No. 2 with a Bullet -- or They've Got UFO Porn

Look out, Japan. Finland's got you in its sights.

They're Not Teaching Kids Anything in School Today

Police have been unable to locate a woman who entered the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity house without permission on Thursday and began to masturbate on a couch.

While fraternity members were eating in the dining room, a woman entered the house's living room, took off her clothes and started masturbating, said LSA junior Dan Nye, the president of the Washtenaw Avenue fraternity. . . .

Fraternity members asked the woman to leave the house, but she refused and continued masturbating for about half an hour, Nye said. . . .

She walked out of the front door wearing only a thigh-length black coat after a fraternity member called the police, Nye said. When police arrived minutes later, the woman had already left.

According to a police report, the woman was between 20 and 30 years old, had short brown hair and appeared to be under the influence of drugs.

"Obviously, she was very disturbed," Nye said. "It was not how a normal person would respond to people."

Fraternity members said they will throw out two couches in the living room because of the incident, Nye said.

This is not how normal people would respond to a young woman found masturbating on a one of their couches during dinner. Normal people respond to a young woman masturbating on a couch by proffering wine, lighting a few scented candles, putting on some soft music, reading erotic poetry from a Pillow Book softly into her ear -- anything to help set the mood and heighten the experience for her.

And then, normal people sell the couch on eBay to Japanese businessmen for a king's ransom.

I swear, kids today, they don't have the sense god gave a soft-core pornographer.

"How To Breakup with Your Girlfriend in 64 Easy Steps"

PHASE 5: THE RECOVERY

1-57. Blah, blah, blah.
58. Start to hate being alone.
59. Start to really hate being along.
60. Start to really, really, totally, absolutely hate to alone.
61. Then, decide that it's time to learn how to be alone.
62. Get sort of good at being alone.
63. Get better at being alone.
64. As soon as you are perfectly happy and content about being alone, get a new girlfriend and repeat from the beginning.

Throw casual sex into the No. 63 mix and I'm there.

My Inner-Lesbian? Still Soaked

Can you tell us about “boob rituals?” The Lesbian Carwash, for example.

[Lesbian political writer] Kate Clinton told me about this. All the women take their tops off, and then line up and face each other and swing their boobs as another woman walks through them—like the floppy, spongy things at a carwash. I do this thing that just cracks my husband up. When he comes home after doing errands and pulls up grumpy and carrying packages, I lift up my bra and smash my boobs against the car window. I don't know what he sees because I've never been on the other side of that, but he just cracks up. It brightens his mood.

I'll bet it does. Since reading that, my mood is a lot brighter.

But this goes back to my theory of homophobia. In my theory, people don't fear homosexuals because they're different and threatening to all that they hold dear and sacred, no. People fear homosexuals because they're afraid they're never going to have as much fun as homosexuals do.

What that kind of resentment does to a heterosexual, I can't begin to tell you.

That said, if there are any really, really tolerant lesbians throwing a car wash this weekend, I would love to attend. I promise my man boobs can hold their own, and I'm not the sort to bogart the runs through the floppy, spongy, soapy tunnel. Don't answer just yet. Think about it.

When Bob Comes to Work, Carrying a Gun and Muttering Something Like, "I Am the Angel of Death. My Time Is at Hand." He's Looking for This Guy

Believe it or not, I use to be a people person, back when I was an idealistic pup just entering the work force. Then, I met The People (people like that guy). Now, not so much.

Oh, I still like people "in theory." It's the real ones that give me hives.

Say It with Me: "Superior. Society."

Japan's ever-inventive sex industry's latest innovation is an adaptation of the facial -- a mud pack for the penis, according to Spa!

The service involves using a hotel sink or face-washing basin and filling it with warm water and wine. This is aimed at improving the circulation. Instead of inserting the face, however, the client places their bottom in the bowl, allowing the penis and anus to be soaked in the suds of their sommelier.

Spa! notes that the washing is performed by at least one woman, who The Aromani insists must be in her 20s or 30s at the oldest.

Once the basic basin service has finished, the genitals are swathed in a chunk of mud supposed to cleanse the skin. Once they are completely covered, the woman (or women) providing the service, then show their handiwork, so to speak, until the client reaches climax, or what Spa! calls the "ascent to Heaven."

The Aromani's boss says the service began with the motto of "providing health and beauty to the willy and anus."

No offense to the technique and expertise of our Pacific Rim neighbors, but providing health and beauty to my willy and anus is out of reach even for them. I'm nothing if not fair, though. If they want a challenge, I'm more than willing to give them a shot at turning my genitals and dumper Eliza Doolittles into Miss Congeniality.

So, whenever you can get your team over here, Aromani, I'm ready for my ascent to Heaven.

For the sake of full disclosure, you should probably tell your staff to bring their hard hats and Bento boxes with them when they come, because I've seen where they're going, and, frankly, they've got a hard day at the office ahead of them. Expect over-time. We're separating the sex workers from the girls, here.

Welcome to Loman Country.

He's the Not-So-Thin Blue Line Separating Society from the Criminals Determined to Destroy It. Oh, and from 5-4, 115 lb Women Who Get Uppity.

He's a hero, and by "hero," I mean thuggish punk, who deserves to be convicted and sentenced to federal ass-pounding prison for as long as the law allows. That, and every "accident" that befalls him while he's in custody. Because that's how we should treat our heroes. And he's our biggest hero. Big fucking man, right there.

Although Nowadays, with the Way the Miss USA's Girls Have Gone Wild, the Real Challenge Is Keeping Them Off Your D___.

Elite footballers are young, rich and often act as if they are above the law, but they are not invincible. A high-flying AFL premiership player learned that the hard way last spring when he nearly died in an American hospital. . . .

On the record, players and club officials go along with the club's cryptic explanation dismissing the incident as a routine medical matter. Off it, insiders have told friends and relatives their man overdosed.

It fits a pattern of misbehaviour by AFL players and a tendency for clubs to cover up for those considered too valuable to lose — at the expense, sometimes, of lesser lights axed to protect sponsorships and the game's lucrative brand image.

The spectre of substance abuse hangs over the Las Vegas episode as it hangs over other strange incidents — the arrest, for instance, of Geelong's Steve Johnson in Wangaratta this year after worried householders called police when he staggered into their yard late at night and allegedly tried to drink from a bottle of suntan oil on their patio. . . .

A former coach says some clubs are quietly reviving the practice of having a few drinks after a game, just like the old days.

But it's hard for some to go back after walking the wild side. One All-Australian player who made too much of his days in the sun boasted to a club official: "You haven't lived until you've had (a beauty queen) snort coke off your d---."

That's true. It really, really is.

Unfortunately (for You, Anyway), I Never Get Tired of That Joke

I don't know who those other guys are, but that guy in the middle is definitely Willie Nelson -- or a singing vagina.

I Blame the Media

There are no plaques or markers to denote it, but several of the most notorious public lynchings of black Americans in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries were staged at the Paris Fairgrounds, where thousands of white spectators would gather to watch and cheer as black men were dragged onto a scaffold, scalded with hot irons and finally burned to death or hanged.

Brenda Cherry, a local civil rights activist, can see the fairgrounds from the front yard of her modest home, in the heart of the "black" side of this starkly segregated town of 26,000. And lately, Cherry says, she's begun to wonder whether the racist legacy of those lynchings is rebounding in a place that calls itself "the best small town in Texas."

"Some of the things that happen here would not happen if we were in Dallas or Houston," Cherry said. "They happen because we are in this closed town. I compare it to 1930s."

There was the 19-year-old white man, convicted last July of criminally negligent homicide for killing a 54-year-old black woman and her 3-year-old grandson with his truck, who was sentenced in Paris to probation and required to send an annual Christmas card to the victims' family. . . .

And then there is the case that most troubles Cherry and leaders of the Texas NAACP, involving a 14-year-old black freshman, Shaquanda Cotton, who shoved a hall monitor at Paris High School in a dispute over entering the building before the school day had officially begun.

The youth had no prior arrest record, and the hall monitor--a 58-year-old teacher's aide--was not seriously injured. But Shaquanda was tried in March 2006 in the town's juvenile court, convicted of "assault on a public servant" and sentenced by Lamar County Judge Chuck Superville to prison for up to 7 years, until she turns 21.

Just three months earlier, Superville sentenced a 14-year-old white girl, convicted of arson for burning down her family's house, to probation.

Okay, one, it was her own house. Two, the house was asking for it. Ask anyone. And, three, and most important, the other girl was black. I mean, clearly, there were legitimate reasons for the descrepancy. If you weren't so wrapped up in your biases, you'd see that.

Don't Look at Me like That. You Would, Too

A 22-year-old woman sought medical care for a lesion in the plantar region of her left foot, a well-formed nipple surrounded by areola and hair. Microscopic examination of the dermis showed hair follicles, eccrine glands, and sebaceous glands. Fat tissue was noted at the base of the lesion. Clinical and histopathologic findings were consistent with the diagnosis of supernumerary breast tissue, also known as pseudomamma. To our knowledge, this is the first report of supernumerary breast tissue on the foot.

These supernumerary breasts can pop up all over the place, including the face, back, and thigh (and foot, obviously). They can be functionally complete, and can even lactate.

I know what you're thinking -- asking yourself, really -- and, yes, yes, I would.

BM ISO RF

The clothes you wear, your home furnishings and the car you drive all give clues to your sexual personality. The key is the colors you select for your possessions. Most people claim they haven't got a favorite color. But look around you, and you'll notice a pattern, especially in your clothing and home furnishings. The predominant color for you is the one that appears most frequently, it's the one that mirrors the sexual you. A panel of psychologists explained the association between color and sexual patterns. . . .

BLACK: Black color preferences point to black sex (not necessarily meaning black partners). These people are the misfits of the sex world and seek out each other in kinship. They tend to prefer perverted sex and are usually masochistic or sadistic in nature. They are moody people and often perform at their peak when under stress or during unhappy times. Police psychiatrists claim that sex offenders prefer the color black. And it is no coincidence that the uniform of mosters and teenage gangs is black attire.

What? Why's everyone looking at me?

"If Syphilis Was a Food Product, This Is What It Would Look Like."

Erica Barnett wrote a brief but meaty post the other day about the heart-stopping joy of bacon-wrapped, cheese-filled, battered and fried hot dogs.

I decided to call her bluff and see if she’d really eat such a bizarre concoction of unnatural ingredients. With 17 years of culinary experience under my belt and a fridge full of bacon, I dove headfirst into the dark world of lad-mag cookery.

Bacon-wrapped, cheese-filled, battered and fried hot dogs? I wouldn't eat one of those unless it came with a side of fried bologna and a Sundrop chaser, and then, I'd eat only two, three if there's slaw.

The Difference between "Happiness" and "Fucking" Comes Down to How You Use Your Thumbs and Forefingers: Good to Know

TV favourite Mr Tumble is greeting toddlers by saying “I’m f****** you” in sign language.

The CBeebies character says the gestures mean “I’m happy to see you”.

But angry parents have accused the BBC of jumbling up their signals.

Dad-of-one Jamie Miller, who works for the Royal National Institute for the Deaf, was stunned when he watched Something Special with daughter Katie, five.

Jamie, 32, of Northallerton, Yorks, said: “The signs for “happy” and “f******” are quite similar but it was still an awful error to make.

“Katie, who is learning sign language, asked what the gesture meant. I didn’t know what to tell her.”

Tell her the truth, that when she's older, she's going to discover that "fucking" and "happy" are pretty much the same things.

We Don't Write Nuttin' around Here What Ain't Thought and Typed with Union Labor. Fuck Me? No, Fuck You, Asshole!

Hey, on your way to work tomorrow, instead of sitting around with your finger up your ass, look around. There's a union out there called AFSCME, and they're bustin' their balls for you, doing all the shit work you take for granted.

For example, we pick up your fuckin' garbage. We got broads out there who keep your kids from getting run over by some hard-on. We plug in the holes in the road, so that you don't fuck up your car. And we push around a lot of little old ladies from Florida.

We're out there zapping rats and roaches and making sure your kids don't drink piss from the fuckin' water fountains.

We're fuckin' AFSCME: the Amalgamated F-Federalization . . . . Hey, I don't know what the fuck it means. All I know is we're hardworking, taxpaying people like you. And we don't take shit from nobody.

You got that asshole?

Yeah, I got that, tough guy.

How Do You Determine a Superior Society? Judge It by Its Criminals

Police found more than 4,000 pieces of lingerie in the home of a Japanese construction worker who used climbing skills developed on his job to steal women's underwear.

Police believe that Shigeo Kodama, 54, amassed the 3,977 panties, 355 bras and 10 pairs of stockings over a six-year period. He was arrested in February after he stole underwear from two houses, and police later raided his home.

Somewhere around Pantie No. 3500, as he clung to a drainage pipe, toes barely retaining a life-sustaining grip on the ledge, preparing to enter an apartment for No. 3501, it probably occurred to him that he had a problem, I mean, if he were self-reflective at all.

"Or Jebus Out for a Jog"

"I don't know about those other two fellas, but that guy in the middle is definitely Willie Nelson."

But I Think He's Taking a Swipe at the President

LIFE: Are you different from your stand-up persona?
ROCK: I’m like the Hulk onstage. It's way over the top. That's Bizarro Chris. Sometimes I get off stage and go "What did I say?!" I’ll watch one of my [stand-up] specials a year later and go "Eww, that was mean."

LIFE: In the first movie you directed, Head of State, you were president of the United States. Is this country ready for an African American president?
ROCK: It's ready for a retarded president, why wouldn't it be ready for an African American president?

Yep, isn't it always that way -- everyone before us.

"E=mc2. Damn, I Had F=mc2. So Close"

Find out Pavlov's Cat experiment from the funniest transvestite in the business.

And Somewhere, The Man Is Smiling

Carley
A slinky brunette from Connecticut

NEEL SHAH: How are you doing?
CARLEY: Good, good. You?

Fantastic. Nice to be surrounded by people like us, right?
Ha ha. Yeah. So I'm trying to stay away from the "what's your job/what do you do for a living?" question—it gets boring after a while. Tell me something interesting you did this week.

Hmm. Can the interesting thing be job-related? I work a lot.
Ha ha. Okay.

Well, have you seen Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion?
Yeah, I love that movie.

I'm trying to secure financing for a Bollywood re-make. We're currently looking for someone to play the Lisa Kudrow role. I just met with her this week to see if she'd do it. The ditzy blonde thing plays really well in India.
Makes sense.

Yeah, they're all poor over there. It takes their minds off the poverty and stuff. So what brings you here?
Well, I saw the ad in the New York Post for this. At first I was, like, "Who would actually come to these things, shallow people?" But then I thought about it and was, like, "Well, I'm like that!"

By "these things," she's referring to "speed dating events that require male participants to meet an annual income threshold of $500,000 (with at least a million in the bank) and females to submit five pictures to prove their hotness." I am, sadly enough, not kidding.

Anna Nicole, we hardly knew ye.

MLK the Giant Has Got a Posse

Unfortunately, it's chockablock with revisionist do-gooders, living in a state of denial.

The King County Council will vote on whether to adopt the new logo this morning, and most expect the vote will be favorable.

The county was renamed in honor of King in 2005. It was first named in 1852 for William Rufus de Vane King, vice president under Franklin Pierce.

As it turns out, in addition to being the vice president to Franklin Pierce, William Rufus de Vane King, was also, over the course of his lifetime, an ambassador to France, a plantation owner (where it is believed some slavery occurred), and a United States senator from the state of Alabama, who voted for the Fugitive Slave Act. And we can't have that.

Now, I'm all for Dr. King having his due. I'd love it if we talked about the man more, honored his works, and taught our children and students more about his philosophy and goals.

What I'm against -- and hate -- is the way we sweep our history under the rug, instead of dealing with it, like a mature nation with a healthy respect for public discourse and debate.

What happens when little Jimmy and little Sally ask how it is possible for King County to be named for MLK when King County was King County nearly a hundred years before Martin Luther King was born? Are we going to have a frank discussion about William Rufus de Vane King then, or are we going to pussy out and pretend the years before 2005 never happened?

Grow up. This country has a slave past in its closet. It would enrich our public life to deal with it and its effects, not weaken it. So let's get on with it and stop sticking our heads in the sand.

My Inner Lesbian Just Soaked Her Panties

Ellie, 27
www.snapshotnyc.com

Oil makes people slippery, and slippery is sexy. When it comes to lube, is there such thing as too much?
I say the more the mmm. . . Cover your bed or floor with painter's plastic and buy a big jug of olive oil from Costco.

Lesbians are pigeonholed as being vegan-eating, organic-hemp wearing, armpit-hair-bearing creeps who don't get laid very often. What stereotype-shattering secrets about lesbian sex could you disclose?
Armpit hair is good for holding onto when lube makes the lesbian too greasy. We are hairy, but at least we don't grow back hair. And lesbians have ass sex just like gay men do.

Inside the oil ring, few holds are off limits. Is the same true for sex play?
A lot of people have never oil wrestled, but most people have had some sort of sex. These two pastimes are similar in that there's a lot of holding throughout the event. Holds are a way of putting your partner/opponent into submission. Be it through a cock up the ass in wheelbarrow position, or a double belly-to-back suplex, holding is essential, and testing out different holds is key to a successful outcome.

I want to bring food into the bedroom, but whipped cream and chocolate syrup are lame. Any suggestions?
A great way to seduce a woman is to start slapping her with some barbequed seitan strips. Then stuff her vagina with a vegetarian cock kebab made from organic vegetables from your nearest farmer's market.

I'm not a religious person, but right now, I'm hoping there's such thing as reincarnation. I'm also hoping that I'm not so good in this lifetime that I warrant moving on to the next level of Enlightenment, but good enough to merit moving up to gay female wrestler for my next time around.

Of course, if anyone wants to slap me with some barbequed seitan strips now, you will find me more than willing to let you prepare me for my life to come.

“You Had Me at Spank. You Had Me at Spank”

Wii: Hello. I'm a Wii.
PS3: And I am a Playstation 3.

Wii: I like go-carts. Vroom, vroom!
PS3: My interests are World War II combat, Karaoke, and tackle football.

Wii: I'm just as cute as a button. *giggle*
PS3: Well, I'm educated and worldly, but if you're just looking to have a good time, good luck on figuring out which buttons of mine to push. And, by the way, my vibrating features have been disabled.

Wii: All you have to do is just touch me, and you'll have the time of your life.
PS3: But I'm multilayered, well-rounded for multi-players, and ready to rule your life with all my multi-applications [*Wii spanks herself*] and multi-ambitions. I am large and in-charge.

Wii: I'm just peppy.
PS3: Yeah, well, people know I mean business by how expensive I am. Good things cost good money.

Wii: I'm cheap. And fun. *giggle*

I'm sold. Wii, please.

Just a Couple of Girls Trying to FulFill Their Potentials or Happy International Womens Day, Part II

Parents of an alleged teenage bank robbing duo said on national television this week they couldn' t comprehend how their daughters could have giggled behind fashionable sunglasses as they robbed a Bank of America branch last week.

There also was shock at Shooter Alley, a nude dance club outside Atlanta, where co-workers say Ashley Miller and Heather Johnston, both 19, worked the afternoon shift.

"I would have never thought...ever," said a 26-year-old dancer, "Dream," who says she worked with Miller -- stage name "Adrienne" -- and Johnston -- "Charlie" -- for at least two months.

"Charlie was always smiling, just a sweetheart. She just said she played tennis in high school. We talked about kids, relationships, never nothing about criminal stuff."

"Charlie was just innocent looking. She could make you laugh just by watching her dance. She could just look at you, stick her tongue out; it was funny, being kiddie."

On March 2, Chastang, Miller and Johnston led police on a short car chase not far from Six Flags amusement park outside of Atlanta and were apprehended. According to arrest warrants, police found marijuana in the car and ecstasy pills on Miller. . . .

The girl's mother, Joy Miller, rejected the allegation that her daughter is involved with drugs. "She is taking the blame for the boy who has the drugs, 'cause she's a sweet girl with a big heart."

... who, like most girls her age, strips during the afternoons and robs the occasional bank on her days off.

Once again, when you get arrested, let mom do the talking. Mom'll defend you against anything.

Apropos of nothing, why is it that no one ever invites me along when the teenaged strippers are smoking pot, taking ecstasy, and throwing their ill-gotten booty around? Are you people under the impression that I can't keep a secret? Because I totally can. . . Okay, I can't. But you know what prevents a man from calling the authorities? Ecstasy and lap dances. And I'm a sucker for both. So, next time you're pharmaceutically horny and on a spending spree, you know, holler!

I'll call in sick to work.

Happy International Women's Day!

One lucky SOB is going to spend a day with Miss USA Tara Conner, and 51 of her hottest friends. Too bad she cleaned up her act.

Up for grabs is a luncheon with the rehabbed beauty queen and 51 Miss USA 2007 contestants. The prize is being offered as a Universal Studios Hollywood promotion.

I'd tell how disgusting this is, that this contest coincides with International Women's Day, the day set aside to "connect all women and inspire them to achieve their full potential," but doing that feels hypocritical, seeing as how I have submitted an entry and all. But you go ahead.

And if your ethical center is a little askew, pray for me to win. (I'd do it for you.) Thanks.

Actually, They Learned that Trick from Bert and Ernie

This happens all the time in my office. Someone will bend over, and the rest of us, for giggles, will blow feather-tipped party favors into their little bottoms until they beg us to stop. It's a hoot.

Don't believe me? Try it tomorrow. Bend over at work, and yell, "Tinky Winky me!" You'll probably end up with a raise.

But be warned: This doesn't work nearly as well with strangers at the bus stop.

Tomorrow, Smoke Your Gauloises Down to Half Mast in Remembrance

The French critic and provocateur Jean Baudrillard, whose theories about consumer culture and the manufactured nature of reality were intensely discussed both in rarefied philosophical circles and in blockbuster movies like “The Matrix,” died yesterday in Paris. He was 77. . . .

With a round face and big, thick glasses, Mr. Baudrillard was known for his witty aphorisms and black humor. He described the sensory flood of the modern media culture as “the ecstasy of communication.”

One of his better known theories postulates that we live in a world where simulated feelings and experiences have replaced the real thing. This seductive “hyperreality,” where shopping malls, amusement parks and mass-produced images from the news, television shows and films dominate, is drained of authenticity and meaning. Since illusion reigns, he counseled people to give up the search for reality.

“All of our values are simulated,” he told The New York Times in 2005. “What is freedom? We have a choice between buying one car or buying another car? It’s a simulation of freedom.”

This breaks my heart. When Derrida died, I felt like a favorite teacher had passed away. Baudrillard's death is different. It feels more like a fellow student has passed away -- a much older, much brighter (much, much brighter) student has passed away. Unlike Foucault and Derrida, Baudrillard did not recreate the world with his theories. He wasn't a genius or a father (or founder) of any particular discourse. He was more like a grad student, reading everything he could, absorbing all the theory available, and then using those theories to make what was origin about his own ideas shine, the way every grad student is taught to do. His ideas were fresh and they were exciting, and they were full of the passion and wonder and sheer bliss that studying and sharing ideas are for students. Unlike the other philosophers we read, he seemed to have feet of clay. Reading Baudrillard was like hanging out in the study carrels at night talking about the best of what you've read or learned that day. He was just like us -- except he was brilliant. And he was the counterpoint to Derrida, Foucault, et al, the geniuses. With them, your ideas seemed small and trite by comparison. Their work left you questioning "Why am I doing this?" Baudrillaud's work answered for you: "Because it's fun and because you love it." When you're wringing your heart out every day, trying to say something original about the world and feeling like you're getting nowhere, you can't hear that enough. I'm really sorry to hear he's gone.

FCC Complaints Found by The Smoking Gun.Com

TSG's favorite:

"It was obscene to show Prince, a HOMOSEXUAL person through a sheet, as to show his siluette (sic) while his guitar showed a very phalic (sic) symbol coming from his below-midriff section. I am very offended and I would preffer (you get the idea) not to have showed it to my 4 children who love football. One of them has hoped to be a quarterback and now he will turn out gay. I am actually considering to check him for HIV. Thanks CBS for turning my son GAY."

You'll be interested to know that not only does watching Prince render children gay, but it also renders men impotent:

"I find it highly unacceptable to have a family watching a sporting event only to find Prince stroking, manipulating and fondleing his guitar behind the curtain. This image only made him look extremely large which made the rest of us feel small, and unable to preform this evening."

My favorite complaint revealed more about the writer than the musical segment, though. As they say in the Southern churches, "Tell it all, brother. Tell it all":

During Prince's rendition of Purple Rain, which I think is a realy great song, there seemed to be a shadow puppet of his (penis). The sheet? that was the backdrop seemed to be (stained?) with something (semen?) My children were watching and now I have to explain to them what a wet spot is on a cum covered sheet. Thanks CBS.

"I dont' think I would have told all that."

I'm really sorry I watched the Puppy Bowl instead of the Super Bowl now.

Finally, There's a Hot Tub Scene More Frightening than the One with Kathy Bates in About Schmidt

A Central Florida woman is accused of luring three young boys into a hot tub while naked and then having a sexual encounter while her husband, who is an Osceola County Fire Department battalion chief, watched, according to a Local 6 News report.

Investigators said Maryann Long, 44, allegedly lured the boys into her Illinois Avenue home in St. Cloud, Fla., with husband and fire chief William Long.

I'm willing to bet that their Illinois Avenue home turns out to be a gingerbread house, complete with gumdrop doorknobs and cream cheese icing shingles. Further, I'll bet, her hot tub turns out to be cauldron, and she wasn't assaulting the boys so much as tenderizing them. Her husband, fire chief William Long? Flying monkey. The boys were lured to the house by the Christmas-y smell; got doped up on her enchanted pastries; and were braising in her kinder-pot, when the police saw the monkey flying above the house, masturbating and flinging poo, and decided to investigate. That's got to be what really happened. Otherwise, this doesn't make sense.

Lured to her house on the promise of freaky sex while her husband watches? Please.

“Quid Pro Quo, Clarice. Quid Pro Quo”

A group of New Zealand school boys who snuck off to watch topless men and women parade on motorbikes, have been busted after appearing on the front page of a newspaper enjoying the spectacle.

The students from Shirley Boys' High School in Christchurch have been given detentions for truancy after appearing on the front page of The Press, the newspaper reported.

Six of the boys appeared clearly on the newspaper, dressed in school uniforms and cheering on the parade.

The event, called Boobs on Bikes, is held in various New Zealand cities during the year to promote a sex expo.

Bare-chested women and men take part in the parade, driving slowly around on motorcycles.

The boys did not miss any classes, but had used their lunch passes to head to the parade, rather than to go home for lunch.

Yeah, I bet that was a tough call.

This can't be a shock to anyone, can it? There were bare-chested women slowly rolling through the streets of the city on—let's face it—huge, gas-powered vibrators, and a bunch of horny adolescents from an all-boys schools skipped lunch to go see them. Seriously, by show of hands, who's surprised by this really?

I'm only shocked that the little buggers didn't have signed notes on them when they were busted. If this had happened in my hometown, Boobs-on-Bikes would have been the closest thing Fayetteville ever had to Take Your Son to Work Day—except it would have had better participation by the fathers.

"Where Is Your God Now?"

The first clothing-free workout session at a Dutch gym went ahead as planned in Heteren, eastern Netherlands, Sunday March 4, 2007, and participants and observers said it met expectations.

Unless the expectation was for people to vomit, gouge out their eyes, and weep openly, pleading for deliverance from this Dutch torment by way of a swift death by the hands of a just and merciful god, I find that hard to believe.

"Reddi-Wip, Butterscotch Schnapps, Bailey's, sans Nipple: One Star"

IT may be laughable when someone says he gets Penthouse magazine for the articles. It’s no joke when I say I went to the Penthouse Executive Club for the steaks. . . .

I gathered three friends for an initial trip. . . .

We were strangers to such pulchritudinous territory, less susceptible to the scenery than other men might be, more aroused by the side dishes than the sideshow: underdressed, overexposed young women in the vestibule, by the coat check, at the top of the red-carpeted stairs up to the restaurant, on the stage that many of the restaurant’s tables overlook.

“Are you hungry?” one of these women said, making hungry sound like an X-rated word. “Ravenous?”

She said she was running low on cabernet. I took the cue and asked if I could buy her a fresh glass. “Yes,” she said. “And you can pour it on my toes.”

Didn’t happen. And when one of her sorority sisters sidled up to us to pose a question not commonly uttered in fine-dining establishments — “Is there anyone I can get naked for?” — the response was silence. . . .

Mr. Lang [the executive chef] struts his stuff with a handful of surprising successes on an uneven menu. . .

The onion rings are fat and crunchy, and cream and bacon turn a side of brussels sprouts into something naughty, though not as naughty as the most unusual dessert. It’s called a buttery nipple, and it involves one of the women straddling your lap, tilting your head back, pouring a combination of Baileys Irish Cream and butterscotch schnapps down your throat, and squirting Reddi-wip into your mouth. It costs $20 in cash. Note to the newspaper’s expense auditors: I don’t have a receipt.

If you want to charge $38 for shrimp cocktail or $105 for Kobe-style beef, that's fine. You post your prices. I can order them or not.

But here's the thing. If I order them, the shrimp cocktail had better have shrimp in it, and when the steak arrives, it had better be beef and not chicken (unless that's how they do it in Japan). Do you see where I'm going with this?

If I order the Buttery Nipple in a joint run by Penthouse magazine and the dessert involves the chef de pâtisserie straddling my lap and tilting back my head to pour Bailey's and schnapps and Reddi-wip into my mouth, I'm going to assume that stuff is a palate cleanser for the eponymous body part to come. If the pastry chef leaves my lap before allowing nipple to hit my lips, tongue, inner cheek -- whatever area she deems most appropriate for savoring the buttery goodness promised in the dessert's title -- I'm going to be really, really, really disappointed.

What can I tell you? I'm a food snob. When I order a buttery nipple, I expect real butter, real cream, and real nipple.

I will accept in their absence butterscotch schnapps, Kool Whip, and whatever else you want to throw in there, but in the end, you've got to come through on the teat. And it doesn't have to be Kobe-quality teat, either. I mean, if I'm willing to pay $20 bucks for Reddi-wip, I'm willing to accept off-brand nipple, as well. If you have to, strip down Pavel the busboy, dunk him in Pine-Sol, and drag him over to my Reddi-lips, do it. I don't care. Once I'm in a settling mood, I'll take whatever you've got. I don't expect you to go out of the way for me, but I do expect you to follow through on your promise.

Seriously, if Larry Flynt had a restaurant and it listed a Funky Vagina as a dessert item, it might come with any number of distractions and accoutrements -- ping pong balls, strands of pearls, extinguished candles, a live birth, maybe, even a penicillin rinse, any number of distractions -- but do you know what it would also come with? That's right: a funky vagina. And do you know why? Because Larry Flynt delivers. If he says there's funky vagina to be had, funky vagina will be gently fading from your middle palate as you leave.

By the way, Larry, if you're out there, thinking about opening a restaurant to take on the Penthouse boys -- this might not be the appropriate forum but -- if need a concierge de funké, I am your man. (Reference submitted on demand.)

*Thanks to the Law Guy for pointing this article out to me

And They Never Make You Waffles in the Morning like They Say They Will

A man who was found dressed in latex and handcuffs brought a donkey to his room in a Galway city centre hotel, because he was advised “to get out and meet people,” the local court heard last week.

Thomas Aloysius McCarney with an address in south Galway was charged with cruelty to animals, lewd and obscene behaviour, and with being a danger to himself when he appeared before the court on Friday. He was also charged with damage to a mini-bar in the room, but this charge was later dropped when the defendant said that it was the donkey who caused that damage. . .

The court was told that the donkey went berserk in the middle of the night and ran amok in the hotel corridor, forcing hotel staff to call the gardai.

McCarney was found in the room wearing a latex suit and handcuffs, the key to which the donkey is believed to have swallowed.

Believe it or not, donkeys will break into mini-bars, run amok in hotel lobbies, swallow handcuff keys, and stubbornly refuse to abide by safe words.

Isn't that right, Donkey?

See?

Did I Mention that Today Is National Pig Day?

Wonder Pizza of Italy will place America 's most popular food source in places never before available.

The innovative machine holds, cooks and serves 9” whole pizza pies in just 2 minutes. There are 3 different pizzas available in each machine at one time. Delicious Connie’s Pizza of Chicago is featured in all WonderPizza Kiosks. 5 years and 6 million dollars of R&D went into this design and subsequent manufacture of WONDERPIZZA of Italy and the product is now beginning worldwide distribution.

WONDERPIZZA of Italy will place America's most popular food source in places heretofore unavailable.

It is an appealing, convenient, hot, nutritious, tasty pizza delivered in approximately two minutes.

That sound you hear is the geological high priest hurriedly giving Last Rites to the North American tectonic plates dying beneath the crush of our children's chubby little feet.

Let us pray.

For National Pig Day, I'm Going to Make You Squeal Like a Pig (with a Shout-Out to Ned Beatty)

Amanda Kelso was a 12-year veteran of vegetarianism when she went AWOL. She blames pork. 'Bacon was a temptress to me,' she says in her 30 Days of Pork series on photo-sharing site Flickr.

Ms. Kelso, a 34-year-old executive producer for an interactive ad agency in San Francisco, became a vegetarian while living with a vegan boyfriend. . . .

In October, she broke her fast from meat with a breakfast of bacon and French toast with her current boyfriend, who, conveniently, is not a vegetarian. But, Ms. Kelso said, if she was going to embrace meat again she wanted to make an occasion of it, and so she came up with the 30 Days of Pork project . . .

As a native North Carolinian, I have a special affinity for the hog. I'm sure that has something to do it with this, just like I'm sure not having any barbecue in nearly a year does.

Whatever, the thought of a woman eating 30 days of pork is giving me naughty, un-Baptist thoughts and a plumping beneath my bible belt. (Is it me, or does she have a purty mouff?)

Damn, now, I'm not going to get any work done today.