(”Trust me, it’s sterile. The only raping here is Marlboro prices. Criminal! Hahaha! Bend over.”)

Pinch my perineum, because there is no way I’m not dreaming this news story out of New Jersey from NBC NY: NJ Officials Investigate Botched Booty Boosts. That’s some spiffy alliteration for what the video news report goes on to say is a medical concern of Kim “Badonkulous” Kardashian proportions. I’ll let Religious Programming Emmy Award winning correspondent Lynda Baquero revive and refresh an old standby:

The new Jersey health department is trying to get the word out about someone who is offering to enhance women’s rear ends, by using an injection that includes, believe it or not, cock.”

She went on to say, “Too late, bitches, you already forked over the Emmy.” Wait, hold on. OH! “Caulk.” See, you went with the antiquated and misleading medium of video reporting and we, the humble transcribers, come off as so much low rent closed captioners with tourettes.  Don’t crucify her yet, because the only excuse for irresponsible journalism is if it makes immature people do a spit take and feel good about the fact that they bothered to wake up. As far as I’m concerned, the report did not last even half as long as it should have, but the interviews yielded some goodies:

“Have you ever heard of caulk being used in someone’s body before?”

Did they say how the caulk felt in their bums? Was it something of an uncomfortable, full feeling, like you have to drop a deuce the size and shape of a walrus with elephantiasis? Well, Lynda, it was a miracle they could handle all that caulk in their rear ends, there was an awful lot of it. It’s a good thing this didn’t happen in the Middle East. You can get buried alive for having that kind of injection. Whachu gonna do with all that junk?

“Authorities say these women survived because they got swift medical attention.”

My word, that’s some powerful caulk. Hospital grade shit. Isn’t “medical attention” what got them into trouble in the first place? Some people never learn. Listen ladies, as a professed ass man, I was reticent to bring this story to the masses, because I would never want to discourage the Mix-A-Lot treatment. The report goes on to warn that you consult real physicians before offering your ass up for slicing in the back of the corner liquor store (it’s right next to the hardware store, dummy), as that was the mistake these Jersey sluts made, but that seems like a lot of work. I say: Just go for it. When the moment comes, and you hear your doctor/meth dealer giggling, it’s a good possibility that he’s about to turn your pooper into a living, jiggling pun. That’ll be your cue to take your business elsewhere, like a Mexican bait shop. Glad we had this talk.

By this, the good Sir was not, in fact, referring to industrial grade adhesives. But you should sue him for misleading women anyway, so he has to do another dumb Burger King and Sponge Bob cross-promotion for permission to sift through the dumpsters for food for another six months.

(You can strap me into the elaborate torture chair from Monsters Inc, but you can’t keep me from shitting my pants!)

It is incredible how little I care about a bunch of old dudes telling me what movies I should think are good. For a while the world forgot other things were happening, outside of the annoyance of the documentary category the Academy insists on televising. We get it, Flipper genocide and Burma is last on the Girls Gone Wild sites of interest list. Both things we knew. In the meantime, we’re looking at some fabulous news here, folks; a popular myth is about to be dispelled, so strap yourselves in like a retarded toddler learning to go potty. Anne Harding over at the CNN reports:

Some women avoid drinking calorie-filled cocktails, wine, and beer because they’re worried about packing on the pounds. Now, a new study suggests that women who are moderate drinkers actually tend to gain less weight over time than teetotalers.

SCIENCE! What Mrs. Rutherford B. Hayes is trying to say is that booze is good for you, ladies, in copious amounts. You can trust it too, because a chick wrote it, albeit a time-traveling she-dictionary of prohibition-era colloquialisms. What she failed to mention is that a lot of leading doctors agree, but would caution that less, looser, or even no clothes at all ought to be worn during times of consumption, for the sake of unfettered breathing and continuous blood circulation…

The study also goes on to state that nobody likes a sober prude, and temperance is the leading cause of ugly friend, designated driver cock-blockery. Don’t be that girl. Get wasted and settle, for everyone’s sake. As if now is the time to start worrying about that pink camisole bulge of laziness you call feminism, you can be reassured that there are corroborating studies.

“Many other studies that are not nearly as well done or as large as this suggest that calories from alcohol are metabolized differently,” Ellison says. “The alcohol calories probably don’t count as much as calories from a Hershey’s bar.”

If that isn’t enough for your bulimic ass, wait until liquor comes out in pill form. The rest of you can stop pretending your vodka cranberry is good for you because the clear liquor offsets the horrifying amount of sugar and preservatives in the kind of cranberry “juice” that “tastes good.” That shit is nasty, and CNN just said you can move on to real actual liquor and still keep your lumpy girlish figure.

As a public service, Scumbag Style would like to remind you that the hooch can be a lubricant for one kind of weight gain: unwanted stomach parasites, affectionately known in the medical community as “babies.” An unassuming moniker for a hateful, body-shredding drain on resources and the reason everybody will hate you on Facebook. Seriously, we were responsible enough to not knock you up. Go tell the jizz donor; you’ll find him in the bedroom crying because you made him sell his Xbox.

Although recovering alcoholics and people with uncontrolled epilepsy shouldn’t drink [unless they are really dedicated to physical comedy], Ellison says, moderate alcohol consumption can have health benefits for people middle-aged and older, especially when it comes to heart health and stroke risk.

Also, a couple more drinks will benefit those that find improvised peeing just fucking adorable.

Hee hee. I have like a couple hundred of these on my hard drive. Kittens tottering around on gimpy legs with Cool Whip on their whiskers couldn’t be more adorable than a chick with no choice but to squat in places unintended for their urination needs.

Here’s one more bit of motivation from Johnnie Walker.

(The part of daily mass Father Palmieri dreaded most was the queue to kiss the Holy Cock Ring. It creeped him out how Benedict always took of his goofy hat and got all confortable. )

Last week, Scumbag Style instituted “Jugularity,” a columnal outlet for when the world seems to be coming up boobies. In the interest of balance, and in celebration that the names of naughty bits fit really well into spooneristic word replacement puns, here’s some dick jokes that prove real life has the sense of humor of a 12 year old, and so do we.

A patient claims the producers of CBS TV show “The Doctors” tricked him into appearing before a live studio audience to undergo laser surgery for “pearly penile papules,” then broadcast his penis operation without his consent. (Courthouse News)

Oh, Jesus Danza Slapping* Christ, save us from that entirely gratuitous, unholy alliteration. This guy wants to sue CBS for airing his lumpy lester on the TV, and I want to sue him for making his god-given anal bead condition a five second music video that will play over in my head all day. I’d call Will Smith down with his flashy cancer stick from MIB if I didn’t enjoy breakfast so hard. We’re going to pretend that story didn’t happen and move on to a couple of dudes who would eschew the lazer prescription for something resembling the treatment for a snake bite.

Like Senator Roy Ashburn from SoCal, who was nailed driving his Tahoe about 12 hours ago with a blood alcohol level of .14%. Growing up in Boston, the Irish cops used to call that level of intoxication “not fucking around.” We all make mistakes, though, right? The difference between a drunk driver and a passable one often comes down to how big your lunch was, and the margin for error there is pretty high. Don the orange vest for a hundred hours, and we’ll forget about this one – -

[Ashburn] was arrested for allegedly driving drunk after leaving Faces, a gay nightclub in midtown Sacramento… A male passenger, who was not identified as a lawmaker, was also in the car…  Ashburn, a father of four, is a Republican Senator… with a history of opposing gay rights. (CBS, who just cannot seem to stay away from the cock)

Sometimes it seems people are born to gauge how far milk can shoot out of my nose. My  disappointment that a gay club pilfered the name of my favorite Rod Stewart vehicle notwithstanding (you bastards make him the next Liza, and I swear…), this poor bastard could make a documentary series on TLC about the next couple of years of his being his own punchline. This thing is going to play out in long, grueling stages, like AA where nobody believes in you. Divorce, disbarment, Roy’s Runty Rod: All The Dirty Details, promo spots for Preparation H, the whole nine.

Ashburn has particularly yummy timing when you consider that, at the time of his arrest, the news outlets of America were preparing a piece about a dude in Rome who will have it way easier:

The Vatican was today rocked by a sex scandal reaching into Pope Benedict’s household after a chorister was sacked for allegedly procuring male prostitutes for a papal gentleman-in-waiting… Angelo Balducci, a Gentleman of His Holiness, was caught by police on a wiretap allegedly negotiating with Thomas Chinedu Ehiem, a 29-year-old Vatican chorister, over the specific physical details of men he wanted brought to him… “I saw your call when I was in the Vatican, because I was doing rehearsals … in the choir … in St Peter’s.” He then suggests Balducci meet a man who he describes is “two metres tall … 97 kilos … aged 33, completely active.”

If ever there was secret code for “not above a blumpkin,” that’s it. For those of you who didn’t grow up Catholic (bullet on steroids dodged), words like “Vatican Chorister” and “Gentlemen of His Holiness” and “metres” aren’t just bandied about in Rome like so much altar boy. A Gentleman of His Holiness is like a made man in the Mafia; he’s earned the right to be an usher at masses performed by the Pope, goes to all the fancy dinners, can put a hit out, and is technically part of the surrogate Papal family that could never be with the Holy Nutsack in mothballs…. or, apparently, other dude’s mouths. In their strange, metric system babble, you might call him a Royale with Splooge. Similarly, there are but 2 choirs at St. Peter’s, this Ehiem being in the Pope’s preferred, and just like a job in a tollbooth, you have to know somebody. To do a job you’d get a wedgie for in grade school. Just sayin’.

The thing is, these guys are off the hook, because the Vatican unwittingly provided the perfect out in their own despicable policies. As early as the 1970s, so far as can be proved now, they started shuffling among dioceses  those priests accused of diddling little boys. Alls they have to do is trade the priests that have moved on to the cougars of the male gender (give ‘em some kudos for waiting for their balls to drop, by the way) to those parishes tired of kiddie-pucker sacrifice, and the pedophiles to Rome, which most reasonable parents view as a sanctified Neverland Ranch. We’ll lob softballs at them like we always do until the scandal is over, and crucify GOP Senator Ashburn because we still need a whipping boy, but have the rod of PC so far up our asses we don’t want to criticize religious people for their own hypocrisy.  It’s such a primal instinct, to make a sacrifice of one for the sins of the community, like Joey Fatone doing Rent so the rest of Nsync could have real careers.

What is curious is why these guys shove themselves so deep in the closet they’re trading makeup tips with Mr. Tumnus, going out of their way to make oppressive laws and religious edicts concerning the very thing they enjoy doing. Chalk it up to masochism if you want, but it seems to me they could just move to P-town and free their manwhore budgets up for antiquing, and be much happier for it. Is there really such a leap in imagination from “Glory of God” to “Glory Hole of Rainbow Road Bookstore”? If you have to look at it from the Christian perspective, what if you get to Heaven and God asks you how you liked that free will he gave you, and you’ve treated it like Aunt Mildred’s itchy reindeer sweater? Ashburn already womaned up and apologized between mouthfuls of man gravy, but it isn’t too late for the rest of you Narnians to give a press conference saying, “Dick is great. Preferably several at a time. Have you tried this shit? Cuz it’s the cat’s pajamas. If your queer little club doesn’t want me in it, then peace the hell out, and I’m taking my Judy Garland records with me.”

Scumbag Concordance: “The Danza Slap,” noun -  A dick slap used as a finishing move during ejaculation, during which the slapper demands of the slappee “Who’s The Boss.” The term is mistakenly attributed to Tony “Nadz” Danza himself, who was rumored to have starred in pornography himself before Taxi. This rumor was refuted later when people got off the coke and realized the anachronistic replacement of a “z” for an “s,” and that the cast-member with adult entertainment on his resume was actually Judd Hirsch, who patented the now famous “Hershey Hirsch.” (Urban Dictionary’s myriad definitions)

(”And thus did the tanks of Seaworld run red with the lifeblood of the Orca, and the Israelites were blessed by God for putting the Killer Whale to death with a season and a half of great harvest, until a Rapist Chinchilla in San Diego had its way with a toddler.” Book of Eatme 12:31)

The controversy over killer whales doing their eponymous job has gone Old Testament, and this connoisseur of the overblown is grinning like suicide bomber heaven’s millionth customer. Let’s start with how Huffington Post presented the story, then go on to the site that called the following cetacean jihad.

The American Family Association, a religious right group, is urging that Tillikum (Tilly), the killer whale that killed a trainer at SeaWorld Orlando, be put down, preferably by stoning.

Do they even make bongs big enough to give that monster an overdose? Please say yes… Oh, you mean like the deadly community circle jerk and lentil festival. Fair enough. Nothing better than a brutally slow, torturous death if one is called for. If only old Tilly had the forethought to yell “God wills it!” before mangling his bipedal friend, they might have granted him a subaqueous fiefdom. No seriously, I’m in. Haven’t been to a good stoning since I was in Haiti teaching a village what “poetic justice” meant, and out of nowhere Pat Robertson decided to visit. Remind me real quick, AFA, why are we dusting off the oldest form of execution by committee for a marine mammal, and not William Wallacing it?

“When an ox gores a man or woman to death, the ox shall be stoned, and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner shall not be liable.” (Exodus 21:28)

As a creative person, I get a little disappointed when a god tells me how I should kill something, when I have all these ideas floating around in my head. The god of the Hebrew Scriptures is like a grade school math teacher; it’s long division, not competitive ice carving, I’ll show your mom my “work.” No, this time I’m all about the literalistic scripture interpretation (though where whales fit into a story specifically about oxen I’ll leave the convenience scholars to decide), if only for sheer entertainment value. Sea World should sell tickets to this thing, fill those uncomfortable bleachers with sticky human spawn. Get a couple hundred devotees  of this group, and let them go to towns. They might kill the thing, but not before those pebbles bounce off the whale’s rubbery hide and piss it off enough to take at least half of them out. For all we know, old Tilly will just wait under water until they’re out of ammo, learning to spit them back at the bastards. Those plastic ponchos will sell for at least a hunsky  in those conditions.

Exodus is so helpful it even goes on to say what happens if further incidents occur: if your ox kills a second time, “the ox shall be stoned, and its owner also shall be put to death,” (Exodus 21:29) because this time he should have known his ox was a slasher film villain. But how to smite, God? You can’t hold my hand up to this point and then leave me to my own murderous devices. Take me to murder school!And how does one go about killing “Seaworld.” Does that include the guests? What about the harmless rays and fish in the naughty touch tank? Screw it, kill ‘em all, just to be sure. Not the penguins though. They’re nature’s retards, and Seaworld isn’t in Texas.

It doesn’t matter anyway because:

Chalk another death up to animal rights insanity and to the ongoing failure of the West to take counsel on practical matters from the Scripture. The Sentinel recounts that Tilly had killed a trainer back in 1991 in front of spectators…  Then in 1999 he killed a man who sneaked into SeaWorld to swim with the whales and was found the next morning draped dead across Tilly’s back. His body had been bit and the killer whale had torn off his swimming trunks [actually, it was underwear, but i know that's a dirty word in Christendom] after he had died. [How do you know that?]

Can you imagine what would have happened if those animal rights psychos had their own way from the beginning and these murderous sunzabitches were allowed to live in the wild? Then who would we stone, fags? Because that’s illegal still, right? All the fun ones are.

I see your point on the first one, though: according to Exodus the whale should have been pelted with prehistoric hand-grenades in 1991. But the dude who sneaked into Seaworld in the middle of the night to swim with a killer whale in his tighty whiteys? Tilly only removed the dude’s “trunks” to get at his genitals so the world, should he survive an Orca attack, could be free of his dumbfuck genes. Give the whale a pass, guys, it was doing us a favor.

Huffington post helpfully chimes in: “SeaWorld has no plans to execute Tilly.” Because, as the seriously misinterpreted Jesus said about stoning, “Let he who is without sin pack the first bong.” Man, is Aramaic ever hard.

(Sean Duffy: Leave him alone, Liberal Media, because he will lumberjack your ass then celebrate by banging his hot wife. She’s had 5 kids, and the rest of you ladies are straight slackers. Also, if you look like retards for questioning his past, it gets a lot harder to slam his iffy politics.)

What qualifies a man to run for higher elected office in this country? Might as well ask what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting Real. That’s right, it’s happened:

Eighteen years later, “The Real World” now holds the distinction of being MTV’s longest-running program. It may soon hold another claim to fame If Republican Sean Duffy has his way: It would be the first reality television show to launch the career of a future member of the United States Congress. (Politics Daily)

What about The Sarah Palin Show? That one’s fun because you never know what time and channel the next episode will be on, but something ridonk is guaranteed to happen. She’s never had to run for Congress, but to be fair, why bother when you can just be President, doncha know?

So what you’re saying, Politics Daily, is that the country has officially moved to TardCon 1 and is ready to elect it’s first Congressman from the industry that brought it mobster worship, homicidal British chefs, the Paris Hilton Pooper-Scooper Hour, and ugly girls getting punched? That’s what 80% of your article implies, with more than half of the paragraphs mentioning the Real World connection. Can’t be that much worse than those that gave us Junior* and Bedtime For Bonzo though, right?

The show deals with hot-button issues… abortion, race… (”Let’s not get ghetto”)… AIDS, and, of course, sex. It also forces young people to confront people with opposing views, all the while doing so while walking the high wire of public scrutiny.

It’s worse than we thought! He got laid on the grainy green night-vision of cable television, and now he wants to be a lawmaker? Somebody hide Nancy Pelosi before he gives her an abortion! Nobody touch his Axe Body Spray, man, because he’s going to start yelling and breaking shit in the Capitol, all stabbing people with the big pointy thing on the top. And what will we do when he decides to turn the marble bathtubs into jacuzzis for his many, big haired floozies?

Duffy is the district attorney for Ashland County, where he has been elected four times. He’s also a lumberjack and a three-time 90-foot speed climb champion, an accomplished log-roller and ESPN commentator. He’s also the telegenic father of five with a pregnant wife at home. Duffy and his wife, Rachel Campos-Duffy, are both “Real World” alums.

And don’t get me started on those people’s proclivity to wear viking helmets – - wait. So you kind of buried the part about him being Captain America** between mentions of The Real World. Still married to a chick he met on a show he was on 12 years ago, with 5 1/2 kids, a successful political career, and three very disparate, respectable jobs in the private sector outside of that? A motherfucking lumberjack? Holy shit, can any president since Jefferson even begin to boast that kind of legitimacy? You’re right, he should have thought harder about becoming a C-list celebrity before mutating into the ultimate American. He should have had the forethought to see what idolizing, pandering, scandal-mongers the American public would grow into after 12 years, and how media outlets would play into it to further their own political agendas. His bad. I mean, what viable candidate has ever distorted the concept of “reality” in order to achieve political gains? – -

In a posting on her Facebook page, Sarah Palin [oh, forget I fucking said anything] promoted a fundraiser for Duffy, writing: “On this first anniversary of the stimulus, let’s send a message to the big-spenders in Washington by helping Sean Duffy unseat the author of the stimulus. Let’s put government back on our side and get to work revitalizing America!”

Calm your tits, honey, the cameras are off. Little tip, Duffy, because you have a good Irish name and you seem like a reasonable guy, despite your party affiliation: distance yourself from Palin like MTV from its namesake, because when I get rich, I am going to buy Sarah Palin. I am going to buy her, put her in a clown suit, and build her a podium, with a plaque that says, “Projectile Produce Preferred.” Next to the podium will be a refrigerator with magnetic words like “revitalize” and “Washington” and “our side” and “moose,” and no matter how the magnets are arranged she’ll have to read them in that Hitler-got-kicked-in-the-nuts idiom of hers as dinner entertainment before sleeping in the barn with the dogs. Do you really want that kind of base humanity attached to your burgeoning political career?

Duffy is running for office in Wisconsin’s 7th Congressional District, which stretches from the central to the northern counties of the Badger state.

Why are we even talking about this? He’ll shake some hooves, kiss some calves, and maybe he’ll get elected to represent Farmer Joe and his three beautiful daughters. First order of business, change the mascot from “badger” to “guido.” Demographic: everyone.

*Junior is among my favorite films, a paragon of deliciously absurd comedy, and I do not mention it to slight it, but to offer context. When Aliens land on the scorched, smelly terrain that used to be our home planet, they will find a copy, and know that we were good.

**That link is to the truly astute Worlds As Myth and it’s article on the casting of Captain America for the new film. It ignored my suggestion of Mark Valley, which is the correct answer, but it gets the link anyway. My objection is on record, and that’s enough for me.

(Like most women, way less fun than advertised upon closer inspection)

Welcome to March 2010, nuckas! March is a righteous month, in the parlance of the incomparable 1980s SFNT (Stoner Film and Ninja Turles, same thing really) movement that sought to wrest the term from churches and put in back in the Pizza Hut where it belongs. The obvious centerpiece to the month of awesome is St. Patrick’s Day, which celebrates the removal of snakes from Ireland by a dude with a flute or something by getting shitfaced, which is the only state of mind that the tradition makes any sense. The whole world can be Irish for a day, and the Irish get special dispensation to be uber-Irish, the privileges of which include indecent exposure, kisses for wearing instructional T-shirts, destroying sissy parade floats, and the unlicensed possession and deployment of potato cannons.  March also features the Steak and BJ Day holiday on the 14th, exactly a month after the headache that is Valentine’s Day for boyfriends. Steak and BJ Day could also be titled Man’s Turn or Sweet Justice Hootenanny, and is the perfect way for girlfriends and wives to show their appreciation for having chocolates, jewelery, and (apparently) cell phones thrown at them because a bunch of Christians got eaten by lions some 2,000-odd years ago. Ladies, if your man performed his Hallmark Day duty admirably, fire up the grill and get down on your knees. It’s only fair.

We are also declaring March Twatted Month, in recognition of all the support our fans have provided on the social networking phenomenon that is Twitter (follow SBS here).  This month will celebrate all that has been twatted in the past with occasional updates concerning Twitter, and highlight some of the daily cock-baggery the site seems to pitch like your local gay bar’s celebrity bear. We’ll start with the most disappointing Twitter-related headline I’ve seen all day:

Angie Jackson Live-Tweets Her Abortion (VIDEO) With video!? Talk about cutting edge entertainment! I would so buy the six-dollar Twizzlers with my ticket to that. I don’t know who this Angie Jackson is, but let’s give her the YouTube equivalent of an Emmy, right? That headline is a spoiler-free promise of action and suspense. Does she use the coat hanger or the vacuum? Will there be one of those prostate cameras involved, and will she have one of those spontaneous orgasms I hear so little about because of the unbelievably sexy shame that comes along with it? Is Angie a squirter? Will Bill Murray have a bitchin’ cameo?

Awww, bullshit. I haven’t been this let down since the first time I went to a nude beach with a backpack full of condoms and a baseball cap with a hidden camera in it. The only thing worse than someone who makes up their own self-defining term so their enemies can’t categorize them is someone who misses the point while doing so. Calling yourself an “Anti-theist” is like calling yourself an “anti-ployee”: if you’re so sure you’re not being controlled by your boss, why are you defining yourself with his terms? Because you’re just another useless reactionary that puts her eye shadow on with a putty knife, and is the proof that, indeed, if you keep making that self-satisfied, superior sneer, it will stick that way. I wonder if the medical condition that won’t let you be pregnant is the same one that won’t let you have those mutant, sentient polyps lanced… To be honest, I’m just ranting out of some sense of betrayal. Your cause, demystifying abortion so it’s not a terrifying experience for those in need of it, is a noble one, to be sure. I just feel like your taking RU486 robbed me, personally, of a cinematic extravaganza of sharp implements, battery acid, mutilated nethers, and projectile climaxes of mixed bloody placenta and cum. Next person to video/tweet their back-alley, equally illegal and dangerous hack job depregger gets a prize from me personally.

More Twitfoolery after the jump. Bring provisions, and a box of Magnums, unless you want to do outdo Angie while you’re there. I’ll help.

The next bit of Twitter slow jerk comes from Sea World:

Shamu’s Twitter musings are no more. The suspension of the tweeting killer whale’s Twitter account comes shortly after the death of Sea World trainer Dawn Brancheau, who was drowned by killer whale Tilikum during a SeaWorld show.

What does pretending one killer whale has the capacity for abstract thought and can type with his flippers have to do with another killer whale making like a postal worker and living up to it’s intended purpose from nature? We all had our laughs at the redundant headlines last week, like “Killer Whale Kills Trainer,” and “Seaworld Shill Serves Supervisor Sushi.” But now it’s time to move on, let the healing begin. Why compound the loss of a cetacean slave-driver (sorry, had a few more) with the loss of such hillarious tweets as, “You’d think I’d get a big fat check every month from those guys, but strangely, I don’t. Not even a big king salmon on my birthday”? HA! That’s Jeff Dunham hilarious, how they made the whale say something in people-speak that they would say if they could. Somebody call CBS, this has sitcom written all over it. I can’t tell if the single tear I am currently wiping from my eye is from laughing so hard or the purging of emotion I had pent up for the mangled pile of flesh, bone, and wetsuit that is the trainer.

Finally, we come to John Mayer, the guy that is such a scumbag he had to ruin my praise from last week of his being a scumbag. From Pop Eater:

John Mayer Apologizes for Being ‘Asshole’ in Playboy… “I hate to come off like an asshole ever, and thank you guys for believing that I am not an asshole,” the singer told the crowd at his sold-out Madison Square Garden show in NYC [during the mammoth, earth scorching blizzard Facebook told us all about in minute detail]. “It’s a clean me now, people, clean me.”

Then to prove it, he Twatted after the show:

“MSG crowd, will you tweet me when you get home safe? It’s bad out. Oh, and HOLY SHNIKES [people say that after 1998? - Ed.]. You were unreal tonight”

2-fucking-shay, John Mayer. The Nation of Scumbaggia has only one official law: never, under any circumstances, apologize. When criticized for comparing plowing Jess Simpson to crack cocaine, you don’t say, “Sorry,” you say, “Damned right, and I made her sign a contract that if she wore clothes in my presence, they would be exclusively her Daisy Duke costume.” When under heat for saying the big bad N-word (why is that always capitalized?), you make it a part of your hourly vocabulary. When someone says you shouldn’t have unprotected sex with groupies with the intention of  knocking them up for the hell of it, you show them their own daughter’s recent ultrasound of a fetus already sporting a bong and a douchey haircut. Instead, you flouted that law like it was decent songwriting.

I don’t know if I should hate Mayer or admire him for using the Scumbag Code as toilet paper for his elephant sized, fiber enema-ed ego. Is he being even more of a scumbag by weakening the cause of scumbags everywhere, making him the essential “wild card” in the organization? Or is he just a straight pussy, apologizing and validating his self-righteous* critics’ first-stone hypocrisy? Either way, you’re going to Scumbag Penitentiary, which is meticulously personalized, engineered like Hell and groundings from criminally creative parents who take away the one thing their own kid likes the most. I think I’ll throw you in a room with Courtney Love and Joe Simpson and see who becomes the prison girlfriend to a soundtrack of “Daughters” on repeat. What kind of an example are you setting for all the bastards you’ve deliberately fathered on tour? With that to look up to, the world will be populated with a bunch of effeminate weirdos and wedgie-fodder that were told their whole life the romantic story of how their whore mothers got herpes and their precious bundle of level 28 half-elf ballerina, all in one magical, pot-hazed evening in a Madison Square Garden public rest-room.

*the bad way, this time.

(That means you, bitch. You know who you are. You and your booger-eating spawn.)

February 25

Dear Diary,

Jenny was being a bitch today so I got drunk and taught the kid to replace the word “and” with “cumburger” every time he talks. She thought I was playing army men with him in the sand box, the twit. He’s autistic, what is he going to do, rock them to death? Win a decisive victory with his astonishing statistics skills? God, Cuervo is good, though it is starting to affect my pratfalls. I know nobody is paying me to do those anymore, and my dumbfuck wife says it’s pathetic like air guitar to do it alone, but it’s a hobby I don’t care to give up, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that, when I get a little spastic watching Ace Ventura, that I not gash my melon on the corner of the coffee table. The old lady knew what she was getting into when she bought this sssmokin’ cow, and so did the tequila. Man, remember “smokin’”? I know you do, Diary. You, Jose, and Jeff Daniels are the only friends I have now.

I had to get out of the house today, if only to put some aural distance between me and super-mommy. I thought we could finally get on with our lives after the Lancet finally admitted that bodega medicine man Wakefield was letting his bullshit show to a felonious extent with that autism crap a dozen years ago, and maybe I could go back to making seizure comedies again. Then I see this headline, and my rubbery face twists into a grimace so antithetical to the laws of physics, the rest of my body interpreted it as being late for a round of crippling constipation, and is just about done catching up.

Jenny McCarthy In ‘Time’: I Fixed My Son’s Autism

You might imagine, Diary, the Andy Wakefield news would have made her shrivel up and dissolve like a salt-water doused wicked witch of the slugs, but Jenny is made of heartier imbecility than that. In a way, it’s admirable, not that it makes me want to drink any less. She designed, built, and captained the USS Dummy in some performance art expression of postpartum, and she is determined to go down with it. She’ll have to turn it into a submarine if she wants to keep playing doctor, all curing kids of incurable diseases and putting down the Rubella epidemic she’s trying to unleash. I asked her to play doctor with me, and the cunt didn’t even look at me before reading the part of a medical journal that told her what she wanted to hear and declared me an incurable retard. Hold on, let me take another shot.

She won’t give it up, dude. Every day someone asks Nurse HawthoRNe over there her thoughts on the connection between vaccines and autism, and she says something like, “Come and see our kids. Why won’t the CDC come and talk to the mothers, talk to the families? Then tell us there isn’t a link.” Because the CDC has better shit to do than interview a gaggle of knee-jerk diagnostic hystericals marshaled by an insufferable celebrity who is so devoted to the lie she drags her visibly despondent husband by the scrotes to any event she can wear an airbrushed dress to, despite all evidence to the contrary. Sometimes I envy Matthew Broderick; at least he knew what he was getting into with that banshee, eschewing the attentions of millions of spread legged Ferris Bueller devotees. I think I’ll become an activist against the vaccine directly related to buyer’s remorse.

“Evan couldn’t talk — now he talks. Evan couldn’t make eye contact — now he makes eye contact. Evan was anti-social — now he makes friends.” I didn’t even know that, I had to read it in the article. Great, now he can make eye contact with strangers int he park when he takes his little pecker out and plays with it because everyone lets him since he’s so retarded or whatever. And the little bastard can talk? Then why am I getting him Cheerios when he grunts and kicks me in the shins? I think she taught him to do that, that she’s turning my life into one big Truman Show that ends with me dying regretting I didn’t just do it myself, but she wants me to furnish some “proof.” Here’s proof: you’re an attention hungry castrating psycho who makes up for the fact that her cellulite won’t let you whore it up for the cameras any more, so you have to make up for your lack of talent by being the god of all parenting.

I’ll let you in on a secret, Diary. The kid doesn’t even have autism, and it wasn’t the vaccine that made the baby all cuckoo for claw hands. Jenny was just worried about her cooch stretching, and crushed his head a few thousand times doing these super-kegels she read about in a Susanne Somers grocery store impulse buy book. I have a theory that they’re the same person, because you’d think they’d be bros, having celebrity advice Tourette’s in common, but I have never seen them in the same place. I told Time Magazine, “She’s a mom. That’s what she is. That’s her truth.” So you know, Diary, that’s code for, “At least she’s quiet once a year when she gives me half a beej before giving up because it’s too much work.” Sometimes I wake up and catch her diddling the kid looking for hemorrhoids she can blame on margarine or seesaw paint or something. If there’s one unspoken law in America, it’s that showing your cunt in Playboy is the equivalent of an honorary doctorate.

They’re looking at me all weird for writing in a diary in the bar, and some hairy biker just asked if I fall like a sissy with epilepsy when I get hit in real life too, so I’ll have to put you down now. I’m going to go drink until Morgan Freeman and Horton the Elephant visit me in my happy place.

(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.

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(It’s funny because Alice looked just like Barbie when she decided on her career six months earlier.)

Last week, we gave you the first in our new column, New Sports, in which pissing off Gary Coleman got extreme and fun, and therefore competitive. In this second edition, we move on to a sport that ruins the lives of people who have a right to be short.

Mousetrap: Hopes and Dreams Edition - With each incarnation, Barbie dolls serve to demonstrate to young women just what avenues the feminist movement has opened up for them. Over the decades, Barbie has adopted all kinds of careers and pastimes that were previously considered solely within the realm of men. Don’t want to stay home and cook just to make that sonofabitch happy? Try being a doctor, or go water-skiing, why not? But Barbie’s 126th career is taking to exxxtreme sport levels the trend of glamorizing what women can do to make their daily lives as horrifically mundane as the 9-5 gentleman. I give you: Computer Engineer Barbie.

Computer engineer Barbie, which will be released in winter 2010, sports a geek chic binary code patterned tee (We’d so wear that!) and she comes equipped with everything a modern day geek girl would use. That includes a smartphone, Bluetooth headset, laptop travel bag, and last but not least – a pink laptop. No word on whether it’s a Mac or PC though.

Be honest, would you so wear it ironically, or because you just can’t get enough of the myriad ways ones and zeros can be arranged? This has to be a sport the employees of Mattel are professional level at by now. “Let’s see what we can make girls believe they can maintain their blond hair and pink clothes in perfect shape through.” You’ve got your veterinarian Barbie, who manages to keep a crisp doctor’s jacket and miniskirt pristine while hosing down dirty, hairy dogs with shit-matted fur and fleas, all in preparation to give the thing an intrusive operation that is costing its owner enough to feed Ethiopia for a week. Does she use a pink syringe to put down the hopeless and unloved mongrels, or is that reserved for the cupcake enema bag? Or convincing girls that after the first year of ankle swelling, tumor breeding agony, elementary school teachers continue to pick out matching ABC jumpers and cute horn rimmed glasses, and don’t just thank fucking christ that they can show a VHS and work through the Thursday morning hangover. And does Desert Storm Barbie (I shit you not) come with a pimped out wheel chair, or a pink happy-pill container to hold the prescriptions that Therapist Tiffany (sold seperately) gave her?

Fuck no, because coming up with ways to set up epic adult disillusionment from childhood like some hellish game of Mousetrap from the seventh layer of Drury Lane is just hysterical to them now. If the makers of these dolls had ever left their pink tower filled with carb-free muffin tops and unicorns, and actually met a software engineer, they would know that it pays the bills, but at the cost of any semblance of a social life and, in some cases, sanity. Does Computer Engineer Barbie leave the pink convertible behind for a rusting, tan ‘87 Escort? Or Ken for some hapless Dilbert clone with acne and premature ejaculation because real men like Ken and G.I. Joe like girls whose calves justify the wearing of mini skirts? Do you make the Dead-End Alcoholic Barbie or the subsequent Christian Scientist Psycho (complete with rotting teeth and an outfit for AA)?

The real moment of victory for Mattel employees – their touchdown with a two-point conversion with 20 seconds on the clock – has to be when the girls finish college and, assuming they haven’t adopted the persona of Unshowered Hippie Barbie or Militant Dyke Barbara, they walk into their first place of work decked out in pink down to the scrunchie and panties, and everybody immediately hates them. And they can’t understand it when nobody is impressed that her bedazzled smart phone can find a nail salon in under 10 seconds, or that her binary shirt is both functional and fashionable, and they just want to sit in the bathroom stall and sob and eat Twinkies.  I bet the very sight of a paunch and a receding hairline on a 30 year old woman gives them so much wood they go home and put the beavers in the creek out back out of business.

In the first round ever (debatable) of the new professional sport of playing Mouse Trap with millions of little girls’ futures, I award the sadistic employees of Mattel a win over their tiny consumers, who should start fitting themselves for orthopedic loafers and posture correcting braces now before there’s too much demand. I give the sport as a whole four stars for entertainment, because disillusionment is all I have left for visual pornography. I’ll give it a 5 when Mattel stops trying to be subtle about it and makes Piss Standing Up Barbie (Dream House Set comes with a pink urinal) and No More Periods Barbie (hey, Ken’s back!) so that in 13 odd years we can see a whole female generation of hopes and dreams fall like Goofy off a cliff.