Friday, June 27, 2008

Sodomites! Caught Right In a Sex Orgy!


Taking a break from his full schedule of hot, dripping, steamy, anonymous man sex in airports, gas stations, truck stops, all-u-can-eat Crab Shacks, public parks, the library, petting zoos, and various McDonalds, our friendly senator from Idaho is working hard to make a difference in the world.

Wresting himself from the sticky, yellowed floor of that awkward gloryhole in Discreet Openings Adult Books n Things long enough to show the world just how big of a closeted jackass hypocrite he actually is, card-carrying sodomite Larry Craig - yes, the one busted recently for attempting to engage in hot man-on-man action with an undercover policeman in a god damn airport terminal - is co-sponsoring the inane waste of time known as "The Marriage Protection Amendment." That is correct - yet another attempt to make it a VIOLATION OF THE CONSTITUTION for gay American Citizens to share the rights of every other person in this fucking country.

Excuse me, but how dumb does this turkey think we are?

Miss Thing, please - you crave cock. Big deal. Lots of people do. You got busted in your craving of cock, so just fess up already.

If you would just admit to the world that your marriage and political life have been spent in an inane attempt to cover up your lustful desires for the musky scent of man, then you'd be a lot happier and you'd stop trying to fuck with the rights of people who got over caring about being gay a long time ago, you jealous pile of shit.

It's an easy step to take, really.

Here's what you do.

Inhale, and then say, "I am gay."

Bam! You're done. No one is going to care - actually, less people will hate you if you would just come out of the closet already.

As it stands, you're allowing your stupid inability to live with yourself to screw with the lives and happiness of hundreds of thousands of people. So stop being a loser and just deal with the fact that you are a limp-wristed faggot. YOU ARE A FAG.

As for the co-sponsor - one Senator David Vitter from Louisiana - he's got his own marital issues. Does he crave cock? No, he doesn't.

He DOES, however, dip into extramarital slots. And he pays for those slots. That's right - prostitutes.

In July of 2007, Vitter was identified as a client of a prostitution firm owned by the late Deborah Jeane Palfrey, commonly known as The DC Madam.


Top that off with the fact that he's a smug, anti-abortion, creationist, anti-gay, global warming-denying jackass, and you've got one stupid fuck on your hands.

So, one of these assholes is trying to make it a violation of the Constitution of the United States for his own people to get married, and the other one is an idiot who wants to "defend" marriage that he can't even honor in his own smug, boring little Louisiana relationship.

And yet again I am forced to ask this question - WHY DO YOU CARE? Someone tell me why you people care if the gays get married. Timmy and Biff having a legal, binding agreement isn't gonna do fuck to your mini-van driving, shop at CostCo for Juicy-Juice and bulk mayonnaise marriage, so why don't you just fuck the fuck OFF already and leave us alone.

I have a feeling this is a question I'm going to be asking a lot over the next several months, what with these dipshit Christians foaming at the mouth over this stupid non-issue.

Damn, I have HAD IT with you people.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Arne Saknessumm Is Rolling In His Grave.


Y'all - Hollywood doesn't give a fuck about you.

No, I am not going to go off on the idiotic pile of basura that is The Love Guru - most reviewers have done ample enough job of that already.

I am, however, going to foam at the mouth about the upcoming remake of Jules Verne's classic, Journey To the Center of the Earth.

First of all, what is with all of these god damn remakes these days? One after another they come, and it is proven more and more impressively with each release that Hollywood cannot - never will - improve on the original. So why do they keep trying? Is it that they no longer have any creative ideas at all? Is it that they're no longer willing to take risks? Is it that they think (and are most likely correct in their thinking) that the American public is so dumbed down by reality television and the proliferation of cable that we're willing to watch just about anything?

Perhaps it's all of the above.

What I DO know for sure is that Journey To the Center of the Earth, a classic science fiction tale that was turned into a classic science fiction film starring Pat Boone, James Mason, Peter Ronson (check out the GAMS on that bastard) and Gertrude the Duck, has been made into a purulent pile of crap film (in 3-D, even, as if that could save it) starring Encino Man himself, Brendan Fraser.

Now, I'm all for movies in which dinosaurs eat people. As far as I'm concerned, most people are self-absorbed asswipes who DESERVE to be eaten by dinosaurs. Get rid of them, I say, and let the rest of the planet go about its business.

BUT, I take intense issue with several points of this film. First, it is clear from its trailer that it is going for gags and laughs, which really just shouldn't happen when remaking this story. It's not a funny story - it's a tale of wondrous discovery and perhaps a lesson that some places are better left unexplored, untainted by the black death that is the touch of man.

More importantly, however, I take issue with the Tyrannosaurus that appears in the film. YES. A tyrannosaurus. Sure, every movie that came out after Jurassic Park that could possibly cram a Tyrannosaurus into its storyline did it, and rightfully so. Tyrannosauruses are 100% badass motherfuckers, and should be exploited in every possible situation.

My issue arises from the fact that every single person responsible for the creation of this film - basically everyone from the modelers, research assistants, coffee delivery boys, executive vice president in charge of marketing, computer animation designers - EVERYONE - is guilty of archeological rape.

Because that's how many people had to allow a Tyrannosaurus to get into a movie and have three claws on each of its hands.

Picture it - I'm walking down West Third Street on the way to Integral Yoga in order to purchase one of those so-called slip guard thingies to drape over my yoga mat so I don't twist my knee or ankle in a puddle of my own sweat, when I see a poster for this already 100% gaywad movie on the side of a telephone booth. "SEE IT IN 3-D!" the pernicious poster boasts, and then I look at the dinosaur. Turning red with rage, I storm off to the yoga store, vowing to destroy each and every dipshit responsible for this blight.

Really. How many hundreds of complete skeletons, films, drawings, books, websites, did these assholes have to actively ignore to not realize that Tyrannosauruses have not three, not four, not five, but two - yes, TWO - claws on each of their hands?

This egregious error says one thing to me - these people don't give a fuck about anything at all but making money.

"Big deal, it's just one claw," you may say, as some of my coworkers did recently when I pointed out this very error in a book we published on the subject.

But - it is. Yes, it is a big deal. Children ingest this sort of information. Remembering that a Tyrannosaurus has two very tiny, very ineffectual claws on its retarded midget arms is EXACTLY the sort of fact kids love to retain and spread around, showing their expertise in what some people might consider to be arcane or useless areas of knowledge.

I knew this when I was five years old. I used to sit around and draw Tyrannosauruses obsessively, painstakingly noting that each and every one of them had two claws on each of its arms. Oh you think I'm joking? Ask my mom.

Hollywood's strident disregard for just this sort of fact is part of the reason we're devolving right this very moment into a species of drooling morons, incapable of action without cellphone and Starbuck's Iced Frappaccino in hand, waddling from one chain store to the next in a vapid haze.

First we had diurnal aye-ayes in Madagascar, and now we've got three-clawed Tyrannosaurs in this stool sample of a film.

Education is key. Hollywood is ass.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

The Moral Fabric of the Universe Is In Jeopardy!


Gay Bonobos will steal your children - Jesus said so.

Why do I have to keep stressing this to you people?

AMERICA IS NOT A CHRISTIAN NATION.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
Yes, y'all.

That is from the Constitution of the United States. The First Amendment, as a matter of fact.

Why am I bloviating about this yet again? It's simple. I'm fed up with radical jackass Christians trying to claim this country as their own, forcing their bland, narrow views on everyone as if they and they alone hold the keys to what one can and cannot do in life.

Here's what I have to say to all y'all ignorant, hyper-conservative cretins up in this piece - fuck off. All right? Just fuck off. I am fed up with you people - you ruin everything. EVERYTHING.

As most of you know, yesterday was the first day that the gays were allowed to be married legally in the state of California. They tried it once before, but the Mayor of San Francisco was shot down after a gallant effort to allow the gays to enjoy the same rights as everyone else up in here.

It was an exciting time, watching those gays in their tuxes (men AND women) and gowns (again, men AND women - those gays are kooky!), thinking they were acknowledging their love for one another legally and ceremonially, only to be shot down by a bunch of stupid fuck Christians who claim "gay marriage will put an end to the American 'family.'"

That was 2004. Now we're in 2008 and California has become the second state in this allegedly 'free' country to allow the gays to marry.

Fundamentalist dipshits are ululating everywhere that gay marriage marks the beginning of the end, that Jesus Christ himself is going to swoop down from heaven in a chariot of fire and purge the earth of the deadly sodomites once and for all, bringing peace and tranquility to a group of people who look as if they have one functioning brain to share between all of them - one that's functioning marginally above retardation.

And some are, of course, protesting the entire thing, acting like complete fools. Watch the video of what is CLEARLY a closeted fag screaming at some lesbians who are getting married. His gaiety is very obvious when being interviewed.

Miss Thing, give it a rest.

Here's my question to all of you "Christian" morons - it's one I've posed before, but once again it is a timely question. Are you ready? See if you can answer it rationally without quoting passages from a book that was written over a thousand years ago and is open to any interpretation one could possibly give it.

I don't want to hear, "Because it's in the Bible." I don't want to read, "Because Leviticus says so. It's right there in Leviticus!" Because I can tell you right now, that if y'all were following all of the rules laid forth in Leviticus, your lives would be so regimented and strict that you wouldn't have TIME to protest gay marriage.

Try to answer this question without mentioning the words "God" or "Jesus" or "evil."

You ready? Here it is:

What business is it of yours who other people fall in love with or sleep with?

Does the fact that Trixie in Rancho Cucamonga likes to caress the netherlips of another woman or that Bill in Kissimmee is right now rimming his partner of 24 years have any effect on your existence?

They own houses together, they shop, they eat, they sleep, they do all the same shit you do, just a little less stupidly.

So answer my question. What is it your business?

And this whole "It's against God's will" shit is just that - shit. Take a look at the animal kingdom. Elephants lap at each other's vaginas. So do cows, chickens, turtles, penguins, beavers, ostriches, tarantulas, marmosets, and dolphins.

Bonobos have recreational gay sex whenever they want to. They are a bonafied bisexual species. If it's sitting there and they're horny, they'll fuck it. So why hasn't God struck down the sodomite monkeys? Why didn't God send a curse down on those two faggot penguins in the Central Park Zoo who raised a child together?

Well, it could be that a) He doesn't exist, or b) your interpretation of His words is just plain wrong. None of us knows the answer to that question, and those who claim to are fools.

So. moronic Christians - back the fuck up off our shit and let the gays get married. The fabric of your dreary "morality" is not going to decay. We don't recruit, and there certainly are a hell of a lot more of you than there are of us.

Friday, June 13, 2008

My Life As a Garbage Man, Part V


I had been struggling with my sanity for about two months.

After my brief stint as an actual garbageman, I was trapped in Sanitation Limbo, my supervisor having decided I was better off staying in the office. He refused to place me back on "active duty," no matter how many times I or anyone else fell prostrate at his feet begging him to release me from the figurative shackles he had placed around my ankles. I was tethered to that faux-wood paneled shame barn they used as an office... I was at this sick midget's mercy.

I had lost faith that I would gain any further experience beyond the art of mopping, moping and hiding.

My times out on the rear-loader trucks had, aside from the first misadventure, been exciting unlike any job I had ever had before or have had since, and I wanted in on more of that adrenaline-rush action.

Action like the first time I encountered a real, live cockroach on the job.

Picture it - Clearwater, Florida, summer 1989. I'm on the back of a garbage truck and the driver pulls up next to an enormous pile of tree limbs, cut and piled neatly at the curb.

My partner and I start to pick them up and throw them in the back of the truck. I'm feeling particularly butch because I'm managing bigger and bigger loads of branches at a time due to the "roll and lift" method a garbageman named Smiley had taught me a few weeks earlier ("roll and lift" - it's like rolling up a yoga mat, only you're doing it with tree branches. It works specifically because the branches tangle into one another, then you shove your arms through the pile and lift what, to the uninitiated eye, looks like a mammoth-sized load, one only a supreme being could maneuver from the ground to the back of the truck), and I've got my biggest collection yet in my arms. I'm waddling to the truck to throw this debris into its rightful place when I feel the unmistakable ticklings of a roach climbing up my arm and into my shirt sleeve.

"OH MY GOD!" I shriek like a five year old girl, limp-wristedly tossing the pile of branches to the ground and dancing around like a drama club reject attending the Rocky Horror Picture Show for the 900th time. "It's a fucking roach! It's a roach!"

I glance over to see my coworker looking at me like I'm the biggest idiot in the world.

"Child, please," he says, going back to the pile.

I realize what a complete jackass I've just made of myself and regain whatever composure is possible at this point.
Or the first and only time I ever actually saw someone follow the "It's a great job, and ALL YOU CAN EAT" rule.

Picture it - a devastatingly hot summer day, the kind you can only experience in the deep South. Going outside and breathing fills your lungs with such dense, pungent humidity that you almost feel as if you're drowning. The unrelenting sun beats down on your sweat-drenched skin with the ferocity of Satan himself.

The trash route that I'm on - well, it's a labyrinthine hell of middle class homes, all of whose owners have decided to do serious lawn and interior work at the exact same time, placing multiple bags of disgustingly wet lawn clippings and mounds of broken furniture, appliances, and any other form of annoyingly bulky crap out on the sidewalk. Each and every house has a pile, one seemingly larger than the next, and there is no end in sight.

We pull up to a house that has several trash cans in front, each stuffed to overflowing with grass clippings. My coworker lifts the lid off one and jams his arm down into it, appearing to have a preternatural ability to sense hidden treasures.

After much rooting, dumping stinky, horrific grass clippings all over the ground, he pulls out an aged box of chocolates, rips the lid off and begins gnawing the tainted goodies with the fervor of a lion who's just captured a gazelle.

"You want one?" he asks, thrusting the soggy box at me. I peer in and see several chocolates, so old that their once rich brown tone has bleached to a sad, pathetic off-white.

"No thank you," I say politely, dumping clippings into the truck and trying very, very valiantly not to vomit.
Aside from those few wondrous moments, I had been trapped in the office with the Jesus Freak refusing my entreaties to do something - ANYTHING - that would keep me from stabbing my eyes out from sheer and complete boredom.

Then one day, it all changed. The standoffish driver I had worked with on the garbage run was in a tricky situation - his regular worker, the ex-con who had treated me so poorly on my one and only jaunt into the wilderness of garbage, was out sick and everyone else was assigned already. He needed help, or that garbage wouldn't get picked up!

My supervisor turned to me. "You think you're up for it, Mike?" he asked. "Ben, it's Ben," I told him. He said, "Okay," and wrote "Mike" down on his pad under the driver's name. Asshole.

I was petrified. This driver was the wise man of the divison, sitting in the corner of the break room oh so quietly, observing his surroundings with the satisfied look of an omniscient being overseeing his creation.

He didn't like having his routine messed with. I was, to him, an inconvenience - in his one previous experience with me, he had been witness to the awkward fumblings of a fish out of water as I stumbled, barely managed to lift full garbage cans, and acted like a general jackass.

This time was going to be different, though - this time, it was just going to be him, me, and a whole lot of garbage. He knew his day was going to be long, difficult and more work than he was used to doing.

He grunted his disapproval, pointed at me and walked out the door toward his truck, chewing the acrid nub of his cigar as if he were receiving important nutrients from its blackened, moist tip.

We drove in silence to the start of the dreaded garbage run. We turned onto the first street, lined with homes built so close together they could very easily have been one building, each with two or three cans of garbage at the curb.

Saying nothing, not a word, he stopped. I got out and went to the first house, hefting can after can over my head and into the truck. I ran from one house to the next, hurling cans into the packer, tipping their noxious contents out and flinging them back to their respective lawns.

I never faltered.

I zoomed through that garbage run as if I were Popeye after eating a can of spinach. The entire route went like this, even the cul-de-sacs I had had recurring nightmares about since the last go-round.

As a matter of fact, we finished early - something we had not managed to do the last time when I had been working with a partner.

He bought me a soda. That was my way of knowing that I had passed inspection, that I was actually a garbageman.

When we pulled in to the sanitation yard, the driver told my incredulous supervisor what a good job I had done. "Well, Mike, you finally did it," the barrel-chested gnome wheezed through the thick smoke of his Kool 100.

After passing this test of skill, I went out daily, and my true journey into the wonderful world of Sanitation had begun.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Q: What's the difference between Fox News and some Number Twos?

A: Nothing.

An alert reader just forwarded to me a post from salon.com which horrifies me to the very core of my being.

Now, all y'all know that the term "baby mama" makes me want to set fire to the earth. I hate it - I hate it more than just about any term that has ever been invented. It sends chills of misery down my spine. It embodies, to me, the complete and final disintegration of humanity's ability to claim the title "highest primate."

Its acceptance into the vernacular is so widespread and insidious that journalists, in sad attempts to appear trendy, are using it in their gossip columns. It's so popular that Tina Fey, whose judgment is usually impeccable, starred in a movie named - you guessed it - Baby Mama. (Thanks to a reader for pointing out my EGREGIOUS error when I stated that Tina Fey wrote that film. At least she has SOME judgment.)

Just typing it makes me want to vomit. Just seeing those words in combination, grammatical errors and all, makes me want to rake my eyes out. Destroying my sight would do no good, however, because the collective stupidity encapsulated in those two sad, horrifying words has been branded on my brain with an iron heated by the very flames of Hell itself.

"Baby mama." It's trashy. It's stupid. It's grammatically improper. It's just plain ugly.

And now, it's racist.

Leave it to Fox News. Here's an image:


Insulting on about 900 different levels.

  • "Baby mama" conjures an image of a fat, stupid tramp who has been impregnated by someone who, most likely, is "baby daddy" with several other women

  • Fox News - you're talking about a Senator's wife here. She's campaigning in a Presidential election, not a reality tv program. Show some fucking tact.

  • Referring to Michelle Obama as "baby mama" - I doubt very highly that you would use the same term in reference to withered, brainless war monger John McCain's pill-popping wife. As a matter of fact, I'm sure the thought would never cross your minds. Racism, plain and simple.

  • What ever happened to impartial news? What ever happened to reporting what's going on, without letting geriatric pigfuck Rupert Murdoch's opinions taint everything?

  • "Baby Mama" - ew. EW. Fox News - just plain fuck off. I mean it. That is so gross.


  • I hate Fox News. I've always hated Fox News. They're incendiary and have dumbed down news reporting to the point that if we were ever to get back to a place where news were actually reported without being sprinkled by conservative opinion, cutesy chatter between the anchors, and placing jackass entertainment pieces about "American Idol Tragedy" and "Oops, She Did It Again" before REAL news - well, I just don't think people would be able to handle it.

    Fuck all y'all.

    Monday, June 2, 2008

    Om shanti, shanti, shanti. Namaste.


    How can I be expected to be yogic when I live in a city populated by thugs, nincompoops, twits, twats, fatasses, poltroons, prostitutes, swamp dwellers, farmhands, clergymen, pseudo-aesthetes, marmosets, douchebags, hipsters, cretins, slots, gobs, asswipes, turds, eurotrash, skanks, nits, sluts, assholes, bloviators, gibbons, posturing fudgetunnels, lethargists, fast-food enthusiasts, trend-hoppers, clabber puddles, ringworm, farts, upwardly mobile shitsmears, people with god damn babies, "foodies," and accountants?

    Picture it - two weeks ago I was walking back from Perelandra in Brooklyn Heights where I had purchased the necessary comestibles to whip up a batch of a) chocolate chocolate chip cookies with homemade vegan white chocolate chunks and b) my signature chocolate chip cookies, all in honor of a particular former denizen of St. Petersburg named Jake.

    My sacks overflowing with vegan products, I stood at the corner of Smith Street and Fulton Mall - also known as the River Styx - and waited for the light to change so I could cross in as safely a manner as possible these days, when I looked over and noticed a porcine teen "rocking out" to her portable mp3 device. Without acknowledging my existence, she turned toward me and hocked what looked like five noses-full of snot onto the ground approximately three inches away from my left foot.

    "Jesus!" I exclaimed as loudly as possible, but Fatts McGillicuddy could not hear me through whatever Amy Winehouse-esque crap she was grooving to get down to. Then, and I am NOT making this up - she reached into her bra, pulled out a capless bottle of perfume, sprayed herself liberally, and crossed against the light.

    "Surely that's an isolated incident," you may say to yourself. But you'd be wrong.

    Picture it - Today I'm on the B train attempting to get home with whatever's left of my sanity after forcing my way through hordes of idiots wandering the streets of SoHo like zombies. After purchasing items they could buy in their hometowns for much less, they entertain themselves by drifting along the sidewalks making stops to answer their cell phones, light cigarettes, check maps, or point and say jackass things like "There's the Apple Store!" so often and so selfishly that one begins to feel as if one is a mouse attempting to navigate a particularly intense laboratory maze in search of fromage.

    I'm finally calm and leaning against a window listening to "Mountain Song" by Jane's Addiction and attempting to do some preliminary pranayama for my 6:30 yoga session.

    Then the train stops at Dekalb Avenue - my stop - and I squeeze past two teenaged asswipes who are adding to their already sizeable girth by guzzling Coca-Cola and gnawing on Sour Patch Kids while butchering the English language with the abandon of an unsupervised child ripping through Toys-R-Us.

    I think I'm free, finally able to perambulate DeKalb Avenue and get to the safety of my apartment - but the train doors are still open. I look just in time to see a stumpy little fuckdump LEAN OUT OF THE TRAIN and spit his gum directly onto the subway platform, approximately .6 inches away from my right boot.

    "FUCK!" I exclaim, alarming the subway car's entire passenger base, while shooting one of my signature Death Glares© at the offending offal. The dump who spat out his chewed cud onto the platform sheepishly apologizes, but really - why should I have to suffer through an apology for this sort of offense to begin with?

    It's not like we were at a baseball game. We weren't "down home."

    I am in a supposedly civilized city - the alleged epicenter of intellectualism in the known world. And this midget dick is spitting his gum onto the god damn subway platform.

    We are devolving at an alarming rate and I for one won't stand for it. Y'all buttfucks up in this piece need to re-learn some manners, and I mean posthaste. The next turkey who spits on me is going to get punched the fuck out.