(Now, Barbara Kent. She was a real looker of a whore.)

Peter Lauria is a media reporter like Animal is a drummer: really good at his job, but bystanders should probably make sure their immunizations and rabies shots are up to date. Which means not only should Jenny McCarthy’s kids stay at least a mile from him – and her; enjoy your slow, painful death kids – but also, here and there he’s going to piss someone off. This time, he gave the journalistic titty-twist to notorious dirty old hobgoblin and Viacom owner Sumner Redstone (pictured below),* who Lauria’s inside source says is ‘forcing’ MTV to produce a shitty reality show. Break out the big arm twisting machine, this is going to be tough. That’s like asking the decidedly crazy homeless guy on the offramp to eat some fresh dog shit: it’s all a matter of how much booze he can get with the money you give him to forget what an infected boil he is on the taint of society.

The Daily Beast has learned that Redstone is so smitten with a scantily clad new all-girl group dubbed the Electric Barbarellas that he has paid to fly its six members out to New York to meet with record labels—and forced MTV to shoot a pilot for a reality-TV series about the group… The show and music are so bad that MTV executives  object to it [and may quit over it]. (DailyBeast)

“Hey sweetie, you want to join the Reptile Pie Club? What? WHAT? Goddurn hearing aid. ‘The Mile High’… Wow. I have been doing that all wrong.” So your boss is a disgustingly rich dirty old man and wants to spend his last days around some tits and ass that can’t talk back? He owns you, get over it. Don’t pretend you have scruples or anything, you aired My Super Sweet 16 without giving any thought to how many pedophiles were at home rubbing one off to what they would do spoiled brats on entitlement steroids in the back of their new Lexus.

Anyway, Redstone isn’t all gone, as evidenced by the fact that he left Lauria the best voicemail since Alec Baldwin came down with buyer’s remorse over a defective offspring. A sample? Why sure:

“I know you may be reluctant… we have to have the name of the person who gave you that story. We’re not going to kill him. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to fire him. We just want to talk to him.” (DailyBeast)

We’re not going to break his legs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to throw him in a concrete pit with junkyard dogs. We just want to talk to him. We’re not going to make him walk the plank and send him Davey Jones’ Locker. Wait… Anyway, if you could also fax over the names of his wife, kids, parents, and beloved pet, that would be great.

We will protect you completely. There are several sources that could give us that name. Including a certain guy that works for a law firm that works for MTV.

Who? You, know, a ‘certain guy.’ Just like Bricks Brassi and Richie the Savant are ‘certain guys’ what get ‘certain’ things done for us. Fuck it, you know what? Murdering things. If I want to go all Corleone in my advanced, diseased years over a tray of assorted fuckmeats that couldn’t maintain a Myspace page let alone a legitimate career, that’s my prerogative. Tell you what. When you own the fourth largest media conglomerate in the world, you can fill the casting couch with as much dick as you want, and your pansy ass can be as sugar & spice about it as it wants. No shit, the Electric Barbarellas suck. They’re a girl band that got their name from a Duran Duran song about naked mannequins, British masturbation, and a bald Mr. Bean. They describe themselves as “a cross between the Pussycat Dolls and Spice Girls, except raunchier.” They’re just some dumb bitches that want their American 15 minutes, and I’m going to give it to them in December, which gives them just enough time to take turns tongue bathing my shriveled, liver-spotted balls in teams of two, until the doctor says I have to go on dialysis and avoid having fun at all costs. Here’s a wad of hundreds; use it to plug up that gushing cunny before I open a sterling silver Shirley Temple factory between your legs.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do when I hear one of my Viacom slaves talked some shit about me? Give me the name of the snitch, or I’ll just plant a bomb under every car in the parking lot to make sure I get him. It’ll send Ted “Limp Dick” Turner a message, too. You want that on your head, Lauria? What are they going to do, give me the death penalty? I’m a hundred and sixty, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention I look like something primitive African tribes would burn as a demon, in a plaid suit you have to have a senior citizen ID to even buy. You might as well build me a cross and deify me on FOX News right now. And speaking of that, Rupert, my boy. You know I agree with everything you put on your fine network – not only do I own CBS, the premiere channel for crotchety old biddies that remember the McCarthy days fondly, I’m also a client – but do you have to hire such angry people? I watch FOX News before I go to bed, I get so agitated I poop myself at least three times while I sleep. We old conservatives like our news like we like our Cream of Wheat: drippy, bland, and not a little bit racist. Oh, and that Megyn Kelly. You should get her one of those water massagers they have in the Sears Roebuck catalog, because she’s a hot little spitfire but I think she’s a little… backed up. All jawin’ on about nothin’ over other sensible folks, makin’ a mess of the negro problem. [see how deep you can get into this hot mess before you throw up like you're on a roller coaster at Lean Pockets World] Medical paroxysm, that’s the ticket! We have a ‘certain guy’ for that, if you need some help.

So, reality TV is going Italian mafia gang busters now, which is going to be really ironic for The Situation, because he thinks he’s one of them, but they are going to scalp him and use his petrified blowout as an emery board for their cats.

*Ha! You can’t steal this one Stewart/Colbert! You call this man massa.

(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.”

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.

*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.

(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, 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:

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,

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.

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.

(He’s upset because of his inclusion in an unsavory joke in paragraph 4 or 5.)

I try to be mature, man, I do. I want to be a respectable adult about things. I got me a real adult style job, a wife, I haven’t been homeless for more than, say, a week cumulative since I got out of the most irresponsible daycare in the world, Hofstra. Whenever possible I vote and campaign for equal rights for all people, and point out the hypocrisy and ignorance in most forms of prejudice from whatever pulpit is provided me. And then this shit happens, not once, but twice in a week, and i have the urge to buy a box of Mott’s apple juice so I can blow the whole thing out my nose in a Chuck E Cheese ball pit. Sometimes my life feels like a Frosted Mini-Wheats commercial from the ’80s, except the transformation from adult to child is involuntary, painful, and not a little shameful. Does that turn you on, baby? What will it take to make you love me?

Anyway, I want everyone to know I am not the villain here. It’s not my fault that these headlines all found me in the course of a week, but I feel like I’d be depriving you if I didn’t share. From the prim, proper, full windsor BBC:

Family of Faggot Fans Fly the Flag

Nice alliteration! I have been operating under the assumption that English people couldn’t speak English anymore. I am going to be so disappointed if said flag isn’t doily. This kind of takes the wind out of the hysterical sails, but a case can be made that this is Britain, and they have different definitions for all kinds of things, like “food” and “sports.” You may think that, in Britain, a ‘faggot’ refers only to a bundle of sticks, but it turns out it can really refer to almost anything. A red pencil is also a faggot, as is a domed building, an unplugged coffee maker, and a tin awning, but only the top part. But the definition in question, the thing that brings this family together in perhaps the lamest form of activism man has conceived since “lactivism” (that’s a real thing, FSM preserve us), reports that a faggot is “pork liver served with mushy peas,” which frankly sounds grosser than lactivism and what our definitions do in the bedroom.*

Listen, just because your word means something different from ours, there is no way you are unaware how the less desirables in American society use it. I know that’s what the word means and all, and you’re not going to start changing the way you use your own language, even if we go out of our way to set a better example for you. But you could have avoided making the headline so funny. Now I feel like a fifth grader. Was that your plan? Are you amused by this?

Her husband Fred added: “It’s unfair because faggots were a British delicacy long before any of the others. The great British faggot is full of flavour and a great belly warmer at this time of year.”

Now I know you’re doing it on purpose! Covering up your motivations by peppering the article with cute little bits of information isn’t fooling anyone, either. “Faggots were called Savory Ducks in the middle ages.” And then was changed in the 1980s to make future twenty-something bloggers look like insensitive, sophomoric pricks. You think I don’t know you neglected to print the snickers Freddy-boy threw in after every other word in that quote? We took the ‘u’ out of ‘flavor’ like a century and a half ago, too. Now all I can imagine is some mutton-chopped pantywaist with a monocle named Balthazar Wraithwright Swineroarer III, poetically discussing his personalized method for ’savouring’ his poolboy’s used thongs when he ruffles through the hamper. “Holding the bright green garment no less than fourty centimeters from my nose, inhaling the summer odours of  exhibitionism and a solid day’s work, and the rolling slowly across my olfactory gland tannins of the glass of sherry I ‘mistakenly’ spilt on him…” Shame on you, Britain. I can push from my head the image of Zombie Gary Coleman raping the corpse of Phil Hartman with the business end of a Bowie knife, but I can’t unimagine that. We should have let the Germans raze London to the ground. Hell, if we’d known you were going to grow up to be such creeps, we would have helped.

And they have sashes? The Doody Family has Sashes with the colors of Nathan’s Hot Dogs, that say Faggot Family? What’s the score here? Did you guys at the BBC get ahold of, like, an American Slang Book and a bajillion ounces of weed? Are you all having a bloody good laugh at our expense? Are the Scottish in on it? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Dude, fuck this shit. From now on I’m reading American papers, ones not written by prepubescent gingers looking forward to their first boners. Let’s see if reliable old Reuters US has anything close to the efficient journalistic integrity we’ve come to expect sine Walter Cronkite invented news.

Tired Gay Succumbs to Dix in 200 Meters

Oh, just come right the hell on! Is there an editors’ strike I’m not aware of? I’ll not have the noble and ancient sport of tack’n'field besmirched with the dick jokes of a failed high school jock turned sports writer (exception: any testicle injury involving a hurdle; you’re just asking for an orange peeling, jumping with spread legs over heavy barriers). There is no good goddamned way the author of this article didn’t know what was going on here. I’m sure the story was relevant relevant enough to keep it from the cutting room floor entirely, but English is the most complex modern language. You could vary up the wording a bit. “Walter Dix Wins 200 Meter,” would work, at least for a headline. The relative subtlety of “Saw That Coming” would at least allow you to relegate the childishness to the body of the text. Either way, it’s going to be a long time until you reach the BBC’s level of mastery: “Dix’ Delight in Demolishing Drowsy Doughnut Damager.” My resume is in the mail, you pompous limey quims.

“It wasn’t bad, but I was a little fatigued toward the end,” Gay said. “I tried to stay relaxed and bring it home, but it wasn’t enough.”

Bad form, dude. Going to Prison 101: relax. You want to explain to the doctor how you got pink-socked because you couldn’t help clamping down like a rookie? Someone hasn’t been doing their stretches.

Let’s get our shit together, media. I don’t read the news so I can think about pink socks. I really don’t do anything with that expressed purpose. It would be cool if, say, a Hostess Snack Cake reminded me of a visual representation of an unfortunate side effect of buggery, or an unfortunately shaped kite, but two of the most trusted news providers in the world? That’s just ghey.

* Oh, don’t get all pissy, I’m allowed to find gay sex a little icky. Some of you find vagina gross, so I think we can let this slide. Also, aren’t you having fun seeing how many times I can use the F-word in an article without once using it personally in reference to fudge packers?

PS: On a serious note, after the jump you’ll find links to charities promoting civil rights, education and open discussion, etc. Because, to paraphrase Matt & Trey, everything is fodder for comedy or nothing is, even my bogus brand of low-brow. Exposing the inherent insanity of the bigoted and ignorant at the expense of the writer’s self-respect is totally worth the cover charge. At the same time, awareness, empathy, and progress are what makes comedy possible, so give them a click if you feel as dirty after reading SBS as we do after writing it.

http://www.stonewall.org.uk/

http://www.aliforneycenter.org/

http://www.hrc.org/

http://laglc.convio.net/site/PageServer

http://www.astraeafoundation.org/

Some cursory research was done on these charities. You have to do a little for yourself, or it ain’t charity, nucka. That’s how bishops end up with second mansions, luxury cars, and hookers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Sean “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.

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.

(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.

By Sean Torrie

(Sadly, Puff Daddy’s assessment concerning the motivation of most of the citizenry was astoundingly astute.)

You know what’s been driving me nuts?

Damned near everything, but this one in particular.

For the sake of presenting an argument, I’ll warm up the topic.

Terrorism (ohhh yea, that’s where I’m going with this) is something I’ve had to view and review since the day after I turned 18, and our nation either entered, or was finally made aware that we’d been in a holy war for some time. From the start I had this amazing sensation that something was being collectively shoved down our throats, and that thinking about the nature of the problem would only get in the way of the intended progress, so it being in my nature to be a total dick, I decided to start examining what terrorism really is, as opposed to what we’re told to understand it as.

Eventually I found my way to a Sociology of Terrorism class at my university. Yea, a leftist suburban university in New York. I was expecting a wonderful shit show where the class was divided by colored war paint, and the distinctive odors of ganja and crude oil on either side. Instead I was given the complete disappointment of having myself the single most educational class in my entire college experience. I hate it when I actually learn things in thousand dollar classes.

The really key element we were presented is the hackneyed expression of, “History is written by the victors.” If the American Revolution wasn’t a carefully machinated 200 year old Freemason conspiracy started by Sir Francis Bacon, I’m sure Ben Franklin would be remembered as the Bin Laden of his time, while we ritualistically took turns spitting on his grave every 4th of July, which would be called “Bollocks to the Bloody Rebels” day. Instead we were the victors, and the rebels against the norm are heroes of liberty and the New Order of the Ages based in freedom of rights, not the inalienable correctness of the crown. Bully to you, good sir.

The issue of modern terrorism is that it was planned over the internet. These fuckers might live in caves, murder innocent people, and mutilate their women’s genitals but they learned some tricks from Gandhi that will ring true as long as communication continues to advance: there is no bad publicity; unless you’re in politics. The element these fuckers planned on was that every time a soldier fucked up, it’d find it’s way to the internet, and then the previously useless 24 news stations would pick up the clips, over-air, over-analyze, and brainwash the people watching. Thus perpetuating a war of ignorance and fear and… something… something… darkside.

You’ll never hear on the blasted news that the news it self was obviously the key element in the plan for modern terrorism. This fact is accented by the fact they fell right for it. Leaving a news story with a DVD of video on a giant mouse trap could have only been slightly more obvious than a terrorist leader who gives out taped recordings only slightly more regularly than J. D. Salinger.

Essentially my point here is that what one can define as terrorism, I choose to define as poorly negotiated, below the belt jabs at resolving cultural conflict while being a total prick about it. One could easily label Chuck Manson as a terrorist, the extremist hippy, but considering the number of women he kept as pets, I’m just gonna call him a personal hero.

With the topic properly raised and addressed I’d like to head to my point, with but a little bit more spit and shine. They say that buying drugs supports terrorism. There’s truth to that. Mexico is a shithole because of their drug cartels are running the nation on a larger scale than the Italian Mafia did the US in the ’30s. However, no one really cares about the Mexican government, we’ve proven that a few times over. So when they say terrorism they mean that it supports Middle Eastern Terrorism, which relates specifically back to opium, and by relation, heroin sales. That’s it. No other drugs. Sorry. This, however, is another mistruth being presented by another collection of people with different social preferences than others. I don’t know how many anti-pot or cigarette commercials I’ve seen that were so trite and terrible that I felt it was a terrorist attack on my mind. Buy your heroin addict buddy a case of Bud, ask him to stay off the needle for the night, and you’ll have done your part.

No less, this brings it all back to my initial and well concealed point. When a terrorist group finds a means to advertise their philosophy, and a means to fund it at the same time, you have (in this case, intentionally) created a monster. I don’t care how much you care about fluffy or intelligent animals in this context, I personally prefer the company of dogs to most people, and feel that sea mammals are an interesting and bright-minded group worthy of protecting, but despite this: by watching the television show Whale Wars -YOU ARE SUPPORTING TERRORISM.

I mean… am I the only guy who has noticed this? People are watching this show, and cheering on these people who are intentionally disrupting the lives of hard working people who are doing something morally dubious, but legal. This is on the other end of lighting an abortion clinic on fire. The difference here is that bombing an abortion doctor’s car (is there a name for a guy that does that for a living? other than soulless? Sorry, I’m all about your choice and stuff, but doing that for a living has got to be more morbid than being a grave digger) is disrupting the life of a physician who is making an otherwise (other than the bombing and fire and violent protest part of it – these protesters are also terrorists by the way, I’m just putting that out there) comfortable living, in an otherwise safe location. These guys on the whaling boats… I mean, just go watch Deadliest Catch. It simply can’t be that far off. This isn’t an easy job, and it has to be hazardous on a rather exceptional level. Now these unemployed attention whore hipsters have to go and bother them while they’re trying to make a living?

The hipsters can go home to their applauding supporters, and what do the whalers have to go home to? Their hungry families they spent months risking their lives for. Isn’t there a tree these people should be hugging? Did they bring the recipient of their Dendrophilia onto the ship and just hump that tree at night when the cameras are off? Is it like the boat’s town-bicycle-tree? Do they gang-bang the tree at night? It’d be a lot easier, and less sloppy seconds if they just stayed on the shore and humped separate trees the way God intended, and spent their time trying to get laws changed, and not harassing fishermen.

(Jesus Christ, guys, you scored a goal in a sport played mostly by grade school girls. You weren’t contracted by Chippendales. Put your clothes back on. This is exactly why American sports have rules against celebrations like dancing and shit, because it inevitably leads to this crap.)

That’s right, just… Soccer. Soccer fans, soccer “athletes,” coaches,  sponsors, refs, mascots. If you can use the word “soccer” in a two word description of yourself, without resorting to the bumper stickers on the needless minivans of pretentious parents who need you to erroneously believe their job is harder than yours, I’m talking to you. I don’t ask much of you. I believe that while the world has grown smaller in my short life, it is not so minuscule that we cannot share it without interacting and coming to public shamings like titty-twisters and wedgies, which are really just embarrassing for both parties. I’ve endured the pansies who fall-down-go-boom and call it an injury; the people basically wearing capes masquerading as flags; the barely shrouded racism and jingoism; the fucking Vuvuzela, the endless prattle concerning which is literally more annoying and physically painful than the glorified child’s plastic birthday party kazoo itself. And everywhere, the naked men. Everywhere you turn, some asshole is running around the field with his pud flapping around, and if it’s not an excited fan, the players do it! I’m pretty sure if you ask a gay man, he’ll tell you a couple hundred naked dudes in the media in the course of a couple of weeks constitutes gay.

And I’m not judging, it’s simply not my thang. Still, I think after the unsolicited inundation of soccer in my life – in bars, on my left-leaning websites that think liking futbol is somehow liberal and worldly – I think after all of this, maybe you owe me one. I think I’ll be calling in that favor right now.

See, there’s this girl. Normally I’d take care of this myself, but I don’t know how to talk to her. Mostly because she talks all Spanishy. She’s a lingerie model in Paraguay, which, I know, is what every nerd says his girlfriend is when he’s so deep into Warcraft his sexuality comes into question. But look, I have a picture in my wallet:

Pretty sweet right? And shit, does she like her country’s soccer team. When they got into the quarterfinals, she promised to “run naked through the streets” if Paraguay took the World Cup (HuffPost). I know this is asking a lot, because the World Cup is like the Super Bowl to you guys, except you probably cry into your pillows a lot when you lose. But really, couldn’t every other 7 countries left in the tournament take one for the team, as it were? Not your team, our team. The Human Squad, Pierpont Finch’s veritable “Brotherhood of Man.” Throw the game, guys, for me. For us. Do you need a reminder of what we’re talking about?

See? Isn’t seeing that naked worth a couple extra months sobbing like a little bitch at your therapist? Isn’t this really what it’s all about, in the end? Everyone says, “money makes the world go ’round,” but aren’t we all just making enough money to keep ourselves in Fruit Rollup beejes by a modestly sized pool for as much time as we can? And barring that, to keep ourselves in fresh images of lingerie models’ naughty bits? I guess what I’m asking is for you to stop scoring goals so you can all see dudes get nekkid, and start missing them by wide margins so the rest of the world can have a turn.

Let me give this to you in parable form, Jesus style: A man goes to the carnival with his beautiful, bisexual wife. She wants him to win her a prize, which should be easy for him because he’s a monster at trivial shit involving balloons and the different ways to pop them. Except, as they peruse the stalls, looking for which game he is going to kick ass in,they realize all the prizes are plush penises. Rows of them, different styles, sizes, colors, cuts; dicks, dicks, dicks, everywhere they look. He’s straight, she’s got all the cock she needs in him, so tolerantly (though quite wary of all the cuddly genitalia at a family event) they look for a stall with like, a Sponge Bob or something. They finally find one, where you have to spray into the mouth of a clown until he bursts, which is still pretty gay, but the prizes include a framed picture of Pam Anderson from like 20 years ago, and they decide it will have to do. At the last minute, a challenger arrives, and somehow beats him. The victor looks around, and asks, “Do you have any of those plush cocks left?”

This is where a man like our hero, impatient and tired of seeing dick everywhere, loses it. Not like finding another carnival [for the sake of the parable carnival=sport], not swearing up a storm and demanding his money back. He loses it like Donald Duck in Mickey and the Beanstalk…

www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGnz4RykgF8

… and blows that motherfucking stand up. Do you get what I’m saying to you? Fatwa, Jihad, or in words you’ll understand better, “prison movie.”

Now, granted, she did say she would be naked while running down the street, but also wearing body paint in the colors of Paraguay. I was introduced to the concept of body painting when, as a teenager, my mother brought home for me a Swimsuit issue of SI, with Rebecca Romijn as the feature, still Greek by injection. Why would my own mother bring me thirty or so pages of girls wearing nothing but paint? Because it is actually disappointingly harmless. So, yes, this is the kind of naked a very protective mother would give to her violently hormonal son, but shouldn’t that convince you to help even more? You won’t be grossed out by all the lady parts, and you can go right back to looking at naked dudes all you want, at matches in your own country.

Look, do this for me, and I will release, to you and your fine organization, the rights to a new logo I designed for your sport:

Get it? Two balls in a net are better than one right? Not to mention, it’s way more American, and trust me, we have our branding down pat, like Asians eating hot-dogs, that good. And you get the added benefit of looking at a pair of testicles in fishnets. No need to thank me, just think of me when you print it out and rub one out in the bathroom.

So fans, abandon your teams for the next week or so. They’ll take you back, I promise, they’re desperate enough as it is. Coaches, call a shittier play than you normally would. Mascots, run out onto the field at a critical moment, and get yourselves tasered. You’re in a unique position with all that padding. Players, amp up the waterworks on those fake injuries. Refs… you keep doing what you’re doing, you’re already soccer’s worst enemy, from what I hear. If we all work together, we can make this happen.

And if you need still more incentive: Diego Maradona, Argentina’s coach, has promised to run around naked himself if his team wins, which is comes off as more of a threat when you look at him:

Thanks In Advance For the Breasticles,

Scumbag Style

PS. I don’t want you to feel left out, “soccer moms,” so I’ll take a second to address you as well. You made your choices. I didn’t knock you up, and I didn’t decide you should devote your life to stadium bench pads and orange slices. Being a full-time mom is a job, and an important one, but I have a career, too. I contribute to society, and can do so without populating the suburbs with inconsiderate little goblins with over-developed senses of entitlement. You don’t see me putting “I Wrapped It Up, You’re  Welcome,” or “Walking PSA” stickers on my car. Your job is a good one, but it isn’t better or more worthy than anyone’s, not even a prostitute’s or a golden showers model. If anything, you have your kids in soccer so they don’t get too hurt, and their self respect remains intact until they’re old enough to know that mercy rules are worse than losing. Your contribution to making up for spreading this stupid, harmless sport will be staying in shape and putting out whenever possible. See, isn’t it nice to be included?

(Except for you, Frenchies. You’ll probably like it.)

Catholicism is like the militant wing of that run-down Chinese buffet you see in every downtown. You gotta go once, just to say you’ve allowed the greasy, dyspeptic MSG to have it’s way with your blood vessels, that you’d savored the antithesis of nutrition at some point, temporary diarrhetic consequences be damned. Even aware of the innocent victims involved (I’m equating stray cats with altar boys, here, try to keep up), and even though you heard that only those with the stalwart stomach of a donkey have ever been known to leave there without puking, you had to do it. But as you take your place in the stall next to another novice of misadventures to call up Ralph O’Rourke on the big porcelain telephone, you swear to fucking Christ that, while patronizing the restaurant was indeed a life experience, you will never waste another Sunday there again.

That’s when the militant wing comes in. Catering platters in tow and armed with submachine guns of tellingly domestic origin, a team of highly trained, overpaid ninjas with a passion for bureaucracy stuffs Chow Mein and Buddha’s Super Special Delight down your unwilling throat at gunpoint. Then they make you watch as they try to run your credit card through a museum piece of a reader for a half an hour, because dinner isn’t free. While it’s technically food-rape, as you spend the long hours of the night on the can, you can’t help but feel a guilty party to kitten death, not to mention helping to maintain a business that should have made way for a K-Mart centuries ago.

Similarly, Western Civilization (read: Europe) has been trying to slowly and inconspicuously edge away from Christianity. Well, they must have triggered an alarm or an Indiana Jones-esque booby trap* or something, because the Pope found out, and he’s having none of it. Emperor Benedict is creating an office within the Vatican that would see to it that the West was “re-evangelized,” in order to combat “the process of secularization [that] has produced a serious crisis of the sense of the Christian faith and role of the Church.” In simpler terms, he’s telling mommy on Europe because, even though he brought the ball, they’ll only let him play deep right-field.

I go into gleeful epileptic fits when somebody has a plan to “-ize” any group of people, because that is going to be a shit show worthy of sweeps. Traditionally, that suffix doesn’t come after pleasant things, and the implication of force it lends to any phrase doesn’t help its case either. Outside of quirky ad campaigns, nobody ever threatens to “Snickerize” you, or “fellatio-ize” you. And even if they did, the understanding is that no matter how much you like adorable, sleeping kittens, this person has found a way to kill you with them, or at least alter your perceptions to the point where your faculties to trust in the overall goodness of humanity is as severely stunted as Glenn Beck’s sense of reality. No, “-ize” is usually used to verbify words like “sodom” and “paral.” Not to mention -izing is generally facilitated by a plan you wouldn’t be surprised to hear come out of Darth Vader’s mouth grill. Look:

The new pontifical council, he said, would “promote a renewed evangelization” in countries where the Church has long existed “but which are living a progressive secularization of society and a sort of ‘eclipse of the sense of God.’” (HuffPost)

See? Don’t like “-ize” so much when it follows “secular,” do you? Anyway, if I may translate that from “justifiable guidance” to “what he really means,” the Pope just announced his intention to food-rape you, weekly, with little circles of cardboard masquerading as crackers that he happens to believe is Jesus Humphry Christ hisself. If you think that interpretation is a tad harsh, I invite you to consider the rapist. The rapist’s mindset is that he acknowledges his victim is perfectly content not being beaten to a pulp and violated, he just does not see why that knowledge should apply to his actions. Similarly, the Pope is all, “Look at these dicks, getting on with their lives, even in the midst of a messy breakup they thought was over some time ago. What they need is a little Church violently inserted into their rectums, to remind them how awesome it is.” It’s basically the same sound philosophy of Africa’s ritual rapings of lesbians to make them like dick (here), only white people are doing it, so it’s OK.

Let’s get down to silk frillies here: Would the Jesus of the Gospels (remember those?) want his name to be mentioned in the same sentence as “rape?” See what you made me do? Twice? Once more and the Beeteljuice effect comes into play, and the two will forever be synonymous. So, you know, watch yourself.

So, Benny, who do you have pegged as Masturbator of Ceremonies for this jerkoff parade?

Monsignor Fisichella, [who] created a minor uproar last year when he defended Brazilian doctors who aborted the twin fetuses of a 9-year-old child who was raped by her stepfather. His call for mercy sparked heated criticism from some hardline conservative members of the Pontifical Academy who questioned his suitability to lead the institution.**

Yeah, that’s kind of a sticking point with those guys. Jesus would definitely want a 9 year-old to carry her incest rape baby to term, the resulting sterile, mentally handicapped abomination to decency and general aesthetics still being a person in His eyes – - Oh, shit! I did it again! Welp, can’t be taken back now. Britney should write a new song: “Whoops, I did it again. I summoned the visage of a Michael Keaton character to brutally mutilate the spiritual innocence of millions of believers… Oh, baby, baby.”

[Sidebar, Nevadan readership. If you found that scenario atrocious: you really need to go here.]

So, yes, these are the people planning a hostile takeover of Europe, with the silent approval of the UN and thousands of berkenstocked hippies in universities all over the world. There’s more mind-numb frosting on the cake that is that article, but… whatever, dude. Frankly, I’m tired. Just, don’t bother trying to -ize America. That would be like trying to do fecal graffiti in a public bathroom with no lights: Thousands of assholes have already got it covered.

*Heh, I said “booby.”
** Just a little peek at the SBS backstage area: In my head I am thinking way to hard about my own metaphors. Like, if the Catholics are like Chinese food-rapists, and Catholics don’t condone abortion, even under the circumstances of rape, would the Chinese food-rapists excommunicate you if you tried to cut out the resulting Moo Shoo Baby before you “take it to term”? Did I just blow your mind? No…