"My Advice to Criminals Is Stay the Fuck Away from Weng Weng" That's Good Advice, I Don't Care Who You Are

Keep your hands low-down where he can see 'em
Don't put them up high. He's a tiny human being.

Guaranteeing security to Filipino citizens
it's all the same thing to Weng Weng -- guilty, innocent.

He got his own style.
He got a cute little smile.
In fact, one time he got picked up by a pedophile.

This is wrong on so many levels, but I cannot look away.

"Um, Is That What You're Wearing?"

This is where I don't want to find myself at age 40: in a bar, naked, with leopard spots painted all over me. Please, someone, hear my cries!

On Seinfeld a couple of years ago, the writers explored a concept called "Bad Naked." I didn't believe Bad Naked existed outside of the situation comedy universe until now. Now, I believe.

That is so Bad Naked.

I Can't Believe Someone Wrote a Article on Race and Didn't Include a Quote from Al Sharpton. You Live Long Enough, You'll See Everything

Black, Hispanic and white drivers are equally likely to be pulled over by police, but blacks and Hispanics are much more likely to be searched and arrested, a federal study found.

Police were much more likely to threaten or use force against blacks and Hispanics than against whites in any encounter, whether at a traffic stop or elsewhere, according to the Justice Department. . . .

"The numbers are very consistent" with those found in a similar study of police-public contacts in 2002, bureau statistician Matthew R. Durose, the report's co-author, said in an interview. "There's some stability in the findings over these three years." . . .

Like the 2002 report, this one contained a warning that the racial disparities uncovered "do not constitute proof that police treat people differently along demographic lines" because the differences could be explained by circumstances not analyzed by the survey. The 2002 report said such circumstances might include driver conduct or whether drugs were in plain view.

Traffic stops are the most frequent way police interact with the public, accounting for 41 percent of all contacts. An estimated 17.8 million drivers were stopped in 2005.

Black, Hispanic and white motorists were equally likely to be pulled over by police — between 8 percent and 9 percent of each group. The slight decline in blacks pulled over — from 9.2 percent in 2002 to 8.1 percent in 2005 — was not statistically significant, Durose said, and could be the result of random differences.

"It could also be attributed to the number of blacks and Hispanic killed and jailed in traffic stops since the last survey," he did not said when he did not elaborate on the subject, "but we're going to go with 'random differences.' That's our strong suit.

"Um, that's off the record, right?"

So That's What Happened to Mercedes. I'm Glad Things Worked Out for Her

You know I used to be a bad girl
I got busy in the bathroom at my high school prom
Yeah I used to be a dancer at the local strip club
But now I know my right wing from my wrong

Yeah, yeah

I really used to be a bad girl
I had a threesome with my sister and her boyfriend Tom
I know I used to be a real wild child
But now I am a Volvo-driving soccer mom

Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na. . .

Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I wonder where all the porn stars go
'Cause when you need one, they are never around

I think they moved out to the suburbs
And now they're blonde, bland, middle-class Republican wives
They all have blonde, bland, middle-class Republican children
Blonde, bland, middle-class Republican lives

Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I think I know where all the porn stars go
They all become Volvo-driving soccer moms

Clearly, there's a lot of anger being expressed here, but anger aside, he has an interesting theory, one I'll be more than happy to test next weekend. I've got a soccer park nearby and a lot of singles that I'd like to find g-string homes for. Let's see what happens when I wave a dollar in the air at the next game and sing Pour Some Sugar on Me.


Man, the things I do in the name of science.

I Know. I Know. What's with All the Quizzes Today?

Let's see. They're pairing up men in Washington state with female animals? Oh, yeah, this is going to go over very well in Enumclaw.

And I Would Have Got Away with It Too If It Hadn't Been for Those Bobbies and Their Giggling Great Dane

Like so may good times, this one came to an end when the police arrived.

It's sad when you think about the great "I mooned Hugh Grant" story he almost had. The shine comes off that penny of a story when you end it with "and I ended up in lock-up with my pants down for the rest of the weekend."

Seriously, Does This Blog Make Me Look Traditionalist?

You are The Hierophant

Divine Wisdom. Manifestation. Explanation. Teaching.

All things relating to education, patience, help from superiors.The Hierophant is often considered to be a Guardian Angel.

The Hierophant's purpose is to bring the spiritual down to Earth. Where the High Priestess between her two pillars deals with realms beyond this Earth, the Hierophant (or High Priest) deals with worldly problems. He is well suited to do this because he strives to create harmony and peace in the midst of a crisis. The Hierophant's only problem is that he can be stubborn and hidebound. At his best, he is wise and soothing, at his worst, he is an unbending traditionalist.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Except for that part about striving to “create harmony and peace in the midst of a crisis,” and that crap about me being stubborn (where do they get that?), oh! and that stuff about me being an unbending traditionalist, it’s like they’ve known me all my life.

I've Done That. Mind You, I Didn't Know I Was Practicing Medicine at the Time

This week in the Dilbert comic, Alice discovers she has a bad case of chair butt. United Media, the company that syndicates Dilbert, rejected the first version I submitted. It looked like this (see above). . .

My editors thought the pose looked too provocative. They requested I redraw Alice in less of a “mount me” position. I argued that in the context of a medical exam, no one would interpret her pose as sexual. This argument did not carry the day. So I went back to the drawing board with the instructions to make it look “more medical.”

At this point in the story I should pause to confess I did not attend medical school. I don’t know exactly how a trained physician would examine a patient for signs of chair butt. So I took an educated guess and resubmitted the comic. Here’s a peek.

What doctor says: "Yep, that's chair butt, all right. If I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times."

What It Sounds Like: "Mmm, mmmm'm mmmmm mmmm, mmm mmmmm. Mm M'mm mmmm mm mmmm, M'mm mmmm mm m mmmmmmmm mmmmm."

Come on, Lad. It's Just a Little Metastic Bone Tumor. No Need to Go On about It

The actor Hugh Grant has been arrested over an allegation that he assaulted a paparazzi photographer with a tub of baked beans. . . .

Grant allegedly kicked Mr Whittaker three times before kneeing him in the groin. He then picked up a family-sized tub of beans and chucked them at the photographer. . . .

He told the paper: "As Grant was laying into me he asked: 'Do you have kids?'

"When I told him I had two he snarled: 'I hope they die of fucking cancer'."

It's true what they say. Anything said with a British accent sounds classy.

Because No One Wants to See That

According to the Russian internet publication Obozprevatel ("the Critic"), shown in the photograph are colleagues of the provocative Russian-Ukrainian performance artist Oleg Kulik who "conducted their own Moscow own protest action recently, commemorating not only the larger and more well-publicized 'March of the Dissidents' but also the 46th birthday of Mr. Kulik, as Oleg himself reports on Invivio.net."

Apparently the group was inspired to enact their own unique sort of protest action by mounting a mattress on the roof of a car and then driving it through the streets of Moscow while copulating after witnessing the Moscow protest action last weekend led by dissident politicians Garry Kasparov and Mikhail Kasynanov as the "Other Russia" coalition. It seems they wanted to emphasize the "make-love-not-war" theme in the most visceral manner possible.

*Not shown -- Next protester, following closely behind on the roof of a Yugo, making sad, desperate, and, oddly, unrequited love to himself.

Phbbt! Science. The Next Thing You Know, They're Going to Say Raquel Welch Didn't Jiggle with the Dinosaurs

Paleoanthropology Division
Smithsonian Institute
207 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, DC 20078

Dear Sir:

Thank you for your latest submission to the Institute, labeled "211-D, layer seven, next to the clothesline post. Hominid skull." We have given this specimen a careful and detailed examination, and regret to inform you that we disagree with your theory that it represents "conclusive proof of the presence of Early Man in Charleston County two million years ago." Rather, it appears that what you have found is the head of a Barbie doll, of the variety one of our staff, who has small children, believes to be the "Malibu Barbie".

It is evident that you have given a great deal of thought to the analysis of this specimen, and you may be quite certain that those of us who are familiar with your prior work in the field were loathe to come to contradiction with your findings. However, we do feel that there are a number of physical attributes of the specimen which might have tipped you off to its modern origin:

1. The material is molded plastic. Ancient hominid remains are typically fossilized bone.

2. The cranial capacity of the specimen is approximately 9 cubic centimeters, well below the threshold of even the earliest identified proto-hominids.

3. The dentition pattern evident on the "skull" is more consistent with the common domesticated dog than it is with the "ravenous man-eating Pliocene clams" you speculate roamed the wetlands during that time. This latter finding is certainly one of the most intriguing hypotheses you have submitted in your history with this institution, but the evidence seems to weigh rather heavily against it. Without going into too much detail, let us say that:

    A. The specimen looks like the head of a Barbie
       doll that a dog has chewed on.

    B. Clams don't have teeth. . . .

We eagerly anticipate your trip to our nation's capital that you proposed in your last letter, and several of us are pressing the Director to pay for it. We are particularly interested in hearing you expand on your theories surrounding the "trans-positating fillifitation of ferrous ions in a structural matrix" that makes the excellent juvenile Tyrannosaurus rex femur you recently discovered take on the deceptive appearance of a rusty 9-mm Sears Craftsman automotive crescent wrench.

Yours in Science,

Harvey Rowe
Curator, Antiquities

I know this is an old document, having made its way around the Web more than once or twice, but I love it. It's proof that there are people out there making getting up in the morning worthwhile, making life a little more interesting. Honestly, I can't point a link to them often enough.

Can't We All Get Along

Alexyss Tylor: Welcome to The Alexyss Tylor Show. I'm your host, Alexyss Tylor, and, today, we're going to talk more about my new book, Vagina Power: Volume 1 of Spiritual Sexuality.. . . .

I want to ask you right now, if you're not standing at attention, to stand in vagina power and manifest your destiny.

You know this is October, and in a few days, we'll be in Halloween, so I was thinking. I usually don't celebrate Halloween and don't go trick-or-treating anymore, but all girls need to get up and go buy us some costumes. And the costume I am choosing to stand in vagina power in is a pilot. I'M PILOTING THE PUSSY! See, y'all have got to be a pilot over the pussy, y'all. Y'all have got to be the Pussy Police.

Before, when I fantasized about the Pussy Police, I daydreamed about four or five vaginas of the PP hitting my penis like it were Rodney King, hard and often, until it was whimpering, defeated, more than ready to surrender, all the action captured on video tape. But, now, she's gone and turned that fantasy into something dirty.

Thanks, Alexyss.

The Bible Might, but His Hips, They Don't Lie

The Song of Songs—aka the "Song of Solomon"—is like nothing else so far in the Bible. It's an eight-chapter poem, narrated by two lovers. She's dark, young, and foxy. He's strong, sexy, and seductive. (He may even be Solomon, the purported author of the song.) No doubt some Bible scholars claim that the song is just an allegory, that the lusty images and panting verses are really enthusiastic prayers. No way. This is no religious metaphor. This is sexy time. This is Last Tango in Judah.

The song is a duet, with the lovers alternating passages. She starts, and begins with a bang: "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine." Now that's an opening line!

. . . She's very forward, our dusky beauty. Her lover is an apple tree, "and his fruit was sweet to my taste." . . .

A delightfully steamy passage: She's in bed at night and she can't sleep, so she gets up and wanders the city, seeking him out. (See: Patsy Cline, "Walking After Midnight.") She finds him, brings him back to her mom's house, and … well, you'll have to imagine the rest.

Solomon's wedding procession comes to town. He's riding in a palanquin, and he has seriously pimped his ride for maximum scoring: "He made its posts of silver, its back of gold, its seat of purple; its interior was inlaid with love." Inlaid with love, O my! On the back, Solomon attached a bumper sticker: If this palanquin's a rockin', don't come a knockin'.

It's the guy's turn to give the compliments. Either he's not as good a poet as she is, or you talked differently to girls back in the day. "Your hair is like a flock of goats … your teeth are like a flock of shorn ewes." Your brow is like "pomegranate split open." "Your neck is like the tower of David." You're so beautiful—your hair looks like goats! Your forehead is a pomegranate—a fruit that resembles, um, acne. And you have a neck that seems to be made of brick. Hmm. These lines wouldn't go over well at my house.

I was struggling to come up with a way to limn the preceding text, to show you, one and all, the erotic power of scripture. That's when it hit me, Mango (slap!). An interpretive dance of the Song of Solomon by Mango (slap!) would do it.

Of course, that wasn't possible. So the above will have to do.

Enjoy.

Until Now, I Thought Tom Cruise Was Evil

In the year 2017, an eight-year-old, gay boy named Shannon found a magic lamp. He was granted three wishes: the first, a fur jacket; the second, a flying car; and the third, was a planet full of unicorns. This is the story of that planet. . . Planet Unicorn, Heyyy.

Actually, they didn't have to say the eight-year-old boy was gay. You kind of get that.

And That Looks like My Downstroke, Too

Is your dog in heat and humping anything it can wrap its horny little legs around? Are you constantly having to pry your promiscuous pooch off the legs of guests, parents and members of your church? Protect your leg from a hump attack by getting Scruffy a Hotdoll. Yes, it's a sex doll for dogs. It's shaped like a dog and it'll allow your tension-filled pet to go to town as much as his little heart desires, humping away until he passes out in exhaustion, leaving a wispy coil of friction-singed dog-fur smoke wafting into the air.

Well, what do you know? That Yorkie and I have the same Oh! face.

Ignoring the Underlying Racism to Enjoy the Booty Goodness

It's like listening to Steve Allen read the lyrics to a Little Richard song. It's funny -- just not ha-ha funny.

See what you've wrought, Alanis Morisette? Damn you! Damn you to hell!

Judging from the Video, "Meow" Is Not a Good Safe Word (and That Might Be My Dentist)

The new sex study has revealed that 2 per cent of Australian men and 1.4 per cent of women admit to enjoying dominance, submission and sadomasochism-type sex in the past year. . . .

People who engaged in the habit were more likely to be sexually adventurous in other ways, like trying anal sex and phone sex, looking at internet pornography or using sex toys.

“These are people for whom sex is a hobby,” Dr Richters said.

They were no more likely to have suffered sexual difficulties, sexual abuse or coercion or anxiety than other Australians.

In fact, says Dr Richters, men into BDSM scored significantly better on a scale of psychological wellbeing than other men.

“This seems to imply that these men are actually happier as a result of their behaviour, though we're not sure why,” she said.

I've Read the Bible. I Don't Recall It Having Said, "Thou Hasethn't Lived until Thou Hast Molested a Multitude of Boys

(Not an actual monk: Sorry. I was looking for monk pictures and got distracted. My bad.)

One of five monks facing charges of sexually abusing children told authorities that an inner circle of monks at the monastery there had sex with one another, smoked marijuana and used an eyedropper to produce fake tears on a Virgin Mary icon.

The allegations are the latest revelation into life at The Christ of the Hills monastery, in Blanco, Texas, which was allied with the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia from 1991 to 1999.


The church broke ties with the monastery when allegations surfaced of indecency by San Antonio-businessman-turned-monk Samuel Greene with an 11-year-old novice monk studying there. . . .

In July, monk Hugh Brian Fallon detailed to investigators some of the activities going on at the monastery. That statement was released by court order last month.

The monks claimed that a Virgin Mary icon wept tears of myrrh, but those tears came from an eyedropper Greene kept in his nightstand, Fallon said. . . .

Last year, the insurance company for the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia settled a claim by a man who says he was abused as a teenager at the monastery.

It's called a Buggery rider, and if you're a member of the clergy and you don't have one already, you, my friend, are ministering without a net. Practicing your faith, knowing that the next young male through the door could not only defrock you of your chastity, your Grace, and your soul, but your financial future as well, that takes big cajones. (No, I would not like to go into the confessional with you to see them.) It's also unnecessary. If you're going to drop trou -- and, let's face it, you're going to -- cover your ass. Get the insurance.

You'll be glad you did.

The State of Texas Is the Cross-Eyed Homunculus Playing the Banjo on the Porch of These United States

Scott Panetti was a day away from being put to death when the execution was stayed three years ago. Now the former Poynette High School football star is poised to make mental health history.

The U.S. Supreme Court will take up his case on Wednesday. . . .

Panetti, 49, who has been treated for schizophrenia since 1981, shot his wife's parents to death in Texas in 1992. His first trial ended in a hung jury, with 10 of the jurors deciding that Panetti was insane.

He defended himself at the second murder trial, in which he wore a purple cowboy suit and issued subpoenas to the pope, Jesus Christ and President Kennedy. Panetti, who has not taken medication in more than 13 years, tells doctors that he is being killed for preaching the Bible from his Texas prison cell. . . .

The state argues that because Panetti is aware that he committed the murders and that he is being put to death, his execution is constitutional. It does not matter that he thinks he is being put to death for preaching the Bible and therefore does not have a rational understanding. Any test beyond simply understanding that he is to be put to death would invite malingering and abuse, the state says. . . .

Panetti's troubles started in his senior year, his mother said. He dropped out of school near the end of his senior year after a fight with an assistant principal. He joined the Navy in the intelligence unit but dropped out after he started imagining the government was plotting to kill him.

He was diagnosed with schizophrenia at that time and was hospitalized for a time at the Department of Veterans Affairs facility in Tomah. He moved to Texas, married, was divorced and remarried. Sonja Alvarado, his second wife, was so worried that he would do something violent that she tried to have the police in their town of Fredericksburg, Texas, take his guns away. They refused. A few days later, Panetti killed Alvarado's mother and father.

If Sonja Alvarado thought a police force in Texas was going to take away a man's guns, she's crazier than her ex-husband. Someone should keep an eye on her.

I'm just saying.

I Believe That Is On the Loman Family Coat of Arms

There's no way I'm going in there

Here's a partial list of military hands signals. Since there isn't one for "I give up," it probably isn't French. But it is pretty funny.

"She Pleases Me. Have Her Bathed and Brought to My Room. Ready the Chihuahuas"

Not that you asked, but this is what it looks like in my head -- myself, draped in red velvet, surrounded by beautiful dancing women. Usually, there are also shaved chihuahuas walking around, but there’s really no reason to go into that. Just be happy I don’t share every thought.

Be very, very happy, because, sometimes, it looks like this.

Mark Your Calendar. Don't Be a Loman.

April 14 is Cake and Cunnilingus Day!

Why? Well, as some enterprising men have declared March 14 to be "Steak and Blowjob Day", we women thought we'd get in on the act as well, a month later.

Cake and Cunnilingus Day is about celebrating female pleasure. It's about putting our orgasms on the agenda and demanding pleasure equality! It's about lying back and gorging on chocolate mud cake while our lover sticks his eager tongue into our pussy!

Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up a minute. Go back to the part about steak and blowjobs, because I'm pretty sure I missed out on that.

I was probably working or something equally less fulfilling. I know this is a long shot, but did anyone get a go-plate for me and forget to pass it along? I promise if you come through with the rib-eye and fellatio, I won't be mad at you for holding out on it for almost a month.

Why, You're Not the Usual Peanut Delivery Man! (Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow)

Thomas and Robert are applying the know-how developed to assist human reproduction to save species at the brink of extinction and to fill the void in their lives created by urban ennui. They are the world leaders in animal manipulation.

To collect semen from Jackson, Thomas will have to stimulate the bull elephant -- but not where you might expect.

Thomas: An ejaculation in the elephant can be triggered by massaging the prostate. And the best way to get to to the prostate is through the rectum. Penile massage doesn’t work; it’s even contra-productive because there’s a zone on the penis when you touch it, the elephant starts to flick -- on the elephant with the penis -- and that can even knock you off your feet because on an elephant that’s such a strong movement.

BBC Bastard: Have any of your colleagues suffered from that?

Thomas: Well, there’s a famous colleague that got a black eye from penis banging

I learned two things from that video: one, by the enthusiasm he brought to the task, I think it is safe to say, Thomas really loves massaging elephant prostates and, two, I’ve been going about it all wrong.

Porn, Wonderful Porn, I've Missed You So

If you've wondered why I haven't been posting, it's because until today, I couldn't get by the new Internet access CAPTCHA, created by Matthew Baldwin, over at Defective Yeti's. Until now, I didn't qualify for Internet access. That day is over. Now, I'm a surfing fool again.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

Unfortunately, the system is only voluntary, so if you're wondering why all those other mouth-breathers were surfing your favorites sites at will, well, there you go.

Happy Easter!

What were expecting, a chocolate bunny? Ha! Bunnies are for kids.

P.S. Jebus is the reason for the season.

Yes, It's True. They Were.

BatQuotes

Batman (during a bat-climb): "Careful, Robin. Both hands on the Bat-rope."
Robin: "Sorry, Batman."

Robin: "Boy! That was our closest call ever! I have to admit that I was pretty scared!"
Batman: "I wasn't scared in the least."
Robin: "Not at all?"
Batman: "Haven't you noticed how we always escape the vicious ensnarements of our enemies?"
Robin: "Yeah, because we're smarter than they are!"
Batman: "I like to think it's because our hearts are pure."

Robin: "Where'd you get a live fish, Batman?"
Batman: "The true crimefighter always carries everything he needs in his utility belt, Robin."

Robin: "I guess you can never trust a woman."
Batman: "You've made a hasty generalization, Robin. It's a bad habit to get into."

Robin: "Venus seemed like a nice girl in that costume."
Batman: "I suspect she is a nice girl down deep, but she's fallen in with bad companions. And who knows what her home life was like."

Robin: "That's an impossible shot, Batman."
Batman: "That's a negative attitude, Robin."


Robin, about Catwoman: "Do you think she'll kill Batgirl?"
Batman: "Or worse, Robin. Or worse."

By "worse," I'm guessing he means, she'll ruin her for all men. That would be awful -- unless there were video.

Now, Smuckers Sounds Dirty. (Welcome to Condiment Porn)

Hmm, that uncensored scene really does explain the odd blood flow pattern I get when I eat a PB&J -- but only with smooth peanut butter. I don't go for the nuts (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Because No One Likes a Fuzzy Lollipop

My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, and play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: "Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet."

It was one of those "cold wax" kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss. . . .

So I pull one of the thin strips out. . . .

I lay the strip across my thigh. Hold the skin around it tight and pull. It works! OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire. . . .

With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I apply the one strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my *hoo-hoo* and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (yes, it was a long strip) I inhale deeply and brace myself....RRRRIIIPPP!!! !

I'm blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!!....OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!

But it's worth it. I mean nothing turns a guy off like. . . Well, nothing turns a guy off. There are just various shades of being turned on.

One shade is the crotch that looks like Don King is crowning. This shade is not as appealing as one might think. It's definitely not as appealing as the well-maintained, pubic topiary shade or even the bald shade, but, the truth is, even the Don King, we can work with.

In fact, if you're a women of a certain stripe (for me -- and I probably don't have to spell this out at this point -- that stripe is of the Monica Bellucci kind), Don King could actually be crowning, and you would still find men willing to work with you.

But if you need to torture yourselves to fit in with the with the other girls, we understand.

Oh, and thanks.

Now There's a Way to Get Absolution that Doesn't Involve a Game of "Hide the the Pope in Your Anal Catacombs" with the Priest. Rut Row. Another Sin.

Apparently, I'm a thousand Hail Marys, about a hundred Our Fathers, and a medical excuse to get out of the Fasting away from Salvation. Pray for me.

Actually, the Drama Is the Best Part

They say, I'm really sexy.
Boys, they want to sex me.
They always standing next to me, always dancing next to me,
Trying to feel my hump(hump),
Looking at my lump(lump).
You can look, but you can't touch it.
If you touch it, I'm going to start some drama.
And you don't want no drama
No, no, drama, no, no, no drama.

Alanis Morissette's singing voice destroys genitals, causing penises to go turtle, testicles and ovaries to explode, clitorises to pull their hoods down tightly about them. And don't get me started on what it does to anal sphincters, how it makes them clinch (other than to say, if you were to put a lump of coal in one before playing "Hand in My Pocket," afterwards, a diamond). All I'm saying is, turn down your volume before playing this or else.

What it is is Ms. Morissette's version of the Black Eyed Peas's My Humps, the only version of that song worth watching and the best thing she's ever done. (Dogma's a close second.)