Today's Safety Word Is "Crumple Zones"

I've been visiting car manufacturers' Web sites, looking for a new car. I think I've found it, and, possibly, the next Mrs. Loman. (It was the way Mistress used the paddle to explain the Cornering Brake Control that did it. She can be very persuasive.)

"'Ejaculate in a Vagina?' I Don't Know Much, but I Do Know This: That's the Worst Term for Fucking, I've Ever Heard" - Roy Blount Jr.

Ian Hollingshead has robbed David Mitchell of the Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Award. That's Hollingshead pictured above with the prize (the white joke of a thing that is not Courtney Love).

The Bad Sex Award goes to the person responsible for the writing the most "unconvincing, perfunctory, embarrassing or redundant passage of a sexual nature in otherwise sound literary novel." Clearly, this year, that honor belongs to David:

If Dawn Madden's breasts were a pair of Danishes, Debby Crombie's got two Space Hoppers. Each armed with a gribbly nipple. Tom Yew kissed them in turn and his saliva glistened in the April sun. I know watching was wrong but I couldn't not. Tom Yew slipped off her red panties and stroked the cressy hair there.

'If you want me to stop, Madam Crombie, you have to say now.'

'Oooh, Master Yew,' she croodled, 'don't you dare.'

Tom Yew got on her and sort of jiggled there and she gasped like he was giving her a Chinese burn and wrapped her legs round him, froggily.

Taking that as a clue, Master Yew moves up and down "Man-from-Atlantisly" until he "jerkjerks judderily" as if "booted in the balls," prompting dear Debby to make "salmony welts into his arse" with her fingernails.

That, my friends, is your winner.

You don't have to take my word for it. Go read the nominees for yourself. Unashamed or unaware of their crime, the Literary Review has posted them on their Web site. You'll see I'm right.

You'll also see that the penis gets the short end of the descriptive stick in literary fiction. It's enough to give a guy vagina envy.

I mean, I love my "bow-taut cock" as much as the next guy (um, ... just move on), but I couldn't help but covet a "engorged basketry of cowl and lip" after reading those passages.

I don't think I've had VE this bad since I read that at The Vagina Monologues, they ask women playful questions about their vaginas, like "What would you name it?" 'What would it wear?" "What would it say?" Afterwards, I wanted a vagina so I could participate in the dialogue. (answers: Nell Carter, a muu-muu, and it wouldn't say anything, so much as wheeze and sweat a lot.)

But I'm digressing again. (It's becoming a problem.)

I'd like to get back on topic, but, unfortunately, I need to get a move on. I'm off to find a gribbly nippled woman with cressy hair in her merkin place, to see if I can make her croodle. Apparently, this can only be done in daylight.

Pray for me.

What I'm Reading

[describing the end of a scavenger hunt] I know what my favorite moment of the night is. I ask Matt to tell me his.

"Battery Park," he says. . . .

I might even agree with him had it been during the day. But it was close to four in the morning at that point. Rats were audibly, fearlessly scurrying through the bushes nearby, and mosquitos -- their thoraxes no doubt full to bursting with West Nile virus -- buzzed incessantly about our ears. That was also when Jamie ran into a friend of his. This friend was not part of our game. He was there for other reasons. Gentle reader, I will let you in on something: if you are a gay man strolling of a summer's night through a dark New York City park sometime after 3:30 a.m., there is a reason for it and that reason is not so you will run into someone you know. In fact, the last person you want to run into is someone you know. Let me amend that: the second-to-last person you want to run into is someone you know. The truly very last person you want to run into is someone you know accompanied by dozens of jolly amateur sleuths.

With flashlights.

[and from an article on Fashion week] All of the designers I have met up to this point have been very nice, although upon being introduced to Karl Lagerfeld, he looks me up and down and dismisses me with the not super-kind, "What can you write that hasn't been written already?

. . . I have no idea. I can but try. The only thing I can come up with at that moment is that Lagerfeld's powdered white ponytail has dusted the shoulders of his suit with what looks like dandruff but isn't. Also, not yet having undergone his alarming weight loss, and seated on a tiny velvet chair, with his doughy rump dominating the miniature piece of furniture like a loose, flabby, ass-flavored muffin overrisen from its pan, he resembles a Daumier caricature of some corpulent, in humane oligarch drawn sitting on a commode, stuffing his greedy throat with the corpses of dead children, while from his other end he shits out huge, malodorous piles of tainted money. How's that for groundbreaking, Mr.L.?

When I got to Canada, I could hardly wait to go to Munro's so I could buy David Rakoff's book in the original Canadianese. The above, as you can see, is transcribed word-for-word in that Northern tongue. As much as it pains me to do so -- as so much of the nuance and subtle humor will be lost -- I'll post a translation later for those of you who lack the language skills to read the above as is, as David wrote it and wanted it to be read. I will do it because I care about you, my readers, and want to share wonderful things with you. That said, people, seriously, learn a second language: it opens up the world so much. But I'm digressing, aren't I? Forgive me. My point is, even if you have to read the American release, read Don't Get Too Comfortable. It is worth the effort.

Enjoy.

"God Hates FAQs" Even the Very, Very Funny Ones

The time of the rapture is at hand. The signs described in the Bible that foreshadow the return of Jesus Christ are becoming all too clear. Not all who live during coming Great Tribulation will be spirited away to be with God. The Bible tells us that only those who repent of their sins and follow the teachings of Jesus Christ may enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Do you know someone who is in danger of being “left behind” because of a sinful life? Imagine if you could write a letter to a friend or loved one after the Great Day of Reckoning. Maybe a message to your family telling them to trust in God, and that everything will be okay. Perhaps you would leave instructions to care for your pets after your departure. It could be that your message is the light that opens a sinner's eyes to the Glory of God and allows them entrance to Heaven during the trials before the Second Coming. This is where the Post-Rapture Post comes in.

Just write your letter and it will be hand-delivered immediately following the exodus of the pure from the Earth. But you must be thinking to yourself, “How can the letters be delivered after the Rapture?” The answer is simple. The creators of this site are Atheists.

As you know, I have plans to defile churches and daughters. Actually, I have plans to defile churches with daughters (I'm looking at you, Jenna and Barbara) when the Rapture comes. And I expect to be very busy.

But in my down time—everyone needs rest (if you haven't got your health. . . )—I hope these guys will let me deliver the mail.

Which Nicole Kidman Character Are You?

Which NICOLE KIDMAN Character Are You?

"Diane Arbus" in FURYou're a creative super freak and a true trailblazer. Good for you for embracing your curiousity. But do try and maintain your sanity whilst living on the edge. It's a highwire act.
Take this quiz!








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Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

How can I get you naked?

• Draw the bath
• Read me some poetry
• [strips]

Until I saw that, I would have never thought there was a Nicole Kidman Character that fit me. Live and learn.

Sex ID: Find Out How Your Mind Works

Some researchers say that men can have 'women's brains' and that women can think more like men.

Find out more about 'brain sex' differences by taking the Sex ID test, a series of visual challenges and questions used by psychologists in the BBC One television series Secrets of the Sexes:

The eyes task analyses your ability to empathise. In other words, how in touch you are with other people's emotions

Out of 10 pairs of eyes, you matched 8 with the correct mood.

Women are said to outperform men in this task because they tend to be more sensitive to facial expressions. They are generally better at discerning someone's mood just by looking at their eyes. Studies of children's behaviour have shown that on average girls make more eye contact than boys.

If you scored 7 - 10: Your result suggests you are a good empathiser, sensitive to other people's emotions. Women generally fall into this category.

Yeah, it's true. I'm a chick. In almost every category, I ended up lumped in with the women.

I'd have it no other way.

Do You Take It?

Well, my father says you're nifty,
And you've heard of Baudelaire,
And we, both, agree human rights abuses are unfair.

You understand your feelings,
And you're not afraid to share,
And I think I could do something with your hair.

You smell nice,
And you're groovy,
And we, both, like foreign movies.
My mother says, you have that touch of class.

Well, I could see a shining future
Where we'll dialogue and nurture,
But there's one last thing I feel I need to ask: . . .

Oh, calm down. It's not like I linked to "Fist Me This Christmas."

God Bless Those Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys, and by "Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys," I Mean French-Speaking Washingtonians

Claim: Washing instruction tags on Tom Bihn bags carry a hidden message in French.

Status: True.

In April 2004, Tom Bihn label someone called attention to the fact something was a little odd about the care instruction tags found on backpacks and laptop cases produced by manufacturer TOM BIHN of Port Angeles, Washington. Specifically, what was unusual was that the English and French statements on those tags didn't quite match — while both versions included the usual admonitions not to use bleach, not to machine dry, and not to iron the bags, the French-language version included an extra phrase: "NOUS SOMMES DESOLES QUE NOTRE PRESIDENT SOIT UN IDIOT. NOUS N'AVONS PAS VOTE POUR LUI." Roughly translated, this statement reads in English as: "We're sorry our president is an idiot. We didn't vote for him."

Apparently, sales increased after the "secret" got out.

Of Course, if You're Can't Take Death, Desire, and the Mockery of Same, then My Delicate Flowers, Gently Type "Family Circus.Com" into Your Browser

For anyone who has eaten the whole box, or bag, or carton the photographs in this series make light of our secret binges. Here, the consequences of indulgence are tabloid or monster movie deaths.

My favorites are the Whistler's Mother Oreos and the Birds bananas.

"That's Not Good Enough," You Say. "Biff, I Want More of the Funny." Okay, Let Your Mouse Pointer Rest on Any of the Pictures for Some Pop Up Goodness

Pro-gun Democrats did better in the midterms than probably any other class of politician, but the National Rifle Association is not in the business of reflecting moderate political reality. The NRA lives off memberships, and the standard card-carrying member has two enemies: Democrats and … deer, most likely.

But even loyalists go soft, as the GOP learned last month, and you need some Grade A propaganda to get people riled up again. Let no one accuse the NRA of shirking its duty. Freedom In Peril: Guarding the 2nd Amendment in the 21st Century, is a spectacularly beautiful graphic novel. Here, for example, is one of the biggest threats to the white suburban hunter: dirty hippies and their evil sidekicks: the dynamite-carrying owl, sinister pig, angry Wall Street bull, dire wolf, terror chicken and Land Lobster:

I know what you're thinking:

"The NRA has finally lost its mind, so much so that I'm embarrassed to continue to be associated with them and must now turn my back on the entire organization and the Second Amendment."

That's exactly what the hippies and owl-missiles and chickens want you to think.

Jessa's on Vacation, but as You Can See, Bookslut the Blog Is Doing Very Well in Her Absence

Dear Jesus,

. . . I know I'm supposed to go to Santa for this--it seems ridiculously unfair to ask you for a present on your birthday--but I have a request. (Ask and ye shall receive, of course, and I will say this policy has never let me down):

Do you think you could arrange the heads up for converted Catholic, viciously anti-choice Dawn Eden, author of this new memoir The Thrill of the Chaste: Finding Fulfillment While Keeping Your Clothes On, about how the Catholic doctrine on women, sex, birth control, and your own celibacy were manufactured for extremely crass and usually violent political and economic reasons long after your death and have nothing to do with spirituality, love, self-worth, or belief?

Despite her reactionary politics, I think it's possible that Eden truly understands that you live in everybody's heart. So I ask with my own heart open:

Could you explain it to her that--whether she's married or not--you also live in her pussy?

xoxo
Love, Elizabeth

Since I didn't get the car I asked for (and now desperately need, thank you) -- or did you park it behind my building? -- could you just convert my prayer over to hers. I know you were probably too busy getting LMAO Elmos for orphans to worry about my needs. I understand that. As I am quite fortunate as things go, it's only fair that my selfish desires come second, behind the needs of those that Fortune has shunned. Good on you: I applaud your adherence to principle. But now, I'm asking for someone else.

See what you can do.

By the way, about the car, I've got a birthday coming up.

T'Was the Night Before Christmas

Last night, while I was nestled all snug in bed, visions of Monica Belluci softly spanking Isabelle Adjani for dropping the French tickler dancing through my head, some asshole was crashing into my car, as you can see from the note card left by the nice police officer who apprehended the bastard. Luckily, I'm a sound sleeper, and, therefore, was able to continue on with my spank inferno reverie despite the cacophony of twisting metal and exploding glass.

Christmas miracles happen, is what I'm saying.

The very best wishes to you and yours on this day of wonders,

from Biff Loman and the red, wet leather-clad elves at The Truth*

Heaven Just Got a Little Funkier

James Brown, the dynamic, pompadoured "Godfather of Soul," whose rasping vocals and revolutionary rhythms made him a founder of rap, funk and disco as well, died early Monday, his agent said. He was 73.

Copsidas said the cause of death was uncertain. "We really don't know at this point what he died of," he said. "Boogie Woogie Flu has been ruled out; Rocking Pneumonia is still a possibility."

JAMES BROWN
Godfather of Soul
Grandfather of Tight Pants
Step-Dad to the Men's Girdle
May 3, 1933 - December 25, 2006
May He Rest in Peace
Good Gawd, Y'all

I'm Also Wondering What Makes Your Climb so "Amazing," because It Couldn't Be Ra__ -- Nah -- but That's a Rumination for Another Day

One Man's Amazing Climb to the A-list of G-men

At 49, Mike Mason is one of the nation's highest-ranking black FBI agents. For his entire life, Mason has been determined to not be defined by race. – Sari Horwitz

Reading about you for the first time in a series of articles entitled "Being a Black Man," I can't help but wonder, "How's that working out for you, Mike?"

Because the Relationship Isn't Over Till Someone Is Invoking the Power of the Lord

Two women fired from UT-Arlington told supervisors that they prayed and rubbed religious oils on a co-worker's cubicle because they believed she was "demonically oppressed," according to personnel records the university released Friday. . . .

In an e-mail to supervisors, the male co-worker said he was invited to witness the praying and cleansing but became uncomfortable when Shatkin began to chant loudly and rub perfumed oil on the absent co-worker's cubicle wall.

The man quoted Shatkin as praying, "You vicious evil dogs. Get the hell out of here in the name of Jesus. ... I command you to leave."

Wow, those are the same words screamed at me by every one-night-stand I've ever had: good times, good times.

I Hear Next Year She's Going to Knight Chuck D., because, God Help Her, Elizabeth Loves the Phat Beats

U2 singer Bono is to be knighted by the Queen in the New Year.

The frontman will be honoured for his humanitarian work, which along with Bob Geldof included organising Live 8 in 2005, and his services to the music industry.

The 46-year-old will receive the award at a ceremony to be conducted by British ambassador David Reddaway in Dublin.

Despite receiving the honour, he will not be awarded with the title of "Sir" because he is not a British national.

I honestly hope someone in the audience at the knighting ceremony holds up a lighter and sways gently as the Queen dubs him. And I hope someone else shouts, "Free Bird!"

All of a Sudden, I Feel a Need to Make a Doctor's Appointment

A Melbourne doctor and former Cleo Bachelor of the Year nominee who made sexual comments to his patient during a pap smear is to be counselled on how to talk to women.

Richard Young may continue to practice medicine but was formally reprimanded and cautioned today by the Medical Practitioners Board of Victoria.

The board found Dr Young acted unprofessionally by digitally penetrating the woman in a way that was not medically required during the test.

Also, while examining her, Dr Young told his patient: “holy mackerel, you are small”.

He then said: “you're really small, which is great for – “ at which point she cut him off by saying “not too good for having a baby”.

Let me get this right: The board found Dr Young acted unprofessionally by digitally penetrating the woman in a way that was not medically required during the test? Unprofessionally? How about "criminally?"

I'm no Matlock, but I'm pretty sure if while listening to my heart's irregular heartbeat during a routine checkup, my doctor penetrated me and began massaging my prostate -- and not in that good way that I like, because, really, what's the chance she would know how to do that off-hand -- that that would amount to a sexual assault. So how can this guy get away with digitally penetrating his patient for no medical reason whatsoever?

And great googlely mooglely! Can you imagine having a female doctor say during a hernia exam, "Turn your head and c____? Holy crap, are you small?! Really, really small, which is good for. . . I've got nothing. What could a penis that small be good for? Seriously, could you tell me? Because the size . . . No offense, but I've seen bigger clitorises." I imagine the guy would commit sepuku with a tongue depressor.

But I might be projecting.

I Know: It's a Cheap Shot, but I'm Entitled to One Every Now and Then

Former White House intern Monica Lewinsky, remembered for her sexual relationship with former President Bill Clinton, has received a Master's of Science degree in Social Psychology from the London School of Economics, her publicist has announced. . . .

"When Lewinsky walked across the stage to receive her degree and to shake hands with Sir Howard Davies, Director of LSE, the audience of students and parents erupted in spontaneous applause," said publicist Barbara Hutson's statement.

Hutson left out that 90% of the male professors in Lewinsky's discipline shifted nervously in their seats after hearing an audience member say in a stage whisper, "I wonder who she had to blow to get that degree." Nor did she mention that 10-20% of the female professoriate did the same.

Yikes! I Can See Why It's a Virgin Conception.

In an evolutionary twist, Flora the Komodo dragon has managed to become pregnant all on her own without any male help. She is carrying seven baby Komodo dragons. . . .

Other reptile species reproduce asexually in a process known as parthenogenesis. But Flora's virginal conception, and that of another Komodo dragon earlier this year at the London Zoo, are the first time it has been documented in a Komodo dragon.

"We were blown away when we realized what she'd done," said Kevin Buley, a reptile expert at Flora's home at the Chester Zoo in this town in northern England. "But we certainly won't be naming any of the hatchlings Jesus.

"Okay, okay," he didn't add, "If it'll get you insulted Christians off my back, we'll name the one who thinks he's better than everyone else Jesus. Happy?"

Calm Down, Mr. Loman. It's Obviously Part of a Misinformation Campaign. You Don't Really Think the Military Publishes It Playbook, Do You?*

The geek in me is thrilled to find this, and can't wait to read it. The American citizen in me who is concerned for the welfare of our troops in the field and their leaders' ability to accomplish their mission is bleeding from his eyes in disbelief: WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS DOING IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN, ON THE FUCKING INTERNET?

*Let me answer that with a nod.

At First Glance, I Thought They Were Hershey's Kisses

pee & poo plush dolls
emma megitt

Birds do it. Bees do it. Even we do do it! Here’s the new #1 and #2 toy for your toddler. The pee & poo set makes a fun, light-hearted tool for introducing your child to potty training (SSSH. It even makes a great gift for hard-to-please adults.) These cuddly little stuffed dolls are covered with a washable plush cotton surface.

And don't miss their other toys -- Semen and Smegma -- for your Teens. Order now while supplies last.

Biff Loman: Bringing Naughty Back

But get your mom something else, because . . . Well, just because. Trust me on this.

Someone Owes This Kid a Childhood

Take away her video games, and she might get medieval on your ass. Consider yourself warned.

Winner and Still Heavyweight Champion of the World . . . Japan

The pretty maids are lined up in a row, offering to take your coat or hand you a menu, all with a little bow and a rapid batting of lashes. The service comes with a smile, but it's the costumes they are wearing that endear them to their largely male clientele.

Each is dressed in the white-and-black frilly uniform of a French maid, cut short on legs provocatively covered in black pull-up hose. . . .

"They are not just waitresses," says owner Aaron Wang, a 24-year-old Beijing native who left China six years ago to study at York University. "They are friendly, always smiling, they treat the customer like he was in his own home."

Mr. Wang has taken this year off from studying economics to launch the café, which opened in July. In Asia, he says, the trend has been growing exponentially since the first maid café (or meido) appeared in Tokyo's Akihabara district in 2000. . . .

In Japan, the trend is to call the customer "master." But Mr. Wang says Chinese people would find that appellation "too weird."

And so at iMaid Café (which caters to a mostly Chinese clientele thanks to its location near Kennedy and Finch), the young women who work there have a different greeting: "Shang-di." It translates as "God."

'Cause that's not weird, at all.

You know, Japan* has become the heavily doped East German swimmers of the Freaky Olympics. They set a new record for freaky every time they enter the pool. Seriously, at this point, if someone told me fetishists there were injecting gasoline into their bladders, and lighting their urine streams to give their partners hot golden showers, I'd believe it (and I'd be searching the Web for video, because, as you know, I love the funky: that's how I roll).

We should probably petition the UN for an intervention -- but not just yet. Let's hold off till we see if they'll take the bait on this hot golden showers thing.

* Yes, I realize the cafe in question is owned by a Chinese citizen, but the idea for it was taken from the Japanese, so they get the credit.

"Because Those Liberal Freaks Go Too Far"

Bart: What the hell is this?

Lisa: It's one of those campy, 70s throwbacks that appeals to Generation X-ers.

Bart: We need another Vietnam to thin out their ranks a little.

Wow. Now, ask for a million dollars. Ooh, and lap dances, lots and lots of lap dances.

How Not to Get Your Ass Kicked by the Police

Chris Rock: Now, people in the black community, myself, often worry that we might be the victims of police brutality, so as a public service the Chris Rock Show proudly presents this educational video:

glumbert - How not to get your ass kicked by the police

Have you ever been face-to-face with a police officer and wondered, "Is he about to kick my ass?" Well, wonder no more. If you follow these easy tips, you'll be fine.

First, obey the law. Laws are made for a reason; Think of them as hints.

You've heard people say, "Man, I wouldn't do that shit if I was you." Well, here's some of that shit: Car Jacking, Armed Robbery, Arson, Selling Drugs, Buying Drugs, Stabbing, Shooting.

You know, you're probably won't get your ass kicked if you just use common sense.

If you jump a subway turnstile, you might just get off with a warning from the police; but, if you jump a turnstile carrying a loaded gun and smoking a joint, then, maybe, you need your ass kicked.

Thanks, Chris. You're a fused spine and a ruptured spleen late with the advice, but still, your help is appreciated.

My Client Thinks You Know Exactly What He's Talking About

Penny: Would you mind if my lawyer reviewed this?

Judah: O-Of course. Sh-sure.

Penny: Okay. Great.

Penny's lawyer: Thank you, Penny. Okay. "I, the undersigned give Judah. . ."

Judah: Yeah, that's me.

Penny's lawyer: Riiight. ". . .give Judah on this date, the tenth of January, full consent to the following sexual activities: kissing, smooching, pecking, whispering dirty thoughts, . . ." [to Penny] Ear nibbling? [She nods] Okay. "Ear nibbling, Frenching, caressing, light petting . . ." [to Judah's lawyer] Okay, my client is not interested in a hand job.

Judah's lawyer: Neither is mine.

Penny's lawyer: Great. Oral sex?

Judah's lawyer: That my client is interested in.

Penny's lawyer: Five minutes.

Judah's lawyer: We want at least ten.

Penny's lawyer: My client will do ten minutes as long as your client reciprocates.

Judah's lawyer: My client doesn't follow.

Penny's lawyer: My client thinks your client knows -exactly what we're talking about. . . .

Judah's lawyer: On principle, he just doesn't do it.

Penny's lawyer: My client says, "You cant run from second base to home plate without crossing third.

Judah's lawyer: [after conferring with her client] Okay. Ten minutes of Article Seventeen.

Penny's lawyer: And we're on to intercourse. My client agrees to positions one through seven as well as thirteen. . . .

Judah's lawyer: Fair enough. I think we've covered just about everything unless, of course, I can, um, bring up Article Twenty.

Penny's lawyer: Not in your wildest dreams.

Boy, I could've used a couple of those in the past.

Actually, that's not true. They would've been wasted on me. I'm too coy to commit to anything on paper. Seriously, ask me if I do certain things, and I'll tell you, "No, absolutely not." But ask me again in the dark, after I'm kiss-drunk, and the next thing you know, it's morning, there's Astroglide everywhere, and the vegetable drawer is empty. I don't know why that is, exactly, but I blame religion.

We Found These Nude Photos of Your Wife in the Garbage, and We're Returning Them to You because even a Dump Has Standards

A STUNNED Paul McCartney is grateful that family pictures - including nude photos of his estranged wife Heather Mills - have been returned to him.

Private photos of the former Beatle and Mills - including one of Mills in a bath wearing nothing but diamond earrings - were found dumped at a British rubbish tip.

Wow. Those must be some really awful nudes.

Yes, I Went to Canada. Yes, the US Let Me Back In. Yes, I Am as Surprised as You Are

Canadian Customs Official: And what is the nature of your visit, Mr. Loman?

Me: Vengeance.

Canadian Customs Official: Pardon me?

Me: A little over one hundred fifty years ago, a group of slaves made an escape to Canada on the Underground Railroad. When it became obvious that the entire group couldn't make it, one group, the Lomans, agreed to stay behind, allowed themselves to be captured, so the rest could get away, based on the promise that as soon as it was humanly possible, the others would return for them and lead them to freedom. Well, they never came back. After all this time, you'd think we'd just let it go, but, no. My family has a bone to pick with a few of your "Canadians." I've come to pick a bone.

Canadian Customs Official: Erm. . . [reaching for a phone]

Me: Tourism. I've come to see the sights.

Canadian Customs Official: Enjoy your stay in Canada, Mr. Loman.

Sly Stallone Speaks, Well, Okay, Slurs. No, Wait. He Answers Your Questions. That's Right

3. As one of the best action stars of the 1980's early 90's, how do you feel about all the other action stars of the era coming back to give "one last hurrah" to some of the films that sky-rocketed their careers? (i.e. Schwarzenegger - Terminator 3, Bruce Willis - Die Hard 4, Harrison Ford - Indy 4, Eddie Murphy – Beverly Hills Cop IV and you yourself - Rocky Balboa and Rambo 4). Do modern day action stars struggle to live up to the entertainment of the "good ol' days"?

Brandon Chisholm
-Chicago

Slyvester Stallone replies:

I think it’s pretty dangerous for action heroes to try and push it. I realize I am already on very thin ice and don’t recommend my two friends Bruce and Arnold to do it unless they had this overwhelming, gigantic ego-tick crawling away inside of them to finish this series on a certain note. I think there’s a big difference between the modern day action dud compared to the latter day action crud. Whenever a dud confronts a crud, bad things happen. But all I can say is… take the top five action guys and line them up against the old school action guys and what you’ll have is five young action guys wearing toenail polish and answering to the name “Bitch.”

If only his movies were that good, . . . .

Seven Pound Dildo + Human Face = ?

Despite the salve to the ego hearing them is, the platitudes simply aren't true. Size matters.

Clearly, the motion matters, too. But you don't get this kind of a knock out using a love nubbin, I don't care how you swing it.

Still My Favorite Comic Strip

And that little girl grew up to be my hero (wait for it), Laura Bush. Now, you know the rest of the story.

Oh, Snap! No, He Didn't. No, He Didn't Play the Bible Card

I give you Gary Randall. He runs a blog called Faith and Freedom, and he is none too happy that we’ve got someone in our government who’s obeying the wrong story book:

Keith Ellison, D-Minn, the first Muslim elected to the United States Congress, has announced that he will not take his oath of office on the Bible, but on the Koran. . . .

And if Mr. Ellison is allowed to use his Koran at his swearing in, will every socialist now choose to use the writings of Karl Marx, and every scientologist a copy of “Dianetics” by L. Ron Hubbard, and what if a David Duke type racist is elected, could he use Hitler’s “Mein Kampf?” If not, why not?

Why not? Because if a David Duke type racist was elected, he’d just use the Bible.

Point and match, Mr. Ballard. Nicely played, sir.

Got it? Good. Now, Gwin' On Over to Amazon.com. Hurry. Step and Fetch It before Dere Ain't No Mo'

If you've yet to cross me off your Holiday shopping list because you can't answer the question "What do you get the black man who has everything?" I can help you. The black man with everything wants -- nay, -- needs one of these. The Black Man Bottle Opener.

P.S. On the bright side, they didn't call it the Sambo Bottle Opener. By the growing evidence, it's apparent they probably thought about it.

P.P.S. They definitely thought of it. Great Jesus at a Slave Auction! Will wonders ever cease?

Only Conan Would Think to Ball-Gag a Manatee

Okay, sure, it was the Fetish section that got me interested, but, believe me, I subscribed for the Live Manatee Webcam action. See? I'm not as big a freak as you think I am.

I've Got Eyes. Eyes Hold No Fascination for Me

You scored as Lust. Seven deadly sins
created with QuizFarm.com
Don't look at me so smugly. I'll have you know, Lust didn't just walk away with the title. In fact, Sloth, and Gluttony tied with Lust. It wasn't until afterwards, when I was given a tie-breaker quiz, that Lust came out on top. So don't give me that "Well, duh, we've read the blog. Of course, Lust won" look.

And, yes, I am staring at your tits.

D'uh.

Had He Lived in America a Little Longer, He Would've Known This Was a Bad Idea

Husband thinking he's leaving a note card on a gift for his lover: I want it to say, "Dear Nykki, Thank you for showing me the ways of American love. You are my favorite Buddha call."

Wife (so not Nykki): Who is Nykki?

Listen to a marriage disintegrate before your disbelieving ears.

Bottom line: Happiness lies in the mouth.

The Right Ring Really Can Express Your Intentions

Well, I showed her the ring, got down on my knee, and popped the question. She said, "Yes, of course, I'll marry you." Then, there was a pause, which made me think she was reconsidering, before she said, "You know, while you're down there. . . " The rest is history. And that, my darling children, is how I proposed to your mother.

Now, run along and play. Be home when the street lights come on.

Something, You Know, for the Ladies

Sometimes people forget that the male crotchal region is the source of all the world’s evil. Not me. You see, I have the misfortune of being born with a male crotchal region permanently attached to the terrain between my waist and knees, and as a result am locked in epic struggle with the various devils, haints and malicious vapors always erupting out of my pants to do battle with the forces of light. It’s a lot of responsibility. . . .

In fact, let’s review: first of all, you got your pubic hair, which is scraggly and bristly and difficult to groom. Ugh, pubic hair, I feel a little queasy just typing that out. Then of course there are the blotchy, wrinkly weiner and balls, which – let’s face it – on their own or as a combo are damply comical, at best.

Around the corner, of course, fudge is made. This takes place in the booty crack, which is less a body part than an abomination defying description in the best Lovecraftian tradition, where to gaze into its unspeakably malevolent eye is to risk turning mad, etc. All this stuff is associated with a dizzyingly unpleasant array of poo, pee, steam, boners, fluids, aromas and – really, you know, if I believed in God I’d spend a fair amount of time praying the shit out of some new design suggestions, should He ever decide to roll out Man Crotch 2.0.

I'm not so upset with the design as I am with the function, so if He's open for suggestions, I've two words for Him that He's already familiar with: Multiple. Orgasms.

But if we're adding new stuff, there's also a little thing I'd like to call the B-Spot, named after it's discoverer, Biff Loman (because if anyone can find it, . . .). For those of you who haven't figured out what a B-Spot does, see the preceding paragraph (but with greater intensity, you know, so intense everyone in your genetic line feels it).

Of Course, Most of the Misfortune Was Actually Me Pinching Them, but My Point Still Stands

Here's the funny thing about parenthood. On the one hand, having a child makes you inexplicably start loving all children. . . .

On the other hand, parenthood tends to make you revel in the small injuries and indignities to which children are subjected (or inadvertently subject themselves). Before, upon observing an inattentive child walk headlong into a fence post, I would gasp in alarm and rush to his aid; now I'll roar with laughter and take a mental snapshot of the scene, something to chuckle over for months to come. It's a little bit of rebellion against our masters.

So if there are any childless women reading, bookmark this entry. The next time your period is a few weeks later, you may want to come back and take a gander at the photo above; if you snicker, it's time to start shopping for bassinets.

I've been laughing at the misfortune of children for years. Who knew it was just my paternal streak yearning to breathe free.

But on Behalf of a Grateful Nation, Thank You for Doing the Genital Heavy Lifting

Hollywood has its share of dubious fashion trends: the purse-sized chihuahua, the oversized sunglasses, the return of leg-warmers.

But the apparent desire by some of Hollywood's hottest young female stars to be photographed getting in and out of limousines in short skirts while wearing absolutely no undergarments is arguably one of Tinseltown's most disturbing new crazes. . . .

Gynecologist Jackie Thomas cautions against fans following in the footsteps of their Hollywood idols. In terms of vaginal infections, no underwear at all can often be better than constricting synthetic panties, she says, but there are other considerations to take into account.

"It's unhygienic not so much for the woman who's not wearing underwear, but to the people around her," says Thomas, who practises in Toronto. "Let's face it - like every other woman, they've got a certain amount of discharge and they are hanging around with other people."

Thomas points out that doctors often advise women who have just given birth to forgo underwear for a few weeks to let "their vaginas air out."

Sometimes, I don't know how you people walk around with those things.*