NAWBLA Newsletter, Dept.



Well, as ol' Gomer Pyle used to say, Sha-zam! Who says there are no second acts in American lives? Mary Kay Letorneau, America's Most Beloved Pedophile™, is getting work. Some of you may recall that MK made headlines back in '97 when the then-34-year-old married mother of four and elementary school teacher was arrested for boning one of her 12-year-old students. She was preggers with her toy boy's first child when she was arrested. She pleaded guilty to child rape and was sentenced to 7½ years in prison, with all but six months suspended. Talk about recidivisim, within weeks of leaving pokey, she was caught playing hide the salam' with Skeezix in her car and ordered to serve the remainder of her sentence. She was, of course, preg again and gave birth to their second child while in lockup.

Parenthetically, just in case you might be wondering how far the fruit fell from the tree here, MK's daddy, John G. Schmitz, was apparently a politico and hyperconservative loon of the first water (sample 1981 press release: "Senator Schmitz and His Committee Survive Attack of the Bulldykes"; I mean, when the John Birch Society expels you for "extremism," you know you're on the bleeding edge of batshit.). Catholic Marine Corps lieutentant colonel who banged two babies out of some GOP volunteer who, of course, was not his wedded wife.

Anyhoo, it appears that MK's studminimuffin is now aspiring to become a DJ; thus, this awesomely tasteful event. Now, reader commentary at the preceding link identifies what I would think to be the salient problem with this situation, and I quote: Ever wonder what would have happened if the teacher was Gary K. Letourneau and the student was female? What a double standard! Precisely. Kall me krazy, but I don't think that "DJ Headline"'s gig hosted by Father Flotsky, his spiritual adviser and former ass-splitter, would be entirely free of howling, pitchfork-bearing mobs.

It's like my daddy used to say to me when I was knee-high in grasshoppers (I had sworn off Sazeracs): "Leetel sobseester, een America, you can be anytheeng you wanna be, especially eef you are a semi-hot woman eenvolved een a sex crime." I don't know why he would impersonate Peter Lorre whenever he spoke with me, but that was mah daddy.

Now, I do not believe the blonde bimba in the above pic is MK herself. Here, in fact, is a pic of MK and her rape victim loving hubby bookended by two Rhodes scholars:



Awww, ain't that puh-recious? I can just imagine, years from now, the scene at the Thanksgiving table:

-Gran'ma, how'd you an' Gran'pa meet?
-Well, little Tiffanee, back then I was married and had four little babies to take care of, just like you. But I was also criminally insane, so I fucked one of my boy students repeatedly until he put a baby of his own in my tummy. Now, who wants some more smashed potatoes?

It kinda gets ya...right here.

Now on Your Newsstands, Dept.

When I was considerably younger, I used to read New York magazine. Actually, I used to read the hardbound collections--such as Thank You for the Giant Sea Tortoise--of Mary Ann Madden's New York magazine competitions. They were clever and brainy and smart (in both senses of the word) and very much of a piece with the way the city felt to me at that time.

Those books aside, I've never been what one might call a regular reader of the magazine. Mainly to do with the fact that I no longer live there and the fact that I don't care about the disproportionate impact of Lizzie Grubman, her predecessors and her successors on any aspect of life in the city.

That said, I've just finished two New York articles that I'd like to share with you (ah, there's the point of all this...y'all know enough to wait a paragraph or two). The first, "The Benefits of Distraction and Overstimulation," is on attention or, more accurately, our fractured, fragmented lack of it as a society and a wired culture.



The second--the most recent cover story--is "Twilight of the Tummlers," an interesting examination of how Woody Allen's latest, Whatever Works starring Larry David, is a throwback to a style of Jewish comedy no longer being produced.

Now, I take exception to the title of the piece because neither Allen nor David is a tummler. A tummler is the guy at the Catskills resort who'll spray seltzer out his nose while imitating Mrs. Feinbaum doing the cha-cha. Jerry Lewis was the consummate tummler. Woody, not so much. But the article's a good read, and it introduced me to oldjewstellingjokes.com, which is like Beautiful Agony, only with shpritzing instead of spooging.

So, yay New York mag. I'm going to have to keep an eye out for their stories. I mean, it's not The New Yorker but, Christ, compared with Washingtonian magazine--which only seems to exist as a clearing house for plastic surgery ads and which is so unmoored from the day-to-day life of both the average subway rider and the world's most powerful city as to seem more like Palm Springs Life magazine--it's the London Review of Books.

Enjoy.

Eight Million Stories on the Naked Titty, Dept.

When I first began this post, the story concerned a relatively unknown beauty pageant contestant from California who had (mis)spoken out about her opposition to gay marriage, an opposition rooted in her deeply held Christian beliefs. It then developed into a story about her surgically enhanced breasts, then about how the California pageant committee had paid for this enhancement. Expanding like the phallic bread dough in Lucy Ricardo's oven, it then concerned rumors of topless photos of the young woman, then her fervent denial and faith-based defense, then the online publication of one, then two, then more photos. Then revelations that the photos were recent, not years-old as had been claimed. And, throughout, there was the drumbeat of imminent dethronement and disgrace for having violated the cardinal rule of beauty pageantry: Don't show your nipples to the audience pipples. Or, don't flash your knockers at the alter kockers. Either way.

And in the eye of the swirl of speculation stood the man. Which man? The man with the most tragic hairpiece in creation. Ahhh. And the fate of this booby-baring bimba was in his hands. Would he conform to the rules and regulations of the pageant, which explicitly excluded prospective contestants who had had photographs taken of themselves nude or partially nude? Or would he do whatever made him the most money and guaranteed him the most column inches? Given that this wasn't just any lecherous, no-taste weasel of a real estate mogul but Miss USA pageant owner Donald Trump hisself, the mammary-sharing missy was allowed to keep her state title. Quoth the hairpiece, "We are in the 21st century. We have determined the pictures taken are fine...in some cases the pictures were lovely." (Can't you just picture him wiping the spittle from his lips as he recalls how the images of her supple mounds almost elicited an honest erection? Could the fallen beauty queen become Mrs. *ka-ching!* Trump v.4?) And this pronouncement itself prompted the executive director of the Miss California USA pageant--herself a former Miss USA--to resign.

Would that Wagner were still alive! Richard, not Honus. For, truly, this is an epic worthy of his overwrought Teutonic genius. Talk about a Gesamtkunstwerk! This story weaves together sex, greed, ambition, scandal, lies, bad hair, hypocrisy, titties and Jesus in a multimedia extravaganza of sight, sound and possibly scent!

Now, I'm a frugal sobsister, so I hate to waste perfectly good verbiage. So, following is the original work-in-progress post for your enjoyment. And, if not enjoyment, annoyance. Roll tape...


I'm not a religious person, as some of you may know. My formal observance is limited to taking, on occasion, the Rastafarian sacrament to the accompaniment of late-'50s stereo demonstration records (Wow, the bongo drums are on the right! Now, they're all the way on the left!). *ha ha* I kid. Boys and girls, lips that touch "maryjane" will only feel...very pain...ed. Whatever. At any rate, as a non-religious sobsister, I must take exception to beauty pageant contestant Miss California Carrie Prejean's well-publicized attempts to insert her interpretation of her Lord and Savior's policies vis-à-vis marriage into the secular province of beauty pageantry.

Why is Carrie Prejean (and, here, I must note my surprise at the somewhat pedestrian spelling of her given name; this young woman was clearly miscounselled in a number of ways, not least of which was the fact that, if she expects to excel in the bitch-mount-bitch world of pageantry, she needs to commit 110 percent to a first name such as "Carree" or "Karri" or, ideally, "Karree." Her current name just makes her look like she's not even trying, God love her.) speaking out against marriage for homosexuals? She talked, at the Miss USA pageant, of her support of "opposite marriage" (or "Bizarro marriage") over gay marriage. Which, you know, 1st Amendment and all, is fine. Yet, why is this young woman (and we're awaiting the test results that will confirm that) so adamant about some things that are contra naturam and not others?

I speak, of course, of the fake rack she had installed--at Miss California Pageant expense--scant weeks before the Miss USA contest. Now, as alluded to above, I am no theologian (although I did play William of Ockham in a grade-school pageant titled Razor? YOU Raise Her!), but it strikes me that having a pair of grapefruit halves stuck under your skin in defiance of the Divine Plan for your bosom allotment must surely make the Babby Jayzus cry. It's like Christmas morning, getting a reindeer sweater from Grammy and tossing it back in her face, saying, "Take that tired shit back to Penney's and get me some'a that GTA IV, itch-bay!"

Yet Miss Prejean (no apparent relation to Sister Helen Prejean, except insofar as one has seen a "Dead Man Walking," while the other is a witless twat) seems not at all discomfited by this apparent bit of hypocrisy. And, so, I must ask her, here in this most public of fora:

Carrie Prejean, if the Good Lord Above assigned you to the itty-bitty titty camp, why, then, were you trying to tunnel under to Stalag C-Cup? There is no squint-eyed Sergeant Schultz on duty here, only the unblinking glare of your omnivident god.

Further, Miss Prejean, segueing neatly into the whited sepulchre sitting in the living room of a glass house dept., can you tell me, then, exactly how flashing your own unenhanced raclette at a number of cameras jibes with the precepts of a religion whose more repugnant biases you are using to deny fellow Americans equal treatment under the law? I reiterate my admission that I'm no theologian; that said, I believe that baring one's boobies unto someone other than your husband in anticipation of imminent impregnation is considered a Sin by them as know from Xtian sin. Your "spokesman"--oh, pleez, may I apply for that job when the incumbent converts to full-time at Chuck E. Cheese?!?--tried to make the best of what must be an elephant turd in the punch bowl of your life. Some blather about you having been 17 and naive. You yourself took a slightly different tack with: ""I am a Christian, and I am a model. Models pose for pictures, including lingerie and swimwear photos."

Yeah, sweetie. Models do pose for pictures. But Jesus-loving, God-fearing, Holy Spirit-conversing models don't do over-the-shoulder fuckmebigboy snaps that could incite a churchgoing fellow to play Onan in repertory. Nor do they lie about having taken said snaps in order to snake themselves around the pageant rules. Nor do they lie about the number of times they've had spicyspicycaliente pix taken of themselves. Or the age at which they had them taken. Et cetera, et cetera. You catch my drift, cupcake, right?

But, dang, there are just so many levels to this story--her father maybe was gay and that broke up her parents' marriage?!? Sweet Charles Foster Kane! stop the presses!!--that a measly post barely scratches the surface of analysis, exegesis and mockery for which this story begs like the beggingest beggar who ever begged. So, for now, Crimestoppers, today's takeaway special is this: Christian by convenience is like a hysterical pregnancy--sooner or later, people are going to figure out you're simply full of fetid gas. Mustard and duck sauce are in the bag, plus napkins. Enjoy.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

There Are Children in India Who'd Be Overjoyed with Your Year-old RAZR V3, Dept.

I was fondling my iPhone recently. A private moment. It was raining lightly outside. Because I'd asked that it stop raining, even lightly, inside.

As I traced its sleek lines with a finger, I thought about one thing. One thing only.

How is it that people have the stones to complain about the lack of features in iPhone apps that, on top of everything else and secondary to the point I'm about to make, are free or absurdly cheap?

Reading the reviews at the App Store is an eye-opening experience if you've ever harbored any illusions that people are easy to please. What, that 99-cent app doesn't alphabetize, cross-index or translate into Quechua and Amharic all the entries across your databases, while setting calendar alerts in Outlook?! By G*d, I rue the day they outlawed public horsewhipping!

I just want to call the people who post these, umm, somewhat demanding reviews and say, "Hello, do you mean to tell me that the fact that you can reorder your Netflix queue on your phone from a toilet stall in a bar doesn't drop you to your knees before the altar of Technology?! Did you want your winged horse in brown instead of white?! Does the pattern on your flying carpet clash with your shoes?!? You're just going to piss Technology off, and then she'll take all her shiny shit and split, and you'll be back to banging two rocks together for entertainment and saving acorns for counting beads. Ingrate."

Honestly. Monkeys is the kwaziest people.

Peg o' My Heartburn, Dept.

Pundits Whitewash Torture

Peggy Noonan, Vestal Virgin at the shrine of Ronaldus Reaganorum, had some fascinatingly fascinating things to say last week about the release of Dubya-era memos detailing--and endorsing--waterboarding and other techniques used on swarthy men who face East to pray five times a day. Peg seems to think that there's just no point in revisiting those days and those issues and revealing some of the truths surrounding and underpinning them. She said, "Some things in life need to be mysterious. Sometimes you need to just keep walking."

I know that one doesn't want to know how sausage is made or, generally, witness much of what transpires in a commercial kitchen of meager means and undemanding clientele. But one would expect a political insider and author to exhibit a tad more interest in the secret workings of government. And, really, her current lack of curiosity regarding the whole Bushies-heart-torture issue is quite remarkable, given her own history.

For, if Sister Immaculata Primrose had manifested this discreet squeamishness concerning the darker corners of American politics during the Clinton administration, I would have said that she's simply a woman of circumspection, perhaps due to tender sensibilities and a mild constitution. But, no. She dug into the Lewinsky-Clinton scandale with the gusto of a competitive eater into blueberry pie no. 1. So, it appears that her...delicacy regarding matters of national import flares up only when confronting the bemerded peccadilloes of the conservative set.

For those who haven't had the pleasure, in her public appearances, Pegalong Casuistry combines the pantomime daintiness of a spinster who wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful, with the sanctimonious condescension of a parochial school teacher towards the retards, Lord love them!, in her charge. Speaking of "civility" in our national discourse v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y in what she must believe is a Gipperesque tone, Peg nonetheless regularly manages to dig the shiv between her target's ribs (hi, Hillary!) with the gusto of a nun with a new ruler and a classroom full of knuckles. This "do as I say, not as I do"-ism seems to be manifesting itself in the temperance of her previous zeal for full disclosure by an unquestioning respect for the inviolable nature of mysteries. Like the Assumption. Or how According to Jim has lasted eight seasons.

Oh, Peggy Noonan, Peggy Noonan! Pitiably blind to the red-headed hypocrisy born at the intersection of her current pleas for discretion and her previous cries for disclosure. The little girl in the plaid jumper who always reminded Sister that she'd forgotten to assign homework, now a wobbly pundit with a repellent public manner and a conveniently short memory. Lord love you, Peg! Ten Our Fathers and twenty-five thousand Hail Marys and your sins will be forgiven. Vade et amplius iam noli peccare.

Navel-grazing, Dept.

Navel-Grazing, Dept.

There's something ineluctably sad about an ill-kept blog. It's not unlike chez sobsister, actually. Paint chipping on the façade, one brick loose from the front steps, mailbox could use replacing...

I haven't been posting here much. Lack of time + lack of inspiration = radio silence. The fact of the matter is--and, here, I'm taking a huge leap of faith that this sort of self-indulgent meta-post is even vaguely interesting to anyone outside my head--that after a point, LOLXtians and LOLNeocons isn't all that interesting to write. There are so many stories out there on which I could be ladling snark that simply recapitulate an unvarying theme.

Last month, for example, B-b-b-Benny and the Peds announced that condoms weren't really the answer in fighting AIDS in Africa. Sure, I could've called him a benighted dogmatist nancy-boy flouncing about in Mommy's caftan while condemning tens, no, hundreds of thousands to death, to unwanted pregnancy and an unbreakable cycle of poverty, simply to bolster his completely made-up belief that, somehow, taking responsibility for, and control of, one's reproductive process is a raspberry in the face of the Invisible Bearded Man in the Sky. But I didn't. I mean, I've come to realize with the passage of time that the Catholic Church regularly says astonishingly ill-advised things that fly like a piazza of spooked pigeons smack in the face of, oh, I don't know, common sense, science, logic. To point out the crass stupidity of the Vatican's pronouncement at each occasion would be like riffling through publicity shots of the Olsen twins and noting again and again and again that they sure could use a fucking sandwich.

Same with the conservatives and, to be precise, the right-wing media in this country. Late last month, twat con Laura Ingraham (isn't that always held on the first Sunday in July? Twat Con '09! with appearances by Monica Goodling, Michelle Malkin and Dana Perino! plus GOP cosplay!) dissed almost-First Daughter Meghan McCain (for criticizing Troll Quean Ann Coulter) by calling her fat. Sure, I could've noted that it's amazing that Laura Ingraham can host a radio show, given that she talks entirely through her ass, or that a neocon lawyer converting to Catholicism has just hit the bullshit rationalization trifecta. But I didn't. The fact of the matter is that the 24-hour news cycle, declining educational achievement and dwindling intellectual engagement nationwide, and booming fast food and pharmaceutical intake has created a roiling subclass of triple-chinned cretin zombies who pay to be told what to think by a gold-clad phalanx of screaming hucksters who grab the addled gomers by the nose to pour know-nothing elixir down their gullets. To point out the witless, intellectually dishonest copromathy that is this circus is like identifying sociopathic nuns in the parochial school system. After a while, your arm gets tired.

So, your sobsister continues to look for veins to mine. One possibility: people whose surnames sound like naughty body parts. Watch for it!

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Guilt by Association, Dept.

While I'm always grateful for the many and varied visitors who visit my humble, infrequently updated pages, I occasionally pause to wonder at my constituency, such as it is, based on the keywords they use to find my little sitting room in the blogosphere.

In the last week, folks have made their way here by searching for "offer him anal sex," "advantages of fellatio," *shudder* "ina garten uterus" *shudder*, "tween porn," "uncut monster cock whore" and, as always, "mica ertegun."

I'm...grateful for their custom, given that their paths to my pages have helped me to tease out the underlying, previously-obscured-to-me theme of my blog: underage sodomy, ideally with horse-hung Romanian interior designers.

Thank you, visitrons, one and all. I will now return to crafting my latest blog entry: I Was a Teenage Cum Junkie in Bucharest.

Chapter VII, in which Levi Ducks a Bullet, Dept.

Alaska Gov. Palin's daughter, fiance break up

Levi Johnston and Bristol Palin, the teenage daughter of Gov. Sarah Palin, have broken off their engagement, he said Wednesday, about 2 1/2 months after the couple had a baby.


Oh noez!!! Alaska's number one fairytale out-of-wedlock teen failed abstinence romance is pulling an Exxon Valdez?!? The unseaworthy craft of their relationship broken on the reef of Teen Ennui, spilling millions of gallons of our Hopes for these krazy kids?! And our hopes were ever-so high for this shotgun engagement. I mean, how could a relationship born in thoughtless lust and maintained out of political expediency fail?!?

Well, I'm sure Sarahcuda is doing her dingdong-darndest to comfort her daughter with some folksy-yet-creepy platitudes involving Jesus, cows and free milk. Though maybe things ain't all frowns chez Palin, given that rumor has it, i.e., Levi's sister told the media, Li'l Bristol wasn't even lettin' her baby daddy anywhere near the fruit of his loins!

Oh, 4ever Love, you didn't even make it past this season's American Idol finale!

Ich bin Musik, und Ich schreib' die Lieder, Dept.

When I was just a teenage sobsister in the hands of the wily Jesuits, I studied German for three years. Now, the third year was a wash because all we did was sit around, bullshit with our charming German-born teacher and play Skat, a popular German card game. The second year we spent learning endless vocabulary under the tutelage of another German-born teacher, considerably less charming and determined to convince us that we were the academic elite.
Very "Will to Power," very "Tomorrow Belongs to Me."

So, it was left to the first year to actually, you know, learn how to speak the frackin' language, which we sort of did at the hands of a patient Jesuit who stressed pronunciation above all else. He had a whole routine about the mouth being like a basketball court, and umlauted vowels were pronounced down by the basket and other vowels at the top of the key. Or something. It's enough that I remember enough of it to misremember.

Anyhoo, one of his paedagogical tools was German-language versions of popular songs. Well, popular in 1963, apparently, because all we listened to was "Komm, gib mir deine Hand" by The Beatles and "Die Antwort, mein Freund, ist ganz allein der Wind" by Bobby Dylan and "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," which didn't even make sense in English. In that spirit, I offer you this corking version of "Downtown," likely sung by that pet of a girl, Petula Clark, who, if her Web site is any indication, has recorded in all the world languages, plus Quechua and Hmong.

Was the German market so strong in the late '50s and early '60s as to justify rerecording songs in that language? For that matter, was the Spanish-language film market so strong in the mid-'30s as to justify concurrently filming movies, as was done to, for example, Dracula, with Spanish-speaking actors? "Yes," to both, apparently. In the former case, my theory is that there were a lot of unemployed translators in Britain who'd been idle since the days of breaking Jerry's codes. Which should not be confused with "Jerry's Kids."

At any rate, follow the link to Pet Clark and a blast of 1964. I'll be putting on my white vinyl boots and joining you in a min.

From the excellent April Winchell Web site. Spend a week or two there.

You Can't Spell "Sectarian Shooting Spree" without "Jesus," Dept.

Guns in church bill dies in Arkansas Senate panel - wtop.com:


From the page:
"Guns in church bill dies in Arkansas Senate panel
A state Senate panel has rejected a bill that would allow concealed handguns in Arkansas churches, a proposal that divided religious leaders.

The measure would have removed churches and other houses of worship from the list of places where concealed handguns are banned in Arkansas. Only churches and bars are on that list."


Gol-dang, lily-livered, Jesus-hatin', Huffington-lovin', pinko Adam'n'stEves!

How can a man show his face inside the Lord's House stripped of his shootin' irons?! That'd be like Samson shorn of the locks that gave him his muscles!

Now, imagine you're sittin' there in the pew, and the preacher-man's jawin' on about somethin' or another to do with Jesus, and it's kind of a hot day, heavy, y'know?, and *BANG!* in storms some Supralapsarian sumbitch or, even worse, a Mooslim! Now, if you ain't packin', son, you are lackin'! How're you gonna give that sumbitch a permanent part if your .357's locked up in some fool trunk or whatnot?! Scale a hymnal off 'is head, you won't even make 'im blink!

So, call your senator--'cause writin's for pointyheaded, latte-sippin', Hillary-huggin', Bolshevik sissy boys--and tear that sumbitch a new one.
Tell 'im you got a Biblical right to bear arms before the altar of the Lord! Tell 'im that!
Then tell 'im you know where his little blonde daughter goes to school and, my, ain't she a pretty, fragile li'l thing.
Do it.
Do it for Jesus, 'cause you know He'd do it for you.

Get Your Kicks on Route 69, Dept.

Transcript February 14, 2009


MODERATOR: My first question to you, then, is: how does one get from Intercourse, PA to Climax, SK?

What's that? Yes, "sweaty thrusting" is one possibility. Anyone else?
That's right, "crazy-weasel pumping" is another one. What else? Yes, you in the back with the, with the hair?
Well, yes, I think we can count "ramming the 5:15 into the station repeatedly until the headboard splinters."

But it seems that all these answers, valid though they may be, rely solely on brute animal force. How about some approaches that won't bedew your body entire with beads and rivulets of salty glass? Anyone? No?

Then, let me introduce you to something called Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™, or XOP.

Gentlemen and those ladies who wish Lea DeLaria weren't quite so girly, this adorable little button deserves more attention than a Midwest queen at Bloomingdale's 59th Street. Ladies and those fellows who wish Liza Minnelli were harmony triplets, this handsome knob needs the kind of TLC a puppy gives its owner the morning after he's been brought home from the pound.

I can hear you say, "But, sobsister, who is ignorant of the pleasures that the oral pleasuring brings in the way of pleasurable pleasure?" And I say, "No one besides ancient Romans and Hottentots." But are you aware of the many and numerous advantages that Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™ can offer you?

Aside from the fact that you can wear your best suit or frock without fear of pitting it something awful, imagine a fellatio session that lasts 18 hours! The grindingly painful erection aside, XOP offers both participants amazing weight loss benefits--you're probably not stuffing yourself with greasy fast food while someone's making a 14-course Chinese banquet of your junk or while you're scarfing down a cup of DNA juice!

Or think about a cunnilingus encounter that takes a weekend to complete! Ladies, the discomfort occasioned by dehydration and foot cramps is more than offset by the financial advantages you gain! Did you know that if you orgasm continuously for longer than 24 hours you are eligible to claim per diem? And that beaver botherers are eligible for Workmen's Comp for any buccolingual damage incurred while on their employer's premises?!

Check my Web site, www.mouth-organ.edu, to get updates on the availability of my book, Jaws of Life: Mandibular Endurance and Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™. It gives you 101 numbered tips on how to maintain feeling in your jaw, tongue and lips even as you run a marathon of oral gratification! The first 100 orders will receive a complimentary copy of Earn the Burn!: The Role of Capsicum in Xtreme Oral Training™, an $89.95 value itself, free. And if you order within the next 30 minutes, you'll receive at no additional charge a DVD copy of ShamWow® Bloopers!: America's Kraziest Outtakes!

America, put your money where your mouth should be! Get into Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™ now! For, it is far, far better to give than to receive. Unless you're giving and receiving at the same time. In which case, you are golden, motherfucker.


End transcript.

Hammer Time!, Dept.

Indulgences Return, and Heaven Moves a Step Closer for Catholics - NYTimes.com

From the page:

"For Catholics, a Door to Absolution Is Reopened

The announcement in church bulletins and on Web sites has been greeted with enthusiasm by some and wariness by others. But mainly, it has gone over the heads of a vast generation of Roman Catholics who have no idea what it means: 'Bishop Announces Plenary Indulgences.'

In recent months, dioceses around the world have been offering Catholics a spiritual benefit that fell out of favor decades ago -- the indulgence, a sort of amnesty from punishment in the afterlife -- and reminding them of the church's clout in mitigating the wages of sin."


That's the stuff! B-b-b-benny XVI rockin' the house ol' skool! Plenary indulgences...man, I don't know about you, but that takes me back...back...back to the town of Wittenberg, to whose church doors a brash monk by the name of Martin Luther is nailing some four score and fifteen theses.

Why, here are four of them right now to harmonize an instructional message! Sing it, theses 21 - 24!

21. Therefore those preachers of indulgences are in error, who say that by the pope's indulgences a man is freed from every penalty, and saved;

22. Whereas he remits to souls in purgatory no penalty which, according to the canons, they would have had to pay in this life.

23. If it is at all possible to grant to any one the remission of all penalties whatsoever, it is certain that this remission can be granted only to the most perfect, that is, to the very fewest.

24. It must needs be, therefore, that the greater part of the people are deceived by that indiscriminate and highsounding promise of release from penalty.

*ha ha!* Sounds like B-b-b-benny's trying to get money for old rope! Now, Ol' Crocodile-head isn't going to be selling the indulgences like his illustrious, sodomitical predecessors lurved to do. Or so he claims. The spokesman for the Diocese of Brooklyn, the Rev. Kieran Harrington, noted that it's about "acts of charity." Like, say, giving alms to rebuild St. Peter's Basilica? 'Cause that's why Pope Leo X--preceded by Pope Girls Gone Wild IX--authorized the sale of indulgences back in 1517. Which set that aforementioned brash monk a-hammerin'.

In a related story, the pope also reminded the faithful that Jews torture consecrated Hosts in blasphemous parodies of the Mass, that the Mussulmans unjustifiably occupies the birthplace of Our Lord and that women are foul cloacae who brought Original Sin into God's creation. He closed his message with a resounding "Deus vult!", unsheathed his sword, Widowmaker, and lopped the head off his Ganymedean altar boy.

In the words of Damn Yankees' Mr. Applegate: Those were the good old days!

Me Am So Smart and Qualified!, Dept.

On Politics - New Face of G.O.P. Brings a Brash Style - NYTimes.com

Wow. So, the Republicans elected Michael Steele, a Black Senate aspirant, as head of the GOP. Except that he, you know, lost his Senate race in 2006, despite being supported financially and politically by Karl Rove and Dick Cheney--the moral equivalent of being welcomed to the neighborhood by the Manson Family. So, I guess you could say he was the Bizarro-Barack Obama.

And, in true Bizarro fashion, he just says the cutest ass-backwards things!

Like, last Saturday, he apparently congratulated House Republicans for denying President Obama any votes on his recovery package with the inspirational, ""The goose egg you laid on the president's desk was just beautiful." Nice one, Bizarro-Barack! Country's going down the shitter, but, instead of working to solve our problems, no reason not to score some cheapie points with the garbage snufflers on the GOP side of the aisle!

And then, in reference to President Obama, he said, "It's going to be an honor to spar with him," before apparently referencing Kool Moe Dee's "How Ya Like Me Now". Silly rabbit. If he's going to talk sparring and try to go old school, he obviously should've cited L.L. Cool J's "Mama Said Knock You Out."

Yeah. So, to review the bidding: a Black politico is hoisted up by the intellectually and ethically bankrupt GOP to lead their party. Except, unlike President Obama, he's a bigmouth who's failed at politics and who appears to have the moral compass of a child molester at a pre-K (funny story about how his campaign paid homeless people from Philadelphia to hand out flyers in Maryland containing fabricated information including non-existent endorsements of Steele by prominent Democrats and African-American leaders...*ha ha*...he so crazy)

And, kids, don't forget the Bizarro Code:

1. US DO OPPOSITE OF ALL EARTHLY THINGS!

2. US HATE BEAUTY! US LOVE UGLINESS!

3. IS BIG CRIME TO MAKE ANYTHING PERFECT ON BIZARRO WORLD!

I Did Not Have Sexual Relations with That Man, Dept.

Former church member: Haggard performed sex act - Yahoo! News

"Former Church Member: Haggard Performed Sex Act

A young man who formerly attended New Life Church says that then-pastor Ted Haggard performed a sex act in front of him in a hotel room in 2006 and sent him explicit text messages...In a statement earlier Monday, Haggard apologized for his 'inappropriate relationship' with the former church volunteer, but said it did not involve physical contact."


Oh, Ted, you Wile E. Coyote! Getting all Clintonian on us this late in the game. You acted "inappropriately" but said inappropriateness did not involve "physical contact" because you...what? jerked off in front of this fellow? performed an act of auto-fellatio? employed a butternut squash as a dildo? What, Ted, what?!

And "explicit text messages." Yes, because those have never come back to bite any public figure in the ass. Please share them with us, do. Were they all KJV-Biblical in tone? Did you offer to smite his buttocks with the righteous staff of your loins? Or were they skeevy sticky manporn? Did you at any point employ the phrase "hot stallion load" in describing the fruit of your efforts?

Oh, Ted! Splitting hairs and weaselwording isn't going to get you back into the pulpit and into the hearts of so very many gullible gomers! You have to abase yourself, indulge in a public act of self-flagellation, streak your pancake with hot tears and beg to be forgiven by that very same omnipotent and omniscient God you treat like an ATM at a convenience store.

But do give us the spicy-yet-degrading-yet-fascinating-yet-appalling details yourself. Have you forgotten, Ted? It's Schadenfreude Tuesday, and baby needs new shoes.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sweetness, Dept.



"Grrr...how can I ruin that young idiot, George Bailey...?"


Oh, Dick, it's won't be the same not having a soulless, charmless ideologue-cum-chickenhawk-cum-defense industry incubus running the shadow government from an office by Charon's ticket booth, but, really, from the heart: fuck you. All the way back to Pottersville.

Our long national nightmare is over.