"By the Way, I Couldn't Help Noticing Your Balance. Can You Loan Me a Benjamin Till Pay Day? You Know I'm Good for It"

My local ATM has become aggressively informal. . . .

And it seems to be worse every time I go there. At this point, pretty much every question and menu option has been meticulously phrased to be as laid-back as possible, and they've even revised some of the older, breezy responses to make them more casual. God knows where it will end.

I think we use the same bank.

"Later, I Hope to Show the Library at Dublin My Oh-Face"

Now, coming upon this post as you are, unawares, I feel I ought to clarify the title (which was alternately going to be sex libris) straight away by telling you what this post is not, in fact, about. By “library smut” I am in no way referring to the photo books on native peoples, or the illustrated health manuals, or any of the other volumes which, in your childhood, you lurked about the library aisle to find with the sole purpose of sneaking guilty glances at naked bodies. Nor am I referring to the “risqué” novels by Miller, Cleland, Réage, or Lawrence you leafed impatiently through as a teenager. No. What I’m talking about here is the full-frontal objectification of the library itself. Oh yeah.

The former graduate student in me is going to need a tissue, a cigarette, and, possibly, a nap. When the first picture was simply the tops of a few books, I thought I was going to make it through to the end, but by the time I got to the British Library, London, I'd lost control of my breathing. At Rio, I'd begun to get that cresting-at-the-top-of-the-roller coaster feeling, and, by Amsterdam, I'd lost all control. Things became sticky, stained, and embarrassing at St. Gallen. Maybe, I can return to the Web site and finish the page later on after I've recovered, but, for now, I'm dizzy and drowsy. Excuse me, won't you?

It's Not Like They Aren't Use to It

A man who pulled a hoax on Louisiana officials and 1,000 contractors by presenting himself as a federal housing official said Monday he intended to focus attention on a lack of affordable housing. . . .

Masquerading as Rene Oswin, an official at the Department of Housing and Urban Development, Bichlbaum followed Louisiana Gov. Kathleen Blanco and New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin to the lectern Monday morning at the Pontchartrain Center in Kenner.

In a speech to attendees of the Gulf Coast Reconstruction and Hurricane Preparedness Summit, he laid out grandiose plans for HUD to reverse course.

After the speaker read from a text he said had been prepared by his boss, HUD Secretary Alphonso Jackson, a HUD spokeswoman said the department knew nothing about the man. . . .

William Loiry, president of meeting sponsor Equity International, said he was duped. . . .

"There are many people still in need," he said in a written statement. "To perpetuate a hoax on them is cruel and disgusting."

Nope, irony is not dead.

Whatever Happened to "Because I Said So"

Some days, you've got to play the Existentialism card.

No, It Doesn't, but It Does Seem To Find You Interesting Work

Graduating from an Ivy League university doesn't necessarily mean you're smart. If you agree click here.

Game Blouses

2. For a man to succeed, his woman must not. She really just wants a boyfriend and isn’t that talented anyway, so it’s cool.

Purple Rain sets up the Kid and Apollonia as classic lovers as well as rivals—the original Petruchio and Kate, or perhaps an early Marc Anthony and J-Lo. But rather than having them both succeed and still stay together, the Kid shines and Apollonia is left without a career but nonetheless elated because she kept her man. This ending is all the more fitting since Apollonia’s performance of the girl group’s song, “Sex Shooter,” reveals a lack of talent that not even lingerie costumes can conceal. . . . The contrast between Apollonia’s abilities and Prince’s would make doves cry.

"A lack of talent that not even lingerie costumes can conceal":

That's just crazy talk.

Look Who's Been to Glamour Shots

Katherine Harris
(Yes, that Katherine Harris)

Some day all of us have to give an account before God for what we have done. Are you certain in your own heart that when you come to that point of accounting that you’ll spend eternity with God in Heaven?

No question.

One day when you stand before God, if He says to you, “Why should I let you into my Heaven?” What you would say in response?

That’s an interesting question. Because I loved Your Son and because I know He died for my sins. I know He was resurrected at Your right hand and I served Him. You know we’re covered with, our sins are covered with His blood and so we are blameless before Him. We are as white as snow. . . .

What role do you think people of faith should play in politics and government?

The Bible says we are to be salt and light. And salt and light means not just in the church and not just as a teacher or as a pastor or a banker or a lawyer, but in government and we have to have elected officials in government and we have to have the faithful in government and over time, that lie we have been told, the separation of church and state, people have internalized, thinking that they needed to avoid politics and that is so wrong because God is the one who chooses our rulers. And if we are the ones not actively involved in electing those godly men and women and if people aren’t involved in helping godly men in getting elected than we’re going to have a nation of secular laws. That’s not what our founding fathers intended and that’s certainly isn’t what God intended.

What God intended?! Are you sure you want to start pulling at that thread?

Once, America Had a Political Conscience. If You Were Alive 43 Years Ago, You Probably Heard One of Its Voices

August 28, 1963

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation.

"We refuse to believe that because denial ain't just a river in Egypt," he didn't say, but, clearly, . . . Well, okay, either, he was in denial then, or we're in denial now: take your pick.

Whichever it is, sorry for the lack of progress on the Civil Rights front, Dr. King. Sorry you died for this.

Weeniecello or "Meat: Is There Anything It Can't Do?"

Over the years, I've tried various sorts of infusions, with vodka and other liquors. Fruit and herb-infused are the best known, and are often wonderful. But what I like is meat. Where's the infusion for people like me? I felt disenfranchised, and alone, especially after some research on the interwebs revealed a real lack of meat-based liqueurs. It would be up to me to blaze the trail.

This makes the Baby Jeebus cry.

Mastering the Wave Goodbye (and Other Short Courses from Canon)

"Using two arms is not waving."

Vote for the Pirate. It's Important

What you see is what you get. I am the only drunken Pirate seeking office in this great nation. What a sad testimonial to our political system when a degenerate like me, feels like the most honest candidate on the ballot. I am not talking the chrome plated crap my opponents throw out. I am talking about deep from the heart honesty. This pirate believes that holding public office demands real sacrifice. Every aspect of my personal life must be laid to the blade and exposed. My medical history. My financial history. My employment history. My family history out in the open for your scrutiny. It is my offer to you. It will be my way of showing real sacrifice to serve you. We as voters have not asked enough of candidates. For the $150,000 annual salary, candidates should be subjected to intense public scrutiny.

The result will bring a more honest open type of person to the race. You will see the false Christians and smarmy trained monkeys recede to the shit-holes they crawled from. This challenge is not to be taken lightly. Can the American voter accept a flawed person or even down right ugly one to represent them? Every day I fight the urge to drink, debauch women out of wed-lock and beat people on the street. One urge I do not have is to sell myself to the highest bidder. . . .

I would have your wife right in front of you. I would smoke the last of your glaucoma medication. Then I will surely drink your liquor cabinet dry. However, know this my friend. I will never break an oath to uphold the public trust. My affidavit will be signed in my own blood. A Pirates crimson mark, with real binding effects into my after life. Laugh if you will then ask yourself if you could do it.

• Have your wife in front of you: [check]
• Smoke the last of your glaucoma medicine [if I could get that in a brownie, check]
• Surely drink your liquor cabinet dry [is that wrong? I mean, check]
• Break an oath to uphold the public trust [well, yeah, probably -- check -- I'm a weak man with many, many boundary issues: Reason #38568 Why You'll Never See My Name on a ballot]

For a minute there, I was considering running for office. The way he framed the requirements made it sound like fun.

So That's Where I Left My Other Jesus Sandal

Sadly, I can see enough of these to scream, "Bingo!" just by looking out of my apartment window.

It's Also Why I've Sabotoged All of Her Efforts to Get On-Line

'Mom,' I said, 'I understand that you have a fixed budget, but I really don't think selling fetish items online is the best way to supplement it.'

It's safe to say that belongs in the "Conversations I've Never Had with My Mother" category.

I'm Almost There

I want to be this freaky when I grow up.

Teri Smith Tyler, I Tip My Aluminum Foil Hat at You and Bow Deeply, in Recognition that Your Conspiracy Fu Is Stronger than Mine

Plaintiff Teri Smith Tyler . . . filed a complaint in December 1992 alleging a bizarre conspiracy involving the defendants to enslave and oppress certain segments of our society. Plaintiff contends she is a cyborg, and that she received most of the information which forms the basis for her complaint, through ``proteus,'' which I read to be come silent, telepathic form of communication. ... She asserts that the defendants are involved in the ``Iron Mountain Plan,'' which provides for the reinstitutionalization of slavery and ``bloodsports'' (which she identifies as death-hunting and witchhunting), and the oppression of political dissidents, herself included. . . . Plaintiff also makes the following allegations against the defendants. Former President Jimmy Carter was the secret head of the Ku Klux Klan; Bill Clinton is the biological son of Jimmy Carter; President Clinton and Ross Perot have made fortunes in the death-hunting industry, and are responsible for the murder of at least 10 million black women in concentration camps, their bodies sold for meat and their skin turned into leather products. . . . Additionally, the defendants utilize weather control and earthquake technology to threaten other countries that object to the Iron Mountain Plan.

Plaintiff additionally contends that Gulf War against Iraq was undertaken so that American could restock its sexual slavery camps, which had been depleted. . . . Plaintiff claims to have confronted Secretary of Defense Cheney with evidence of this allegation. Cheney, through ``proteus,'' purportedly told the plaintiff, ``Well, we were so sick and tiered of killing black girls. We just had to put some variety back into our death-hunting industry. And they [Persians] are incredibly beautiful. The beauty of the face heightens the pleasure of the kill. I know of no higher pleasure than the gang-rape of exceedingly beautiful people."

Until I read that, I thought she was nuts. I'm not so sure, now. I mean, that sounds exactly like something Cheney would say.

And Persians are incredibly beautiful.

Hmm. I'm going to have to retire to my hyperbaric chamber to think about this.

Before He Jumped, He Probably Yelled the Equivalent of "Hey, Y'all, Watch This!"

I don't know what this guy screams when it becomes apparent to him that he's screwed, nor do I know what language it is screamed in, but I'm pretty sure it translates to "Rut Row."

Makes You Wonder Where Kool-Aid Comes From

The ad raises several questions: Why is the Kool-Aid Man luring children to a desert island? Why did the rescue helicopter just dump them off there? How did the Kool-Aid man even get on a random island in the middle of the ocean? Where did all those other kids come from? The list is endless. But despite all of the weird, loose ends and myriad unanswered questions left in the wake of this hectic little commercial, when I saw it, I could only think about one thing:

The Kool-Aid Man's dick.

Why? Because he was wearing fucking shorts! . . . He never used to wear anything and the last thing on anyone's mind was his package (or lack thereof). He's a pitcher, for chrissakes! His smooth, glass nether-globe is so featureless it makes a naked Ken doll look pornographic. When and why did he start shopping at Old Navy?

. . . why clothe him? It isn't like the Kool-Aid Man was busted for drunkenly exposing himself to 7th graders at the bowling alley. Run him through your state's sex offender database — a thousand bucks says he isn't there. Think back to when you used to see him regularly between segments of "Smurfs" and "Transformers" — do you recall seeing his giant cock, turgid with Kool-Aid, bobbing and slapping luridly against the heads and necks of the kids whose drinks he poured? Me neither.

Me, neither, but that is the way he appeared in my nightmares, all bulbous and priapic, swinging his dinosaur's tail of manloaf hither, thither and yon, like he was the cock-of-the-walk. Oh yeah! I'd wake up trembling in a pool of sweat.

I won't even go into the way I would scream when the Sandman made me dream about Capt. Crunch, ball-gagged and wet leathered, luring me onto his ship, trying to get me to play with his crunch berries. Let's just say I stopped eating breakfast cereals at an early age, and leave it at that.

The New York Times (Fancy Liberal Filth, or What Right-Wingers See when They Read The New York Times)

I Take Communion Just to Fuck with God.

I'm on a Diet, So I'll Have my Scoop of Ice Lard on the Side

A cake...with a t-bone drawn on it? Has our intrepid chefstress lost her mind? NO, my friends, NO! because THIS....is MEAT CAKE.

Hmm, yeah, meat cake: I'm still going to go with "crazy." Please forgive me.

"Fly Thai Airways and Leave the Murder to Us"

John Mark Karr's hours of champagne toasts and roast duck vanished the second his plane touched down on U.S. soil. By Monday morning, he was in a high-security jail cell awaiting transfer to Colorado to face charges in the killing of 6-year-old JonBenet Ramsey.

Karr was arrested at the airport on a warrant from Boulder County, Colo. A helicopter whisked him to the Twin Towers jail shortly before midnight in a sobering end to a day that began in Bangkok and included fine dining, movies and small talk with his U.S. escorts aboard the Thai Airways flight.

Well, I always say, if you're going to fly to Bangkok to begin the sex change process after murdering allegedly a 6-year-old girl, fly Psycho Class: you won't regret it.

Confessing to the strangulation and sexual assault of a child, though, that never ends well. Expect some remorse.

Puppies on a Plane, Motherfucker*

I'd been under the weather and feeling kind of low. Then, I got this picture from my friend Mar. . ., I mean, Sistah Girl (not her real name), and my blues went away.

Why? Well, it's a picture of a puppy. D'uh. That's what pictures of puppies do: They make you happy unless your heart is black and your soul is as dry and useless as your withered loins. For everyone else, they're an endorphin rush of the cuddly and tubby kind, which is how all endorphin rushes should be. Puppies are the crack of the pet world. (The first look is free. If you want to see this picture again, it'll cost you $10. Laugh now. But you'll be back, and when you come back, bring your PayPal info because, no, I won't accept oral sex in kind. Just kidding: I will; I so will.)

Anyhoo, get in a good stare and then, go enjoy your weekend. I'm going to get some rest.

*Oh, it could work. But then, I spent SuperBowl Sunday watching Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl II. Consider the source.

The Things We Do to Look Pretty for You Ladies

Employee #1: I waxed my chest last night, and I didn't have any more tape so I tried using duct tape.

Employee #2, laughing uncontrollably: Wait, wait, wait! I thought the punch line was 'I waxed my chest last night'?!"

See, you've got to wait for it. Kids today, they've got no patience.

"In This Ring, I Have Filled My Underwear Nessie Super Energy Pill"

The Gentleman's Secret

Satisfaction guaranteed!

These rings have a secret compartment with enough space to store lots of different things...

What's your poison?

Guys, seriously, I hate to break it to you, but if you're wearing one of those rings, particularly if you're wearing one of those rings on your pinkie, you won't need the secret compartment or your "poison," because -- trust me here -- you won't be getting laid. Your poison'll be just like that condom you carried in your wallet in high school, the one that sat in there un-used for so long it made an impression -- or "Virgin Loop" -- on the side of your bi-fold: yeah, that one.

Listen. You don't need the ring. If you're married, your wife knows you're handicapped, you know, down there. And if you're spending money on some pretty young thing, well, Flaccid Fred, be honest. Seeing you pop a boner pill isn't going to kill the mood for her. (Your toupee did that, silly.) All she cares about is your money and the things it will buy her. Spend lavishly and she won't care if you have to medicate or splint and plaster your old roll. So just leave the mood rings alone.

Acknowledge your age. Be open about who you are in bed. In other words, keep the Viagra bedside, where you can reach it when you need to.

Treat it like your defibrillator, and you should be fine.

And He's Better than Anyone We've Got at the Plate, Too

Ayla, a service monkey for the disabled, throws out the first pitch prior to a baseball game between the Boston Red Sox and Detroit Tigers at Fenway Park in Boston. Because the pitch was thrown with greater velocity and control than any pitch thrown by any of their starters this year, the Seattle Mariners signed Ayla to a $90 million deal.

Have no fear, when his ERA leads the team next season, he will be traded to the Yankees for a utility fielder and an bat boy past his prime, so you'll be able to see him pitch soon.

Sorry, Latinos. It's Us Again

All that fried chicken and watermelon, it weighs us down.

I Am, I Am, I am the Ram!

Biff, Aries. What's your sign, baby?

(There's one for every sign here, and believe me: yours doesn't come out any better in this.)

Fighting for Our Future

There's nothing funny about domestic violence -- except, maybe, this.

In the wake of the arrest, don't you think someone should have removed the tagline, "Fighting for our Future" and the icon of the bulldog in boxing gloves from the Web site?

Well, That Takes Care of the Blacks and the Indians. Who's Next? Because of the Push to Build the Great Wall of Texas, I'm Betting Its the Latinos

At a campaign rally in southwest Virginia on Friday, Allen repeatedly called a volunteer for Democrat James Webb 'macaca.' During the speech in Breaks, near the Kentucky border, Allen began by saying that he was 'going to run this campaign on positive, constructive ideas' and then pointed at S.R. Sidarth in the crowd.

"This fellow here, over here with the yellow shirt, macaca, or whatever his name is. He's with my opponent. He's following us around everywhere. And it's just great," Allen said, as his supporters began to laugh. After saying that Webb was raising money in California with a "bunch of Hollywood movie moguls," Allen said, "Let's give a welcome to macaca, here. Welcome to America and the real world of Virginia." Allen then began talking about the "war on terror."

Depending on how it is spelled, the word macaca could mean either a monkey that inhabits the Eastern Hemisphere or a town in South Africa. In some European cultures, macaca is also considered a racial slur against African immigrants, according to several Web sites that track ethnic slurs.

"Macaca," it's the new "Tar Baby."

But what's most disconcerting about this is that the Virginian of Indian descent he was talking about had a mullet. I can take the racial slurs. Having taken them most of my life, I've got the social tools to hear and react to them in positive and acceptable ways that don't require police intervention, lawyers, and prison bitches. I can live with racial slurs. I don't like them, but I can live with hearing them. Mullets on peoples of color, though: That shit's got to stop.

Tell Me, Clarice: Have the Assholes Stopped Screaming?

The First Time It Snowed

I remember the way the snow crunched under my steps. I remember how tight the cold air felt in my lungs. I remember how beautiful everything looked, covered in white, brought into stark relief by the surrounding night. But what I remember the most about my first snow was how quiet it was, how perfectly silent everything was -- no traffic noise, no birds chirping, no trees creaking as they swayed -- just me, breathing, and the stars humming in the firmament.

Nope.

I still lack a flair for the poetic.

Today, I was reading Al Wiggins's "Was It Quiet Like This?"* and it made me put pixel to monitor in an effort to describe the quietest moment I could recall. I don't think that's the kind of reflection he was trying to inspire, but a line of his stuck with me and pushed me to see if I could capture that moment from my childhood and what was essential about it. I couldn't, but that's okay. I knew going in I wouldn't come close to this:

These holiday mornings when nobody
gets up at the right time to do what they do.

so there's nothing out there if you're the one
on the street. Even the assholes are peaceful.

In my defense, Al Wiggins is a poet. Also -- and let's not downplay this -- I've never experienced a peace like that.

*Yes, I read The Paris Review. No, I don't skip the poety. Yes, you may fuck yourself if you've got something to say about that.

Test Your Sexist, Ageist, and Racist Tendencies by Victor Anthoni

1. If an 18 year old girl is like a Krispy Kreme glazed doughnut, then a sexy middle-aged woman is like:

a. a cinnamon bun
b. mincemeat pie
c. year old ham in the back of the fridge
d. one of those Eli’s assorted cheesecakes, where you get two slices of 4 or 5 different kinds of cheesecake all in the same package

Answer: D. While the doughnut has that attractive, mouth-watering hole, it gets rather boring and a bit sugar-sickening after a couple of bites. And while the cheesecake, by nature, has more fat, you totally forget about that once you start eating it.

Mmmm, cheesecake. Damn, now, I'm going to be dreaming about cheesecake for the rest of the day. But I digress.

To the point, my ageism was shown when I refused to believe you could tell a middle-aged woman that she was "by nature," fatter than an 18-year-old and not get your testicles kicked into your auditory canals.

Yes, I'm sexist, too.

Run, Don't Walk over to The Random Muse. I Mean, Click, Don't Cut-and-Paste the URL into your Browser's Address Bar. (Damn Internets)

"'I don't know that a vasectomy is really necessary,' said Ted. "Just seeing you sitting there in those blue leggings and old gym socks might be enough to guarantee that we never have sex again."

And I Hate to Say it, but They're Probably Going to Get Away with It because Everyone Loves a Man in a Uniform

Call it unusual optimism, but Elizabeth Ritter counted herself lucky by day's end on Nov. 20, 2003.

On that day, the South Florida lawyer says, she was shot with rubber bullets at least four times by Miami-area law enforcement officers who were out in force to control protesters demonstrating against a free trade summit. . . .

Ritter said police offered no warning before firing on protesters.

"There was absolutely no indication either orally or by gesture that they wanted anyone to disperse or leave," she said. "Had the police given such an order, I would have obeyed it immediately."

Videotaped footage of the protests shows Ritter standing next to a police officer using a bullhorn to announce that the protests would be permitted to continue as long as they remained peaceful.

Ritter is later seen on the tape walking away from a line of officers when she is apparently shot in the leg with a rubber bullet.

She then turns toward the officers and asks, "Did you shoot me? A lady in a suit? Who has been walking peaceably in front of you for half an hour and you shot me when my back was turned?"

Yes, he shot you, you, the lady in the suit, walking peaceably in front of him for half an hour. He shot you while your back was turned.

Because he's a hero. And that's what heroes do.

WWJD

Accept Answer Me Jesus into your life today and the rewards will be everlasting. Jesus offers 20 different answers to help you choose the righteous path. Ask a question and turn him over the answer you seek magically appears. Your personal Jesus will respond with wisdom such as “Have faith”, “Yes my child”, or “Sinner”. So next time you are pondering one of life's many dilemmas find out what Jesus would do and repent no more!

"Let me ask my dad": That so rocks.

I'M A MUSHROOM CLOUD-LAYING MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER!

You creative motherfuckers need to take your punk asses over to Flak magazine and fill out the fuckin form, and you need to do it now before I get pissed off.

NOW, GODDAMNIT! Didn't you hear me?! Is Biff gonna have to choke a bitch up in this motherfucker?

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words -- All of Them "Eew"

Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice called developments 'encouraging' on the first day of diplomatic talks with representatives from the underwater kingdom of Rubba Dubdub, which were held in the spacious bathtub of Rice's private D.C. residence on Monday. . .

In a gesture of goodwill that reportedly pleased Rubba Dubdub diplomats, Rice donned a bubble beard, an indigenous custom of the region.

"I wanted to reassure Rubba Dubdubbers that this administration is solidly pro-suds, fully supports total water immersion, and, despite rumors, is not aligned with the position of the cold-shower lobby," Rice said. . . .

Representatives from the bathtub-locked country, in turn, signed a friendship treaty which ensured that Rice's skin would become soft, warm, and sweet-smelling whenever within Rubba Dubdub's jurisdiction.

But Rubba Dubdub's chief negotiator insisted that not all of Condi's bits would be welcome in the kingdom. He specifically mentioned her pustuled and knotted goat penis -- the sign of her demonic liaison with The Beast -- saying it would have to be scrubbed in a neutral realm, like the Kingdom of Sink. Although this was still being debated, in drafts, Secretary Rice did initial the requests, indicating her assent.

For Some Reason, I'm Seeing Heath Ledger as Draco and Jake Gyllenhal as Harry. Don't Ask Me Where I Get My Ideas

"It's just great to be able to talk to other people about Harry Potter," says the first one, Lisa. I nod my head earnestly. "Particularly," she says, "Harry Potter porn."

Harry Potter porn? I say.

"Harry Potter gay porn,' she corrects me. "We write it. It's called slash fi ction. You take the characters and you imagine them in diff erent scenarios. There's het fiction too, where they think the characters are straight. Whereas we assume that everyone is bisexual until proven otherwise."

What can I say? Lisa is 38; she's a paralegal and lives in New York. Her friend, Hally, is 26, and a student. They just seem like perfectly nice, educated, middle-class women. Who write homoerotic fiction about wizards.

You know, I thought something was up when in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, at the beginning, Harry was in bed, under the blankets, playing with his glowing wand, trying to make it shoot off, and his little elf friend entered, saying something like, "Dobbie loves Harry Potter." I thought, "Did I go into the right theatre? Am I in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets or Harry Potter and the Chamber of His Secret Love?

And I felt dirty, someone-should-spank-me-hard dirty. I felt worse when I realized I was indeed in Chamber of Secrets, someone-owes-me-$9 worse.

"Loman Black" Is Going to be Included in the Next Box of Crayola Crayons

Black guy: What would you say if I said I wanted to get a Mystic Tan?
Tanning consultant: Oh, you could. It would give you a nice glow.
Black guy: You're not even going to discourage me?! I would never get a spray on tan. The blacker you are, the higher people assume your crime rate is.

That's true. Yaphet Kotto can't leave the house without a team of assistants and a GPS device to verify his alibi information. Wesley Snipes use to get the same treatment -- but I hear he's been Lightening -- and now, he can. Myself, I travel with a box of rubber gloves and lube to help out on the cavity searches. (You can't always depend on the police to bring their own, and then, some cities have budget cuts. Gloves and lubes are, usually, the first things to go.)

Like Anusol, It's Got It's Organ Right in the Name. It Has To Be Good

Nothing Goes Better with a Minty Fresh Ass than a Crystal Clear Rear

That's true. I love a minty-fresh ass and, god knows, I need to do something about my crackne, but I'm not sure. Tell me more.

Men, Women, Straight or Gay, everyone who has an ass can benefit from Sphincterine. Sphincterine was developed to clean, stimulate and refresh while giving the user complete confidence in any situation.

Confidence in any situation? Does that mean Sphincterine is safe for rimming?

Yes. Sphincterine has a pleasant minty flavor that tastes great and unlike soaps and chemically infused wipes, it does not leave a bitter taste. Sphincterine actually uses food-grade ingredients in its formulation.

Really? I mean, REALLY?

It's like Altoids for your Ass!

Although, Given the Tattoo on Her Shoulder, I'm Going to Guess It's a Student and Her Parents Are Really into Unrestrained Self-Expression

I hope that's one of the teachers, because I'd hate to think someone's parents let them leave the house dressed like that.

Geez, when did I become such a fuddy-duddy?

High Tea in the Parlour Makes the Ladies Hollar

We may be vanilla, but our labs are chocolate.

Based on the "Never Kick a Man When He's Down unless You're Sure He's Down. Then, Don't Stop Kicking" Theory

Mel Gibson’s Project Redlight
by Todd Levin

Internal Memo: Icon Pictures
From: M. Gibson
To: Production Staff

Guys—

As you know, I’ve been caught with my pants down. (But this time not literally, thankfully.) Under the influence of a deadly disease called alcoholism, I said some crazy things. Things that were totally made up and had never actually crossed my mind before, even casually. For this I am sorry, as the thoughtful statement drafted by my Jew publicist attests.

Due to these recent events, and at my Jew attorney’s behest, I’ve decided it would be prudent to put certain projects from our production slate on hold, at least until all of this mishigas clears up. Below are the Icon projects that are, as of today, “on ice.”

Peace be unto you,
Mel

Two words: Jelly. Tits. It's for the kids.

**It Means, "Fuck You"

A 39-year-old gentleman, clothed in boxer shorts, was arrested after punching through a plate glass window with his his fist to gain ingress to a McDonalds quick service restaurant at 3am. Police were quick to arrive on the scene, but their attempts to capture Adalberto Cardoso were foiled, because he was covered in perspiration and his own blood, making him too slippery to grip.

Police surrounded Mr. Cardoso inside the restaurant but he escaped by jumping through a broken window. Outside, Mr. Cardoso encountered a police dog, punched it in the mouth and neck, and jumped back through the broken window into the restaurant.

The police re-entered the restaurant and found Mr. Cardoso standing on top of a shake machine. As the police approached, Mr. Cardoso 'began throwing handfuls of milkshake at the police and the police dog, officers allege.'

When Mr. Cardoso pulled the machine from the wall, the dog attacked him and knocked him to the ground. The quick-thinking Mr. Cardoso put the shake machine's 220-volt power cord in his mouth and announced, 'I'm going to kill us all.'

Do you know why I'm not a police officer?* Because had I been at the scene of this crime, when he said, "I'm going to kill us all," I would've said something like, "What?! Sir, I can't understand a word you're saying. You're going to have to take the cord out of your mouth," assuming that he would've given me the time to get that out and assuming I weren't already incapacitated with laughter by the milkshake assault.

*For those of you who shouted, "Because you've got all the courage of Frenchman," va te faire foutre!**

Oh, Yeah, Like You Weren't Thinking the Same Thing

Three naked men walking on a bike path in Örebro, in central Sweden were stopped by police early on Wednesday.

“The young men were completely naked,” said Per Clavell, police spokesman, according to Dagens Nyheter. “The only thing they had with them was a bag with strawberries.”

Police stumbled across the three men during a routine neighborhood inspection.

“They said they had been tricked by a few girls with whom they had gone into the sauna,” he said. “The girls took all of their clothes and disappeared.”

They said they had no other way to get home at 4 a.m. than to stroll home naked. "Sure, okay, that explains the 'naked,'" said the policeman. "What's up with the strawberries?"

I Didn't Know Willie Nelson Made Underwear

One witness said he saw Bobo sitting with her legs apart while wearing a skirt and no underwear.

Defense attorney Shannon Foster sat in a chair facing the 17-year-old witness, moved her legs apart and asked, "Can you tell if I'm wearing underwear or not?"

"MY EYES! OH, SWEET, MERCIFUL GOD! HOW THEY BURN!" screamed the witness, before collapsing into a trembling ball of destroyed innocence.

Foster then replied, "So that's a 'yes?'"

Mattlock was never this good.

"I Am Not a Bigot or Anti-Semite," Said Gibson. "I Just Don't Like Jews. No. Wait a Minute"

Gibson has been called both a bigot and anti-Semite after news spread of his reputedly bigoted, anti-Semitic tirade during last Friday's DUI bust. Chief among the offending remarks credited to Gibson was the observation that the "fucking Jews" "are responsible for all the wars in the world."

On Saturday, Gibson addressed the alleged rant indirectly, noting that he was not a bigot or anti-Semite, merely researching the role of a bigot and anti-Semite for an upcoming project. He added that this character would be a "drunk," as well, before thanking the press for overlooking the latent misogyny of "sugartits," which he used to address one of the sheriff's deputies at the time of the arrest.

I have seen a lot of Mel Gibson's movie, and I can honestly say, I've never seen one of his characterizations display an ounce of the bigotry, anti-Semitism, and misogyny he's been accused of unless you count Mad Max, the guy in the Lethal Weapon movies, Braveheart, the plantation owner in The Patriot, Hamlet, . . . "

How Scarface Got His Groove Back

Finally, there's a Scarface I'd want to see.