A study has been released stating that breastfeeding lowers mental health risks. Then how come when I try to suckle the teats of a woman on the subway, she calls me crazy? I'm just trying to fight it, lady. Now make with the liquid Prozac.
Rush Limbaugh, right-wing talk show host, drug addict and Heffalump, recently claimed that in a campaign ad for a Missouri senate candidate, Michael J. Fox was acting in portraying his Parkinson's symptoms in order to sway voters to vote for her and her support of stem cell research.
I think it's his best work since Back to the Future 3 when he had to pretend to play an 18-year-old when he was 30.
Finally Rush Limbaugh pulled the curtain back to expose this elaborate ruse for what it truly is. Michael J. Fox has been playing all of us, America and the world, all for his own personal benefit. You know, so he could have charity hockey games to support his foundation and, um, speak to congress about raising money for stem cell research and, um, Back to the Future 4: Stem Cellin' It Up in 2155!
To be fair, Rush Limbaugh has been mistaken about other "politcal ploys" as well. He did downplay September 11th by calling the Twin Towers, "A couple of flimsy buildings that were probably going to fall over anyway. Making buildings that tall goes against science. It's in the Bible."
On November 22, 1963, he claimed that John F. Kennedy had arranged to have a good portion of his head blown off in order to lobby congress to pass strict gun control legislation.
Even with the recent Mark Foley sex scandal, Rush Limbaugh had this to say about the page with whom Mr. Foley was accused of exchanging dirty emails and instant messages. "That 16-year-old boy has delicious, supple, smooth and irresistible balls. No man, gay or straight, could be blamed for wanting to roll them between his fingers. The Democrats want you to believe that there's something wrong with it, but I challenge any of you to get within sniffing distance of that beautiful hairless beanbag and not ask the boy if he has jerked off lately."
I have a conspiracy theory of my own. I believe that there is another faker in our midst. Rush Limbaugh must be exaggerating his own stupidity because there is no way anybody could be that absolutely fucking retarded without putting a whole lot of effort into it.
The End?
(cue Huey Lewis and the News song)
For those of you unfamiliar with her, Fergie is the transvestite singer in the group The Black-Eyed Peas. You can see her (transvestites always like to be referred to using the female pronoun) on the right. She was on the children's television show Kid's Incorporated when she was a young boy and she followed her heart and stayed a performer.
Well, who knew that that young boy would grow up to be such a prolific lyricist? I will go so far as to suggest she is the most talented cross-dressing writer since Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Her latest hit is a song called "London Bridge." Once you view its lyrics, you will not believe my praise to be without warrant.
As I did before with TLC's masterpiece "Unpretty," I will go line by line and let you know what each delicious turn of phrase means.
Oh shit (oh shit)
Oh shit (oh shit)
Oh shit (oh shit)
Immediately, Mr. Fergie is letting everybody know that things are about to "go down" as they (transvestites) say. Even she can't believe what's going to happen and she wrote these words. It is not uncommon for a writer as amazing as she is to be stupefied at her own work. It is one's natural reaction to such genius.
Are you ready for this?
No, ma'am. We are not. The world is not.
Oh shit (oh shit)
Ohhhhh
It’s me, Fergie
The Pimp!
Here she refers to herself as "The Pimp" which is very appropriate. She is about to treat you to sex, lyricized. I came twice already.
Paulo!
Fergie Ferg, what's up, baby?
She's stepping outside of the realm of her transvestite counterpart, "Fergie Ferg," here and she's channeling her male side, "Paulo." He's saying hello to Fergie to let you know that this song is about him as a woman.
[Verse 1]
When I come to the club, step aside.
Part the seas, don’t be havin' me in the line.
V.I.P., ‘cause you know I gotta shine.
I’m Fergie Ferg, and me love you long time
"Me love you long time" is a well-known phrase from Full Metal Jacket. The line comes from a Vietnamese prostitute. Here, Fergie is playing the role of the Vietnamese prostitute only with a twist. She's not Vietnamese and there's a good chance she doesn't actually have a functional vagina. She may have one of those inside-outsies, but not one with an actual pulse. When she says "Part the seas," that's a euphemism for the creation of her new lady hole.
All my girls get down on the floor,
Back to back, drop it down real low.
What is "it" here? Well, most scholars say that "it" is up to you to figure out, but I contend that "it" actually refers to your expectations for all music after you hear this song: the pinnacle of modern storytelling. In fact, normally I wouldn't do this, but I need you to prepare yourself for the next line. I am not one who uses hyperbole, so when I say that the next line is the single-greatest chaining together of words in this, or any, language since the creation of existence of life as we know it, understand that I mean exactly that.
I’m such a lady, but I’m dancing like a ho,
This is the reason I got into the business of deconstructing poetry. It's like the guy who hunts the Loch Ness monster finally sees Nessie, but not only does he see her, but he totally bones her and gets it all on video. This line is my sex with a mythical Scottish aqua-dinosaur. My previous sentence is now the second-greatest line in human existence next to that which I am discussing right now.
This lyric is the crux of the entire dichotomy of man as we know it. It's like, she's describing the struggle of women in society with these ten words. Not even women, really. Men can relate to it as well. We all have these two sides of our character that we maintain. We have one side we portray to others, and then there's the private side. Oh, my dear, sweet Dutchess. You have hit the nail on the head here. Aren't we all "such ladies, but dancing like hoes?" Aren't we all?
‘Cause you know
I don’t give a fuck, so here we go!
Here, Mr. Ferguson snaps us back into reality. Well, the reality which she portrays. She states that she "don't give a fuck," but with that previous line, we all know the truth. She indeed "do give a fuck." This, as they (vesties) say, is "frontin'."
[Chorus]
How come everytime you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…
How come everytime you come around,
My London, London bridge, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, wanna go down like,
London, London, London, we goin’ down like…
Sure, maybe that all seems like gibberish to the untrained eye/ear/however you're receiving this information. But, when somebody with a PhD in Poetry from Cambridge like myself reads it, I see brilliance.
What is her London Bridge? This is the question on everybody's mind. I contend, and I will to my dying day, that her London Bridge is a metaphor for her ability to have her spirit compromised in a male-driven society. Well, it's either that or she's going to take it in the ass. I'm 50/50 on it.
There is much more to this song, but I dare not tackle it all in one sitting. Mayhaps I'll revisit it, but people write Master's theses on less.
That's right, theses. Oh shit (oh shit).
There's been a lot of speculation recently that Illinois Senator Barak Obama may run for President of the United States of America and half of Guam come 2008.
Now, I don't know much about him, but I do know the platform on which he is running: Having an awesome name.
It worked for Millard Fillmore and Rutherford B. Hayes, why can't it work for Barak Obama?
That's why, as a gift for other potential Presidential candidates, I'm going to present to you a list of names you can adopt for your own campaign.
Sorry about the vague title.
I know that normally Congressmen, Senators, Governors and other public servants wear coats and ties to work (or, for the ladies, lycra bodysuits), but I'm hoping to start a trend on casual Fridays with my newest political t-shirt designs. There is at least one of these that I actually want to make into a shirt.
If you want to order any of these, contact me and I'll take your money.
Being October, it's only appropriate that I touch on the subject that "haunts" most people's minds this time of year (see how I did that? That's schooling): ghosts.
I've mentioned before how ghosts can't exist because of the fact that there are no retarded ghosts. But, let's say that somebody did manage to meet a retarded ghost and my theory is disproven. Well, then it's time to do something for them--namely, MAKEOVER!
Every time you ever hear somebody describe a ghost encounter, it's always the same. Man or woman (or little girl--there are no little boy ghosts), they're all dressed the same way: in Victorian clothing.
"It was an old woman, she was right over there. She was in all white and a corset and she was carrying a victrola and she was rubbing Dr. Goodbody's One in a Million Lucky Fortune Juice on her elbows."
"All I know is that he was standing on those stairs. He had a long, handlebar mustache, a stovepipe hat and was on one of those fat burning machines with the belt that just kind of violently jerks you around. It made his monocle fall out."
What the hell did ghosts look like IN the Victorian era?
"I say, I believe I saw a phantasm, Clarence. She was adorned in black clothing with buckles all about. In fact, she had a buckle on her hat as though it were going to fall off if it wasn't fastened on. Oh, and she was handing an Injun a blanket covered in small pox and yelling in a very scary tone, 'Happy Thanksgiving!'"
If I ever meet a ghost, I'm taking it to Abercrombie & Fitch. If I'm going to be haunted, I'm going to be haunted by the gayest ghost in existence. He won't even say, "Boo." He'll just hiss and make catty comments.
"Nice hair. Oh, nothing. Don't mind me. Did I say that out loud? I just couldn't help it. Umm, hello? 1984 called and the bad guy from Karate Kid wants his feather back. Ugh. Are you scared yet? My legs are tired."
I was having a conversation with somebody at work today over Instant Messenger (because that's the only way I have conversations now--Instant Messenger and telegraph) and I realized that there are a lot of things that I want to make happen at some point in my life.
For instance, I'm sitting with a group of people outside a Starbucks and they're having a conversation and I'm just sitting there silent--"Too silent," the survivors would later say to authorities. So, they're talking about how that new show Heroes is pretty good and somebody else is disagreeing saying it's too derivative of Lost. Well, at that point, it's time. I cry to the heavens, "Release the lions!" and bursting through the glass from inside the Starbucks come two full-grown lions who haven't eaten in a week. They both pause and shake glass from their luxurious manes and let out roars that would make the MGM lion quake in his golden frame or whatever that is that his head is in.
I throw my grappling hook (which I also completely need to own and carry with me on a regular basis) to the roof just as I yell for the ferocious animals to come forth and I make a hasty retreat before I am mauled like my former friends.
I would fake friendship with somebody for up to five years if I was promised that, at the end of that five years, I would be able to have this happen. Just a note to those with whom I've been friends for less than five years: You would probably be better off not handling large quantities of raw meat before hanging out with me. Fair warning.
And you all can rest assured knowing that there are plenty more ideas like this where this one came from (the greatest part of my brain: my mind).
Also, one more unrelated thing. I want to thank my friend Ryan for making me the spiffy new banner you all see up top. It only cost me $1,500; it was worth every penny.
In a recent statement by White House spokesman Tony Snow, he has made it abundantly clear that the current President, George W. Bush, is not to be held responsible for the shortage of the delicious dessert on White House property.
"Taft had a notorious soft spot for pudding and neither him nor his staff did anything to rectify the situation. Where were you all 95 years ago when it first became a problem?"
Members of the Senate backed up Mr. Snow's statement. John McCain had this to say on the floor earlier today: "Pudding? You all want pudding? I wanted pudding in Nam when they were sticking bamboo chutes in my fingernails trying to get information from me. The only thing I could think of the entire time? Fucking Taft."
Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert, a man who has obviously seen his share of pudding, had a comment on the situation as well. "Our current administration cannot be held responsible for its refrigeratory actions. They did everything in their power to prevent the pudding shortage, but, let's face it, the deficit left by Taft is too great for any one or 16 subsequent administrations to overcome."
John Edward, the world-famous medium, not to be confused with the former presidential and vice-presidential candidate and Tiger Beat cover boy John Edwards, was asked for his assistance in contacting Taft's Chief of Staff. This is what Mr. Edward said: "I'm getting somebody. His first name, I think it starts with a J or an L or a Q or the number 7. Does that sound familiar? He's sending roses. That means he's showing you his love. He wants me to tell you that he is sorry about the bathtub. I don't know what that means; he just wants me to say that. He also wants me to let you know that--wow, he was stubborn, wasn't he? It's like he's pulling me like, 'Listen to me.' Oh, Taft's chief of staff wasn't like that in life? Well, in death that side of him is really coming out. That happens sometimes. Sometimes they're one way when they're alive and then, when they're dead, they're like a completely different person. It's so weird. Anyway, he also wants me to let you know that it's not Taft's fault. He says Grover Cleveland started it. And, oh, wait. Grover Cleveland is coming through now and he says it wasn't him. It was Millard Fillmore. Oh, wait. Millard Fillmore's here now and he's blaming it on George Washington. Things are getting crowded I--now George Washington is here. All he's saying is, 'Fucking Indians.'"
I posted this a couple of days ago, and then felt like it may not be funny. But, after hearing from a couple of people, I'm putting it back up. You only have yourselves to blame.
So, here's a video I made. I was inspired by all the other videos on YouTube of guys on their couch playing their guitar, except mine gets me so laid. I'll probably make other videos in the future if I feel like boring everybody again! Watch all the way until the end when you get the surprise twist!
You have a month to assemble the supplies; I have a month to repent for my sins.
Let's begin.
The stingray that killed Steve Irwin
What you need:
I thought long and hard, no pun intended, about that title. You bastards better appreciate it.
If you haven't heard by now, there's been a big to-do in DC about this Republican Congressman, Mark Foley, and the filthy instant messages he has sent to teenage boys who worked as congressional pages.
I was watching Scarborough Country tonight on MSNBC because I do everthing to the extreme, and he said the following: "[You should] expect the party of Foley to take a pounding at the polls."
Now, say that out loud. Now, think about the context. Needless to say, I rewound my TiVo numerous times and did a little pole-pounding while thinking of the hilarity in that statement.
Also, Foley has now checked himself into rehab for alcoholism. I didn't know alcohol was so bad, but apparently it is. I mean, first it makes Mel Gibson hate Jews, then, it's apparently what had been making Robin Williams not funny for the past 20 plus years, and now it makes old white dudes love young balls. This whole time I thought it was just the hairless innocence. Who knew it was Wild Turkey and Diet Coke?
There's a new Tickle Me Elmo doll on the market and it's taking the world by storm. Its name? TMX. No. He's not a new, blinged-out, off-the-chain version of the old Elmo you're used to. He doesn't have mad rhymes and carry a gat as his name might suggest. TMX stands for Tickle Me Elmo Extreme which doesn't make sense at all. They should call it TMEE or TMEX or nothing at all!
I don't get what's so extreme about it. A guy at my work has one and showed it to a few of us today and, while it made me laugh (yes, my cold, dead heart laughed at a giggling red robot doll), it did not live up to the hype that its name promised me.
I was hoping it would soar across the room on the back of a winged, flying lion on a snowboard while some Limp Bizkit or equally shitty music played. I just wanted something extreme to happen. I had fantasies that, when you prompted him to laugh, he'd turn and beat the shit out of you while screaming, "Who's laughing now?" Maybe the people at Sesame Street got their hands on some proprietary technology that causes Elmo to grow to EXTREME sizes and storm the halls of your work carrying a stapler menacingly asking for your boss and his balls to report to him immediately.
No. Instead, it laughs and falls down. You know what else laughs and falls down? Retarded kids, people with MS and the elderly. And you don't have to wait in line for any of those. You just need to know which wing of the hospital to hang out in. I'm just saying, if store shelves are empty this Holiday season and you can't find the TMX doll you want, all you need to do is bring your son or daughter to the local sick ward armed with a can of red paint and a DVD of White Chicks.
