude, alliance? really?), can shed some light:

“‘I don’t hate anyone of color. But people of white, American-born citizens are in the minority now. Here’s a league for white players to play fundamental basketball, which they like…’ Lewis said he wants to emphasize fundamental basketball instead of ’street-ball’ played by ‘people of color.’ “

Yeah, that’s what the WNBA owes all its success to. Fundamentals make for real exciting ball. He got us white folks right on our skinny, perfectly shaped noses. Dunking and taking gymnastic chances at critical moments just muddies things up. This ain’t no action picture! Get your Jackie Chan ass off the court if you can’t set a pick like a white man. And pull up your shorts, this ain’t Compton! Moose isn’t a racist, he just hates how black people play basketball (better), and that white people are the minority in America. The interns are still running the numbers on that, but I think it’s pretty safe to say.

So, now that we’ve established that the formation of the All-Pooty Basketball Klan Alliance is not racially motivated – -

“He pointed out recent incidents in the NBA, including Gilbert Arenas’ indefinite suspension after bringing guns into the Washington Wizards locker room, as examples of fans’ dissatisfaction with the way current professional sports are run. ‘Would you want to go to the game and worry about a player flipping you off or attacking you in the stands or grabbing their crotch?’”

Yes! Why do you think noted gomer Jack Nicholson sits on the floor at half-court at almost every Lakers home game? Sure you can see the crotch grab on TV, but where’s the danger, the salami-sized gym-short outline? When I can’t stand black people giving me the finger in major sports markets, I just take off my white hood. I know, I know, they get to wear their gang colors, life just isn’t fair. You know what I’m tired of seeing? Such high scores at ball games. I want to see ESPN.com posting scores like Sacramento Muppet-Fuckers 45,  Charleston Crick Gypsies 38. Bring on the honky league!

Still, there is a disappointing element to this. As a confessed whitey, it’s sad to see my people taking their ball and going home to cry into their laced hankies because they can’t win. Does anybody remember Kevin McHale? Larry Motherfucking Bird? Robert Parish (it rubbed off)? It certainly isn’t that we can’t play with the big boys, we’re just lazy pussies who make up words like “fundamentals” and “school-yard four-square” to excuse ourselves. Only high school girls’ teams say “fundamentals.” Seriously, if you’re going to recruit for the KKK, don’t be such a pansy. It makes all of us look bad.

Also: Perm Sperm, Pink Toe, Incognegro, Dried shit. Just… letting you know I know ‘em…