Take a Look at Your Latest Teacher Gone Wild

It was supposed to be college day for the students of Ware Shoals High School in South Carolina, a chance to learn about educational prospects at a local institution. But according to police, two of the school’s cheerleaders ditched the event (the exact date hasn’t been made public) and instead headed to a motel with Jill Moore, their coach. There, they met up for a tryst with two National Guardsmen who recruited at their school. Moore loosened things up by allegedly providing the girls with vodka. Then, the cops say, she repaired to a room with one of the soldiers and set up a different room for the two cheerleaders and the other soldier to “hook up.” According to authorities, the second Guardsman and one of the girls later admitted that they had a sexual relationship. . . .

Moore, who also worked as a guidance office clerk at the school, stands accused of a litany of inappropriate behavior. Authorities accuse her of regularly buying alcohol and cigarettes for members of her squad.

I dated a cheerleader in high school. She was sweet and kind, intelligent and bubbly, with a penchant for doing the right thing, the kind of girl you could take home to mother and make your mother feel unworthy.

I thought the world of her, but, now, after reading about the cheerleaders of Ware Shoals High School, I think I got the short end of the cheerleading stick. I think she owes me an apology.

Because if It Says That, You're Definitely Fucked

Actually, once you stamp it "Used by Sting," the rest become redundant

You Can Always Spot the Loman Children. They're the Ones Shunning Others to Smoke Cigarettes and Drink Coffee beside the Slide

Friends, social life, sex, money, time; I anticipated difficulties with all these things before our son was born. What I hadn't anticipated was his complete lack of skepticism. His wide-eyed non-pessimism. His (ugh) optimism. And optimism is a bitch. . . .

. . . I want to tell him, but I can't.

I want to tell him that the applesauce in his "Organic Baby" applesauce is the same goddamn applesauce that's in Mommy and Daddy's applesauce, only with a picture of a baby girl on the label and three times the price.

"Baby," he says when I bring out the jar. "Girl!"

He leans over and kisses her.

There are so many, many things I want to tell him.

"Whore," I want to correct him. Shill. The blonde-haired, pink-ribboned brainchild of some pathetic Brand Manager — "V.P., Apple Sauce" — at some Allied Transglobal Foods and Heavy Machinery Concern, Inc. "Making Good Things for Good People!"

"Girl," says my son, pointing to the girl on the jar. "Hap-pee."

"She better be," I want to tell him, "or Mother Showbiz gives her the strap. If she's lucky she'll end up doing the weather on the Local 8 newscast; more than likely, she'll end up doing porn. You know how many Gerber babies grow up to do porn? A lot," I want to tell him. "Trust me." But I can't.

Because of my inability to understand why he can't, I would make a really terrible father. Actually, that's like Reason No. Eight Gazillion twenty-one Why I Would Be a Really Terrible Father, but who's counting.

Every Time You Press the F12 Key, Bill Gates Strangles a Puppy

Jon: What does the F12 button do?

Bill: I'd stay away from that if I were you.

Now, I Think, I'm Agin' It

Check the record. Till now, I've been for gay marriage, but after watching that, I've got to tell you, my opinion's changing.

Information on the so-called "Global Warmings"

The President: When you think back to Biblical times, when Adam and Eve talked to that snake 6,000 years ago, when the world was created, it was hot back then, too. Why do you think Adam and Eve were naked? You see what I'm saying? I mean, I'm not making this stuff up.

You didn't hear Adam and Eve running around talking about emission standards or hybrid cars. In fact, Adam and Eve drove an Excursion.

The director: Cut!

What Does It Profit a Man to Gain a Million-Dollar Erection if, in the End, He Haseth a Ten-Cents Orgasm? -- Loman 3:16

When an orgasm has been achieved through sex, you can measure theta waves. These are also said to cause the "running high" feeling of euphoria experienced sometimes by marathon runners. If theta waves are taken as a criterion, the entire brain emits theta waves when women reach an orgasm that are close on 10 times stronger than when men climax. So, if theta waves are an indication of an orgasm's strength, then women experience an orgasm that is physically impossible for men to go through. Putting it a little crudely, if the intensity of a woman's orgasm was played through a man's brain, there's a danger that the shock to his system would kill him.

If you think words like "danger" and "shock" and "kill" are going to scare me away from efforts to increase the intensity of my orgasm to female levels, I've got a couple of words for you: erotic, asphyxiation. You're going to have to try harder.

Don't get me wrong. I hear you. I get what you're saying about the "Theta waves" and the "10 times stronger than men's orgasms" and the "shock could kill" and the yadda, yadda, yadda. I get it. I really do. But you know what? That Orgasm Gap ain't going to close itself, Poindexter. Somebody's going to have to get busy on a female orgasm pill -- and I mean, toute de suite!

Honestly, people, does it take all of you to cure cancer?

Of Course, None of This Would've Happened if He'd Simply Tasered the Baby, Instead

A man who zapped his wife's grandmother with a Taser tells a Washington newspaper that if he had it to do over again he wouldn't have used it.

Aaron de Bruyn was arrested after a dispute earlier this week over how to discipline his seven-month-old son.

He gave the baby a swat on his diapered rear-end to stop him from grabbing electrical wires. The wife's grandmother, who was visiting, called that child abuse and said she'd have the child taken away.

That's when de Bruyn told her to leave the house. When she refused, he got out the Taser and gave her a 60-second countdown and then used the stun gun on her right shoulder.

In doing so, he was able to teach grandma the lesson he was trying to teach his son: Don't fuck with electricity.

Bring Out the Hellman's, and Bring Out the Best

Well, a foley artist is somebody who creates sound for motion pictures. You might not know this, but every movie you go and see, every sound is made in a studio like this: screeching tires, somebody slamming a door, or, in my case, balls smacking against a chick's ass.

And just so you know, if you need to make the sound of intercourse, all you need is some Miracle Whip and a pickle. And here's a tip for you Star Wars fetishists out there, you know, those of you into Wookie Skat, . . . No, you're just going to have to watch.

From This Tiny Seed of a Book, Ann Coulter's Adam's Apple Grew

"Highly recommended"
- National Center for the Study of Children's Literature

"Why Mommy is a Democrat is a sweet children's tale that reminds us why we are all Democrats. I loved it!"
- Lizz Winstead, co-creator of The Daily Show

"I loved this book. It is my favorite book"
- Some kid (age 5)
Shady Shores, TX

"The sample pages made me throw up in my mouth and goose-step across my kitchen. I now know what it means to hate."
- Biff Loman, citizen easily repulsed by propaganda disguised as education

Chop Away the Gay

"Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain."
--Oscar Wilde (reformed homosexual)

C.H.O.P.S is the powerful new program developed by Christian Youth expert Donnie Davies. C.H.O.P.S stands for CHANGING HOMOSEXUALS into ORDINARY PEOPLE.

If you have been having feelings that you DO NOT want to have towards people of the same sex as you, then this is the program for you.

If you've been acting on those same feelings, then this is DEFINATELY the program you've been looking for.

Donnie Davies

Hello Friends, I hope you take the time to read the quote by our good friend and compatriot, Oscar Wilde. In that one quote Oscar brings to life the isolation and despair of what he refers to as 'us', the homosexuals. It is a long, lonely, desolate road, homosexuality. I've been there, friends. I know how horrible and rough that road can be. I have been called a 'Faggot'. You are not alone and guess what, God Loves You even if he hates your Homosexuality. You just can't stay that way. Let me help you love yourself. Follow me and together we'll C.H.O.P.S away the Gay.

Our Activities

How exactly do we C.H.O.P.S away the Gay? Well, we do it in the only way I know how. It's the same method my mother used when she saw a cigarette dangling from my lips and wanted me to quit. She got me to Choke the Smoke, by smoking pack after pack of Kools until I puked. (To this day, I can't go near a cigarette.) Copying that tried and true method, here, we chop away the gay by forcing you to have anal and oral sex with me, over and over and over again , bumping and grinding, pitching and catching, until finally you scream, "Enough with the Gay! There's got to be a better way!" (And you will.) Trust me. It works -- if not the first time, then definitely, by the second or third. I have never failed to turn a gay man straight.

Praise the Lord.

And check out the list of gay bands.

Seriously, Ravi Shankar, DMX, Eminem, Jay-Z, Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Village People: I had no idea.

Under-Ease: "Before Someone You Love Has to Kill You"

Testimonial

For the past 32 years of my life, I've suffered with Crohns Disease, and Inflamatory Bowel Syndrome which causes symptoms of diarrhea and excesssive foul smelling gas. The embarrassment and consequent social anxiety would many times actually increase these symptoms.

I am a clinical psychologist in private practice and it has been tremendously embarrassing when I pass gas while working; often with little or no control. The most embarrassing moment of my working career was when a client said,'It smells like sewage in here!' My professionalism melted when I falsely explained to the client that what he was smelling was the foul stench of failure that clung to everything he did, including our sessions, which I then ended.

My devoted husband of 30 years had also struggled with sleeping in the same bed with me, and it would sometimes interfere with our intimacy. My children could laugh at it, but would leave the room. I noticed an increase in my symptoms when I was embarrassed about the foul smelling gas.

On one Thanksgiving night, as my husband and I were lying in bed after a wonderful dinner, the foul smell became unbearable for both of us. My husband ruminated, thinking,"I can't divorce my wife over this, but I have to do something. But what? I know. I'll kill her."

For the past 5 years, I have worn these underwear when I've had an acute Crohns attack with complete security. There has been no trace of bad gas odors. My social anxiety and embarrassment has been eliminated. In fact, I noticed I pass less gas when I wear the underwear, because I am calm, secure, and comfortable.

Your underpants literally saved my life.

She doesn't mention how these wonder pants cured her diarrhea.

We are left to guess what kind of damage it has wreaked upon her -- how the leakage affected her practice, her holidays and love life, how it inspired her husband again do her harm.

Maybe, unlike flatulence, anal leakage is something everyone can live with, with patience, understanding, and good humor. Maybe, it's the mark of a civilized society, how it treats its most bowel-challenged.

And, maybe -- just maybe -- we should stop looking to our underpants for the solutions to all of our problems. It's a lot to think about, but if we can design an undergarment capable of miracles like this, I think, we're ready to handle the big questions.

How is It that This Child-Punching, Cops's Wives Threatener (Real Word) Didn't Accidentally Hit His Head During the Arrest

Darrel Ray Kessinger, of 13 Evergreen Place, was arrested late Saturday and charged with burglary with battery, child abuse, resisting an officer, corruption by threat and resisting without violence, reports show.

Police reports show the incident began about 1:48 a.m. Saturday when Kessinger got involved with an altercation with another man.

Witnesses told deputies that Kessinger turned and struck a 3-year-old child and a nine-month-old baby -- with closed fists, Florida Today reported. A woman put the children in a white Ford Tempo and attempted to leave when Kessinger ran after toward the vehicle, reports show.

Deputies said he punched out one of the car windows, causing both children to receive glass cuts, and tried to drag the woman out of the vehicle before she rode off.

Deputies arrived and chased Kessinger, reports show. Kessinger fought back, threatening the deputies and asking where they lived so he could go to their homes and sexually molest their wives, reports show.

Punching children? Fine. Some kids need a good punching.

Threatening to molest police officers' wives? Shit happens.

But burglary? That's got to stop.

Dude, you've got a problem. Get help, if not for society's sake, for your own.

Why the Locals Don't Go to Starbucks

In a short, sheer, baby-doll negligee and coordinated pink panties, Candice Law is dressed to work at a drive-through espresso stand in Tukwila, and she is working it.

Customers pull their trucks up to the window, where Law greets each with an affectionate nickname, blows kisses, and vamps about as she steams milk for a mocha. 'You want whipped cream?' she asks, a sly smile playing on her pierced lip.

The next customer rolls up, and Law throws a long leg onto the window sill, like an indie-rock ballerina at the barre.

'Do you like my leg warmers?' she asks. 'Aren't they hot?'

I'd like a quad-tall, half soy-half cream breve over a single brown sugar cube, grated lemon on top. Oh, and could you spank yourself one -- no, make that two times -- for me. I forgot about today's staff meeting. I'm going to need a little extra something to get me through that.

Shimmy?

Oh, yes, please. I can't believe I left that out.

In My Day, Teachers Had More Restraint. They Didn't Sleep with Students. Okay, the Drama Teacher Did, but with Drama Teachers, That's Expected

Prosecutors have offered a plea deal to former Brighton Charter School teacher Carrie McCandless, who is accused of having sexual contact with a teenaged student on a field trip. . . .

But Michael Trani, McCandless' attorney, asked judge James Hiatt to postpone the hearing so that he and McCandless could have time to consider the offer. . . .

Pierson declined to comment on the details of the plea offer following the hearing, and Trani left without offering comment.

McCandless, 30, is a former social studies teacher at Brighton Charter School. In late October she chaperoned an overnight field trip to the YMCA of the Rockies retreat in Estes Park. . . .

The student told police that he and McCandless drank, kissed and fondled one another at a cabin at the retreat, according to McCandless' arrest affidavit. The student said the two also "made out" once in the parking lot of a Sam's Club, the affidavit states.

According to McCandless, she became high on Sam's Club's super low prices and more than a little turned on by the bulk packaging. (It was the Phallus Pack of Brawny paper towels that did it. Isn't it always?) When the student offered to "push her cart" out to her mini-van, she took that to mean he wanted to help her sublimate her price lust. Before she knew it, they were playing Swipe the Price Card in her back seat.

So, for god's sake, be careful when you shop. Dont' let Sam's Club get you, too.

And you thought romance was dead. Shame on you.

The "P" in PETA Is for "Porn"

Watch more PETA videos at PETATV.com.

It's good to see a woman take a stand against fur. Or at least, that's the message I got from the commercial. What?

Fuckin' Ohio, Thinks It's So Big

In compliance with the order of Judge Goodman, I humbly offer the following apologies to those I have wronged.

To the people of Cheyenne, Wyoming, I am sorry for ruining your beloved Frontier Days Parade. I should have known that my unauthorized float—Rootin’ Tootin’ Whores of the Wild, Wild West—would rub some people the wrong way. . . .

To the passengers and crew of Delta flight 1643 from New York to Los Angeles, I am sorry for turning a routine coast-to-coaster into a nail-biting descent into fear. Allow me to stress once more that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of al Qaeda, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Hezbollah, or the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade, nor have I ever attended a training camp of any kind (unless you count the summer I spent at self-esteem camp when I was twelve, but all I learned to do there was make beaded wallets and cough-syrup daiquiris). Now, it’s true that I shouted “Death to America” several times, but most of my anger was directed at Ohio, and they know why. . .

May I never end up in a 12-Step Program or a court agreement or anything involves me apologizing for the wrongs I've committed. I asked that because, one, I regret nothing and, two, because it would be much, much longer than that, like War and Peace-longer, and would take me the rest of my life to compose. Yeah, I've done some things, hurt some people.

I hope that's not going to be a problem.

Some Things Survive Death

Colbert: You're a handsome man. Can you accept that, that you're a handsome man?

O'Reilly: No.

Colbert: You are Bill.

O'Reilly: Not from you.

Colbert: Own it!

O'Reilly: Not from you.

Colbert: Bill, There's nothing wrong for one man saying to a man he admires, "You're damn handsome, and with a gun in my head, sure.

Not even with a gun to my head.

Even if I were dead, my autonomic nervous system would draw energy from the surrounding organic life, just enough, to slam my anal sphincter closed upon his approach. Those of you in the world of science, you might call that "far-fetched." I call it peace of mind.

To Quote Jed Clampett, "Wheeeeeeeeel Doggie!"

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The South   That's a Southern accent you've got there. You may love it, you may hate it, you may swear you don't have it, but whatever the case, we can hear it.
The Midland
The Northeast
The Inland North
Philadelphia
The West
Boston
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Your Quiz Results - Post to MySpace or Your Blog

The End Is Nigh

The scientists who mind the Doomsday Clock moved it two minutes closer to midnight on Wednesday -- symbolizing the annihilation of civilization. . .

So if you've been putting off those things you've always wanted to do, like skydiving, learning a second language, or agreeing to be the audience member selected to help out in a Taiwanese live sex show involving ping pong balls, farm animals and midgets (um, little persons), you'd better get off your ass.

I'm just saying.

You Can Never Be Too Tan or Too Thin -- in Theory

I hate to say this, but that hat really makes her ass look fat.

Esquire: "What I've Learned:" The Only Good Thing about that Magazine since It Became The Maxim for the Literate, the Barely Literate

Homer Simpson: What I've Learned

Sometimes I think there's no reason to get out of bed . . . then I feel wet, and I realize there is.

The intelligent man wins his battles with pointed words. I'm sorry—I meant sticks. Pointed sticks.

If I had a dollar for every time I heard “My God! He's covered in some sort of goo,” I'd be a rich man.

If you want results, press the red button. The rest are useless.

I never ate an animal I didn't like.

Be generous in the bedroom—share your sandwich.

Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he'll get a hook caught on his eyelid or something.

Never throw a butcher knife in anger.

Let me just say, Winnie the Pooh getting his head caught in a honey pot? It's not funny. It can really happen.

If a spaceship landed and aliens took me back to their planet and made me their leader, and I got to spend the rest of my life eating doughnuts and watching alien dancing girls and ruling with a swift and merciless hand? That would be sweet.

Man, would it ever.

I have a framed and mounted copy of this article on my desk at work. It sits just beneath my SECTOR 7G panel label, where I can see it and refer to it for guidance.

That's right. I'm a Homerist. You can laugh all you want to. Believe me, I'm use to it now. But I'll say this: This bible makes more sense than yours -- especially the part about pointed sticks.

Had I known that a few years ago, I would've never bothered with graduate school.

The Pillow Fight League

Name: Ruth Lesley
Real: Kristin
Age: 27
Day job: writer
Hometown: Winnipeg
Height: 4'11"
Weight: 105 lbs.
Measurements: 38-26-38
Status: Retired

PILLOW FIGHTING BACKGROUND

First Pillow Fight: With my little sister, Ashley, when we were kids. She's eight years younger than me so I let her win.

Why am I a Pillow Fighter?
Fighting without a pillow isn't ladylike, but ritualized combat helps to keep me in top form for when the revolution comes.

got pillow?

Because I Dig the Crazy

Bai [Ling], who has appeared in the movies Wild Wild West and The Crow, said: "I've met many crazy people on many crazy nights. Anything you can imagine...I've done it! It's in my nature to just run wild and I do."

. . . Bai reckons her sex life is governed by a gang of naughty "little girl spirits" who possess her and make her go wild. . . .

"They live inside of me and what I do on a weekend depends on which one of them comes out," she says. . . .

"They all wear miniskirts and they're very cute, always dressed up. One of the girls is a party girl who says, ‘Let's go party!' I say, ‘That skirt's too short!' She says, ‘No, it's not, I have underwear — you don't see nothing.'

"When men hit on me it all depends on which spirit I am as to how I react."

You know what they say, "You lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas," except in Bai Ling's case, by "fleas," they mean, "welts, bruised wrists, and a very tender bottom."

And as if that weren't a big enough draw, she's got crazy eyes to boot.

I can't believe they didn't mention that. How can you write a Bai Ling article and never once mention that she's got crazy eyes? It would be like writing an article on Paris Hilton and not mentioning her cooter and the tiny vagina troll that dwells within. And that shouldn't happen.

Ever.

Guys like the crazy eyes, that little glint that says, "I could give you a night that would burn in your memory forever and keep you erect till the end of history, or I could give you a night that would leave you just so many body parts in my freezer. It's a gamble."

And I'd take it, throw myself on the mercy of Bai Ling and her nineteen Do-Me spirits, and do everything they could come up with, without once thinking of using a safe word. Because, one, you don't jump into the sex harness with Bai Ling and then curb her creativity with boundaries, and, two, do you really think that woman hears "whoa" when someone squeals a safe word? I think you just have to do it all, then cry yourself to sleep, and die of shame (or some cocktail of super venereal diseases that spank all known antibiotics) in the morning. That's the Loman Plan, anyway.

To Think, in Oregon, They're Fighting to Put an End to Black History Month (because "We Really Don't Have That Many Blacks to Teach Here")

"In a recent survey of college students on U.S. civic literacy, more than 81 percent knew that the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was expressing hope for 'racial justice and brotherhood' in his historic 'I Have a Dream' speech.

That's the good news.

Most of the rest surveyed thought King was advocating the abolition of slavery.

Well, it's something. I don't know how those college kids can explain his speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, captured on film and broadcast on television, if they believe he was part of the Abolition Movement, but at this point in race relations, I say, we take what we can get.

So Happy MLK day!

Like a Sex Machine

He just needs someone, like Maceo, to drape a cape over his shoulders to get him started.

Thanks, John.

Why You Shouldn't Read the Weather Forecast before Going to Bed

...TSUNAMI ADVISORY IS IN EFFECT FOR THE WASHINGTON COAST...

AN EARTHQUAKE NEAR THE COAST OF JAPAN OCCURRED AT APPROXIMATELY 823 PM PST. AT THE PRESENT TIME NO WATCH OR WARNING HAS BEEN ISSUED. REPEAT...NO WATCH OR WARNING HAS BEEN ISSUED FOR THE WEST COAST OF THE UNITED STATES. AT THIS TIME ONLY SMALL WAVE FLUCTUATIONS HAVE BEEN DETECTED AND THE DANGER OF ANY TSUNAMI IS STILL BEING EVALUATED. NOAA TIDE GAGES WILL CONTINUE TO BE MONITORED CLOSELY OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION ABOUT EXPECTED WAVE HEIGHT AND TIMING OF ARRIVAL IS EXPECTED AT APPROXIMATELY 100 AM PST JANUARY 13 2007.

IT IS RECOMMENDED TO STAY AWAY FROM THE BEACH AND AVOID HARBORS AND BAYS ALONG THE COAST UNTIL 8 AM.

Houston, We Have Lift-Off

The penile plethysmograph -- also known as a strain gauge or peter meter -- has been around since the 1950s, when a Czech researcher invented a way to test the truthfulness of soldiers who wanted to get out of service by claiming they were gay. It detects erections by measuring the circumference of the penis with the help of mercury and an electrical current.

The penile plethysmograph is used in a variety of settings, (where it measures a man's level of impotence), prisons (where it tests the sexual response of sex offenders) and research laboratories (where, among other things, it has suggested that many homophobic men get turned on by gay sex). . . . Still, the plethysmograph is controversial, and critics question whether it measures anything useful.

Impotence -- like pregnancy -- is a binary measurement: Yes, you are; no, you are not. If this machine offers a middle ground, then it is not measuring anything useful.

Man, Are They Ever Going to Have a Hard Time Explaining Sex to Her

Eager to try out a new prescription for the erectile dysfunction drug Cialis, a couple in their fifties is facing indecent exposure charges after they were caught having sex on a balcony at a family resort in South Carolina. William McGinn, 57, and Patricia Scott, 53, were arrested Saturday afternoon when other vacationers at the Breakers Resort spotted them engaging in a variety of sex acts on their third-floor balcony, . . .

[From the police report: Victim 1 (11-year-old female). . . While she (Victim 2), her family, and friends were outside behind the breakers property her 11 year old daughter (Victim 1) approached and stated that there was a naked man on the balcony.

Victim 1 and 2 informed their friends Victim 3 and Victim 4 of the situation then paid no more attention to the balcony. Approximately 1 hour later, Victim 1 noticed that the white female . . . "sprawled" herself out on a chair exposing her genitalia. Once again, Victim 1 informed her mother of the incident, who also viewed the exposure. Shortly after, the nude male engaged the female from behind, and the couple began to have sexual intercourse on the balcony (viewed by Victims 1-4). Victim 2 instructed her daughter to ignore the couple, and all victim's looked away.

After several minutes of ignoring the couple, Victim 1 approached her mother again and inquired as to why the nude female was touching the nude male's "front butt" (term she uses for a penis). Victim 2 quickly looked up and discovered that . . . the female was giving the male a "hand-job" on the balcony. Victim 2, 3, and 4 then observed the female perform oral sex on the man, who was still completely in the open view of the public.]

When police confronted the couple, they claimed that onlookers were just "jealous," . . . As she was being placed in a patrol car, Scott complained to one cop that she and McGinn were "just f**king" and "didn't see the problem.

He might have something there. For people who claim to have been ignoring the what was going on, they don't seem to have missed a stroke of the action (especially Victim 1).

Clearly, Bill and Patty were in the wrong -- and by "wrong," I mean "forgot to charge a cover fee and a two-drink minimum." But given the level of interest paid to them by the family, I'm not so sure we should be referring to the family members and friends as "victims."

Well, the 11-year-old girl is. I mean, if you're 11 and you still refer to a man's penis as his "front butt," then, you've no doubt been on the receiving end of some stultifying, brutal, and injurious parenting. So you, 11-year-old girl, you are a victim.

But those other three, the adults, are not. Those guys are just too cheap to pay for Cinemax.

McSweeney's: Comments on My Short Story I've Received From My Creative-Writing Classmates.

BY ROBERT HINDERLITER

- - - -

A hackneyed, masturbatory miscarriage of a story.

You have managed to coldly and persistently rape the English language for 17 pages. Congratulations.

The fact that this story exists is the ultimate argument against Creationism.

Your embarrassingly ineffectual and flaccid prose made me feel uncomfortable.

Wow. It reminds me of the comments I use to write on my students' philosophy term papers. Good times, good times.

Merry Christmas 2007!

Super Crazy Big-Ass Special 2006 Hughes Family Christmas Photo Extravaganza! …will not be published this year, sorry. Dad had to call off Christmas due to lack of participation. Both brothers were scheduled to work Christmas day (Neil blames “Satan worshipers”), and, evidently, the rest of the gang were leery of being outed as drunken holiday maniacs. Again. Anyway, if you like, you can follow links here to relive all the mayhem from 2004 and 2005. Or you can just go out and get your own damn family. Start a-screwin’!

I was left pretty deflated on learning the festivities were canceled. Getting together with my family is so, so much fun. Also, I know the four people who bother to read this site on purpose, who didn’t stumble on it accidentally while looking for information about the benefits of icing their penis or the world hugly dog, really just tolerate all the crap I throw on here while patiently waiting for the only worthwhile stuff I ever post, i.e., photos of my dad dressed like erotic Batman.

So I put Plan B into effect.

Plan B is cool. I love the response to his tattoo:

Yes, remarks one might make here include, “Is Godzilla eating a sandwich?”, “Why do you have a dinosaur smoking a cigar on your leg?” and “How many Godzilla tattoos do you need, anyway?”

Two, motherfucker. The answer is two.

But, really, it isn't January without an encapsulation of the Hughes Family Christmas (motto: "It's just not Christmas until someone gets stripped down to their tighty-whities"). The sun doesn't shine as bright; the air doesn't taste as sweet; the jello shots don't burn as well or as long. It might as well be February already.

Until it is, I'll guess I'll just have to re-read Christmas 2005, and pray for an equally entertaining 2007. Patrick, may all the Hughes stay healthy until then.

GooogIe Search: I Can't Tell You How Much Time I've Wasted with This Today

Why, yes, that's exactly what I meant.

Actually, All That Techno-Babble Is a Smoke Screen. All I'm Really Thinking Is, "Ooh, Pretty," i.e., I'm Croodling

My iErection just leaked a little pre-technorgasm ejaculate into my shorts -- just a little.

Well, That and My Lack of Talent Explains What Happened to My Resume

Entering the comedy world as a black man means you always stand out, even during off hours, such as one Christmas evening in New York at my first holiday comedy mixer. All of Gotham's comedic glitterati were there. I cornered a 'Daily Show' writer, doing my best to get the inside track on a possible actor/writer gig. We broached the subject of black correspondents. He told me that they 'tried a black guy once, but it didn't work out.'These experiences didn't leave me feeling good, but they did make me think more about being black. Better late than never, I guess.

That's what I was going to say.

Later on in the article, he explains that his parents, an OB-GYN and a literature professor, gave him every opportunity the fruits of the Civil Rights Movement and money could buy -- private schools, social interaction, an Ivy League education, etc. -- and that he took advantage of his opportunities, worked hard and earned a job on Madison Advenue, a lofty rung on the economic ladder, and a place in Greenwich Village -- all the things that can move a guy beyond the reaches of racial bigotry and the vestiges of slavery and Jim Crow.

Except they can't.

It's a lesson the upper-class black families hiring nannies learned last week and one he describes learning so well in this article (no black writers on the Daily Show, the Colbert Report, or SNL?). At least, they're learning. As he said, "Better late than never."

To Make Ordering Easier, They've Got Them Listed as Ultra, B-List, and C-List Stars. In Other Words, No Kathy Griffith

In 2003 a young man from Sweden came to visit us in Los Angeles. He pitched us the wildest idea we had ever heard of. At the time, we all just laughed at him. The idea was so off the wall and far-fetched that it made riding a tricycle through the grand canyon seem like Childs play. Two years later, in 2005, the man contacted us again. This time, he wanted to show us a list of celebrities who had already expressed interest in his idea. We were blown away by the names on that list, and immediately contacted him for a collaboration. Today we are proud to present the result of this Swede's struggle and lifelong dream: Pubesaid.com

How does it work?

It's quite simple, really. As a result of a very successful direct campaign, celebrities from all over the world send us their pubes daily. We mount them, and offer them to you. All pubes are autographed by their donor. Needless to say, every piece is a unique work of art, A priceless collectible beyond anything ever seen or heard of before.

"Priceless collectible": Right. And I've got the Mona Lisa of Pubes caught in my shower drain.

What I'm Also Reading

My friend Zach stopped by for a few beers. We'd been pretty good friends in high school, gone our separate ways for college, then wound up in the same city, more or less by accident. He was a sweet guy, eager and a little sentimental at times, which probably gave us something in common. We were sitting on my couch, drinking, talking shit.

"How goes it with Sharon?" I asked.

Zack sat up a little. "She's amazing."

Sharon was his new girl, a tall, elegant redhead, a little older than us. She had the kind of voice you always imagine a phone sex operator would have, moist and soothing. The unusual thing about Sharon, she had a plastic eye. . . .

"There's something about her." He made an expansive gesture. He'd drunk four or five beers by now. . . .

Zach got up to get another beer. He was staggering a bit upon his return.

"There's this one thing," he said. . . . "In terms of intimacy. She likes to do different stuff."

I remembered now what had always creeped me out about Zach, which is that he had a tendency to say a little too much when he was sloshed. One night, back in college,, he'd mentioned that he was sort of attracted to certain short-haired breeds of dogs. "Not enough to do anything," he assured me. Still, it had pretty much killed the evening. . . .

"I don't want to freak you out," he said.

"You're not going to freak me out," I said.

"She likes for me to rub her eye," he said. "The area around her eye. . . . She has to rub this balm in, to keep the flesh moisturized. So this one night, a couple of weeks ago now, I rubbed the balm in for her. Does this sound creepy, man?

"I could see how much it meant to her, you know, to have me accept that part of her. And the flesh there , it's extremely sensitive, the way scars can be. It was kind of a turn-on for both of us. So it just sort of evolved from that. . . . That's what we all want anyway, to have our lover accept the most damaged part of us, right? So from there, it was a pretty natural progression."

"What was a natural progression?" I asked

"That she would want me to rub myself there."

"Like a massage?"

"Sort of," he said. "But not with my hand."

"Time out," I said.

I will never ask for a Time Out at this point in your story. I will never tell you that I'm creeped (or freaked) out by anything you do in the bedroom. I will never tell you that you have "over-shared" or given me too much information, and do you know why? I'll tell you why: Because I'm your "I'm fucking my girlfriend in her ocular cavity and I need to tell somebody" friend. That's why.

You Don't Want to Know What I Would Do for Monica Bellucci

Erotic older women have become a titillating topic ever since Rene Russo, 45, started cooking up the celluloid in The Thomas Crown Affair. Experience is arousing and wrinkles are racy for anyone worshipping middle-aged goddesses. For the nonbelievers, I present a personal Top 10 pantheon of fabulous 43+ tasties.

Isabelle Adjani -- I drool in francais when I voyeur this femme magnifique, who exudes teenage succulence at age 44. Ms. Adjani -- passionately displayed in Queen Margot -- inherited her exotic features from Algerian and German parents. My opinion: Daniel Day-Lewis was tres stupid to abandon Isabelle, after impregnating her with a son.

Anita Hill -- She's 43 and terminably prim, but I can't drink a Coke without wanting to park pubic hair on the can for her. I sympathize with her ex-employer's obsessions when I gaze at Ms. Hill's educated physique, and her gentle, litigious eyes. And when her soft, husky voice repeats the judge's filthy comments? SCHWWIING! Clarence Thomas trial transcripts are hotter than the Starr Report!

Although I don't agree with him on every entry, given that I would punch the baby Jesus in the throat to get a kiss on the cheek from Isabelle Adjani, it's safe to say I agree with him on at least one.

For Some Reason, I'm Remembering The People Who Made Fun of Me When I Got My First Period. It's their Screams I Remember Most. Good Times, Good Times

In December I went to the Bazaar Bizarre craft show in Los Angeles. My favorite thing there was the cakewalk, which featured a number of beautiful and odd cakes. Shown here: the Carrie cake.

And if someone could make a Linda Blair Soft Ice Cream Machine that spat pistachio ice cream out of the nozzle of its spinning head, while a recording played that part from the movie where she screams, "Your mother cooks socks in Hell (or something to that effect)," I would totally get one.

Who doesn't like cake and ice cream?

I Love that the Photographer Captured the Smudge Mark the Subway Train Left on his Hat

Who has ridden along New York’s 656 miles of subway lines and not wondered: “What if I fell to the tracks as a train came in? What would I do?”

And who has not thought: “What if someone else fell? Would I jump to the rescue?”

Wesley Autrey, a 50-year-old construction worker and Navy veteran, faced both those questions in a flashing instant yesterday, and got his answers almost as quickly.

Mr. Autrey was waiting for the downtown local at 137th Street and Broadway in Manhattan around 12:45 p.m. He was taking his two daughters, Syshe, 4, and Shuqui, 6, home before work.

Nearby, a man collapsed, his body convulsing. Mr. Autrey and two women rushed to help, he said. The man, Cameron Hollopeter, 20, managed to get up, but then stumbled to the platform edge and fell to the tracks, between the two rails.

The headlights of the No. 1 train appeared. “I had to make a split decision,” Mr. Autrey said.

So he made one, and leapt.

Mr. Autrey lay on Mr. Hollopeter, his heart pounding, pressing him down in a space roughly a foot deep. The train’s brakes screeched, but it could not stop in time.

Five cars rolled overhead before the train stopped, the cars passing inches from his head, smudging his blue knit cap with grease. Mr. Autrey heard onlookers’ screams. “We’re O.K. down here,” he yelled, “but I’ve got two daughters up there. Let them know their father’s O.K.” He heard cries of wonder, and applause.

You know how much I hate calling just any jackass a hero, which is the common practice nowadays. We've stooped so low that practically all you have to do is wear a uniform -- not excluding a fast food get up with color-matching polyester polo shirt, pants, and hair net -- to get the laurel leaf placed upon your brow. It drives me mad. Why? Because when someone actually does something heroic, we don't have a word to describe him (or her), the one we use to use having been watered down to meaninglessness. I think of all the people who watched this guy fall between the tracks, I think of the approaching train and the live third rail nearby, and I think of what I would've done had I been there -- and I don't have a problem calling this guy a hero, none at all.

I Had Two Arteries Clog Just from Looking at the Picture

So it was hamburger night at home, and I stopped by the Numero Uno market to get some tortillas for general kitchen supply, and I picked up some additional items for burger night, and things kind of got out of hand. See the notes for details on the various layers.

There are two keys to making and eating a burger like this successfully:

1) Proper burger meat - a proper burger, IMHO, is made with ground chuck, in a cast iron pan. The beef should be 25% or so fat by weight, lean beef or sirloin are inappropriate. And it should be damn near raw in the center.

2) Proper hand technique - once you pick this unstable tower up, maintinence of it's structural stability has transferred from gravity, adhesion and friction to your grip. Once you establish your kung fu grip on it, squeezing it down to mouth size, you must maintain that grip until there is nothing left to eat but sides and drippings.

Believe it or not, this is only the second most amazing food sight I've had the pleasure to take in in the new year.

The first? Why, thank you for asking. The morning of January 1st, I was sitting in my favorite ba. . . brunch spot when this guy came in and ordered, "Whiskey-side of bacon back -- extra crisp." I'm crappin' you negative: Two fingers of Wild Turkey and a side of bacon. (Let me note that, one, I was the only person in the place that batted an eye at his order and, two, the bartender knew exactly what he was ordering and rang it right in.)

When the bacon arrived, Dude -- henceforth, referred to as Sensei -- began alternately sipping his whiskey, dipping a strip of bacon into the glass, as if the whiskey were a condiment, and taking a bite. By the second dip of bacon, there was an Exxon Valdez-like oil slick floating on the bourbon. I almost shit myself in wonder. I'd never seen such a pure and blessed thing.

The Mega Hamburger One does come close, though. Do yourself a favor. Go directly to the Flickr site to view the real thing. It contains a description of all the layers. If you think it's awesome now, wait until you see what's in it -- layer upon layer of heart-stopping goodness. Trust me: you can only get to "Great Googlely" from the above screen shot. If you want the "Mooglely" too (you want it; you know you want it), you've got to go to the Flickr page.

Theirs Is the Superior Society

Even their wardrobe malfunctions are better.

Thirteen Photographs that Changed the World

Any picture can speak 1,000 words, but only a select few say something poignant enough to galvanize an entire society. The following photographs screamed so loudly that the entire world stopped to take notice. . . .

10. The Photograph that Made the Surreal Real

"Dali Atomicus"

Philippe Halsman is quite possibly the only photographer to have made a career out of taking portraits of people jumping. But he claimed the act of leaping revealed his subjects’ true selves, and looking at his most famous jump, "Dalí Atomicus," it’s pretty hard to disagree.

The photograph is Halsman’s homage both to the new atomic age (prompted by physicist’ then-recent announcement that all matter hangs in a constant state of suspension) and to Dalí’s surrealist masterpiece "Leda Atomica" (seen on the right, behind the cats, and unfinished at the time). It took six hours, 28 jumps, and a roomful of assistants throwing angry cats and buckets of water into the air to get the perfect exposure.

But before settling on the "Atomicus" we know today, Halsman rejected a number of other concepts for the shot. One was the idea of throwing milk instead of water, but that was abandoned for fear that viewers, fresh from the privations of World War II, would condemn it as a waste of milk. Another involved exploding a cat in order to capture it "in suspension," though that arguably would have been a waste of cats.

He said, "arguably," right, not "definitely?"

Anyhoo, whether it changed the world or not, that is one of the greatest photographs that I have ever seen. Cool can't begin to describe it.

Finally, I Understand Carson Daly

I work part-time for Satan at a New York advertising agency. . . . Satan has sent me to Los Angeles, where I am supposed to be helping my Satanic co-minions make a television commercial. . . .

The hotel at which we are staying is typical of Los Angeles: the arrogant clientele with their ironic facial hair, the raucous lobby with its ironic furniture, the inadequate overcrowded lobby bar meticulously designed by homosexual males for heterosexual males to comfortably solicit transsexual prostitutes. None of this, mind you, bothers me nearly so much as the televisions. You cannot escape television here—they're in the bar, in the lobby, in the bathrooms. . . . Worst of all, though, is the one in my hotel room, which is hidden inside an armoire, but which housekeeping insists on turning on for me every afternoon, so that when I return from a long day of staggering vapidity and irretrievably wasted human energy, the 27-inch bottomless well of suicide incentives is shrieking at me before I've even entered the room. I need to have a sign made for the front door: We don't swim in your toilet, please don't turn on our television. . . .

I returned to my hotel room the first evening to discover a program on MTV where people insult one another's mothers; afterwards, the crowd cheers, and a prize is awarded to the contestant deemed most vitriolic. I have a mother myself, so I can certainly understand the impulse, but the contestants on this program are insulting the other's mothers—seeming, as unlikely as may it seem, to be defending their own. I know that this program is supposed to be rebellious and ironic and In My Face (a claim I might be persuaded to believe if the object was to insult your own mother), but as it stands, I can't imagine anything more desperate and needy; to craft a convenient analogy, the television is the hotel bar, MTV is the transsexual prostitute, the "outrageous" contestant the john on his knees doing his best to service her.

I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking it, too: MTV has got a lot better since the last time I watched it.