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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Braaaaaaiiiiinnns. Braaaaaad’s Braaaaaiiiinnnns.)

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

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

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

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

“The More You Know…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When Georgia O’Keefe met Courtney Love, the painter went into a horrified stupor. When she awoke, she found she had painted this. The artistic release failed to soothe her.)

The Widow Corbain has recovered from a two week bender and, for the second time in as many months, crawled out from under her rock to contribute her eloquence to a subject we’ve all already forgotten about. Seems Courtney Love  just got around to reading John Mayer’s playboy interview, in which he praises Jess Simpson’s “sexual napalm” and said his dick was a “white supremacist,” and she has… thoughts? An unreasonable facsimile, at least. From her Twitter:

“do you ever feel like spite hate fucking @johncmayer just to put hi in his place, hes a better guitarist than me but not better in bed !… but like say your fucking @johncmayer totally throwing him around the room in bits and then you just BAM punch him in the face? good times”

If you can’t shut your mouth when nobody is talking to you, I’m going to find something else for it to do. Like gnaw on a Milkbone. What? I’m not sticking my dick in there. Might as well tell the doctor to fire up the ole circumstraint and set it to 3 inches, and don’t skimp on the battery acid. If she could see less than three of everything, she might have thought to say, “I’ll show him sexual napalm!” and then squat, dripping steaming holes in the carpet.

First of all, we have to do away with the terminology “hate fuck,” given the circumstances. Just like crime. All violent crimes are hate crimes, and adding extras to the sentence falls squarely into the category of most asinine legal moves in this country’s history. Just so, any fuck from Courtney Love is a hate fuck, engineered to apply the greatest possible shame, pain, and self-loathing imaginable. Kurt’s shotgun was just one big dildo designed to bring about the ultimate masochist climax available. Contributions to the Batman & Robin soundtrack was Billy Corgan’s, but to be fair, he found Jesus or some shit. Hint: He hides in the dryer, because He has the mind of a child.  “Let the children come to me, and pick sides for dodge ball!”

“BAM punch him in the face”? Mayer would probably embrace a punch from Tyson if it would blur his vision of that toothy, hair-lipped hell-maw you call a chatch for a few blessed seconds. In the past, I too have expressed a brand of hatred for the musician, though never to the point of arousal. My problem with him before was that he wasn’t using his demigod blues guitar powers for good. It’s like when Hulk Hogan turned bad, and still kicked ass, except Mayer’s bad was channeling the spirit of Mississippi John Hurt to waste on shitty sentimentality, landing himself in thediscount bin in the Adult Contemporary section. If Hurt had written “Your Body Is A Wonderland,” the title would have been, “You’re Pussy Is Real Loose, But Oh Well.” I don’t even want to think what “Daughters” would have been about.

"... and fathers go down on your daaaaauughters too... no matter how thick they thighs."

But John Mayer’s cheeky antics this year have redeemed him eleven-fold. Publicly swearing off relationships so he can get in as much pussy that isn’t attached to Jennifer “I’m Surprised She Isn’t A Cutter” Aniston as possible; Announcing onstage his intentions to impregnate at least one fan that very evening; Releasing a sugar-coated single about pinchbeck pillow-talk and getting stoned; Hell, “my penis is a white supremacist” is merely a direct, if entirely impolitic way of saying he has a type. How does Courtney Love not get behind that shit?

“oh dudes Mayers a little bland for me and youngish ill do young, but hes neither Yale Harvard Oxford and hes not really rock, so not for me,” she wrote. And to a fan who asked her to clarify hate fucking, she wrote, “hate fucking is an art like ‘the pit’ meaning you rape each other and then beat the shit our of each other so u can feel shit.”

Should have asked her to clarify “rock.” Let us know if the second side of Pretty On The Inside qualifies, seriously, because if it does, I know a 3 year old banging on his mom’s pots and pans with his dented skull that needs a career. When you die (I’m like a Catholic kid on December 20th for that), donate your brain to science so we know where this comes from. Isn’t a qualification for a university to be Ivy League a standing restraining order against you personally? Also, in your “The Pit” style hate fucking (the only thing you remember from the ’80s is The Pit? Jesus), who plays the autistic kid? “They don’t eat chocolate bars. You know what they eat?” All the shit Courtney Love seems to want to beat out of John and then “feel.”

In case Love’s mangling of an innocent metaphor into a gross-fest not seen since Matthew Broderick and his elephantitis stricken mare last coupled didn’t tickle your gag reflex with a rusty saw, she also threw this in:

“my genealogist* and my gynocplogist know i do my Kegals like a snatch the cig off the table thai sex worker,”

For the love of Bacchus, why? To belatedly show your computer is capable of capitalization, despite the fact you have no concept of how to use it? At least the beast what lives between your legs can have a smoke break between scrapings.

*How do you not know that a genealogist doesn’t need access to your vagina to ply his trade? Or is this not a medical thing, and you’re just naming two of the several thousand men you’ve granted access to your twat?

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.