Happy New Year!

Hope this isn't you.

If it is, on the bright side, urinal cakes are great for hangovers—or so friends have said.

Oh, You'd Better Believe that's a Paddlin'

How about “And You Are…?”

This morning, I stumbled across a list that Men's Health had released, titled, "30 Hottest Things To Say To A Naked Woman." I was all ready to write a scathing response, until my boyfriend intervened.

“You can't make fun of Men's Health again,” he frowned, “It's too easy.…”

Alas, my boyfriend is right: this list is too easy to pick apart. And yet I can't help it! The list is filled with slightly creepy, calculated phrases that are akin to similar lists that pop up in women's magazines, wherein we are instructed to send our boyfriends or girlfriends texts saying “Was in such a rush! 4got 2 wear a bra” and other embarrassing “OMG nobody says that shit” phrases of the sort. So perhaps, dear commenters, we should try to help the crew of Men's Health by suggesting better lines, or at the very least, let them know which lines to avoid. Any suggestions?

I don't have anything to add to the hot list, but I do have several things I'd like to suggest for a complementary list:

Top Five Things a Guy Who Gets His Hot Lines from Men's Health Is More Likely to Say to a Naked Woman

1. Pardon me if it is rude for asking, but did you have that penis last night?


2. Thanks. Your money's on the table.


3. That? That's the smell of dried semen, smegma, and shame. Yeah, it doesn't come out.


4. Why does my tongue tastes scabby?


5. Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive.

That's probably not helping, though, is it? Oh, well, that's one more thing to work on in the new year.

Peace and Goodwill. (Shout Out to Linus)

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you and yours are safe and healthy and happy this holiday season. In other words, I hope you're feeling the love, as the kids say. (Oh, they're saying it).

That's for everyone, even for those that don't celebrate Christmas.

I've Got to Stop Censoring Myself

Wordle is a toy for generating “word clouds” from text that you provide. The clouds give greater prominence to words that appear more frequently in the source text. You can tweak your clouds with different fonts, layouts, and color schemes. The images you create with Wordle are yours to use however you like. You can print them out, or save them to the Wordle gallery to share with your friends.

Create your own.


I never would have thought my blog text could be so beautiful—and nearly PG-13-rated.

Thank you, Caga Tió, for Teaching Us the True Meaning of Christmas

Apparently, in areas of Spain, the children feed a log, Caga Tió, before Christmas, and then beat the “shit” out of it on Christmas day, the “shit” being wonderful presents. In other words, everyone in the world is having more fun than we are.

(And the makers of South Park may have some copyright-infringement issues to deal with.)

Suck It, Legal Weenies!

When I first wrote about this album, I couldn't find a legal way to share any of the songs with you. I even tried hosting the mp3 files on my other website, but, as it turns out, “Sort'a” as a response to “Do you own the rights to distribute this song?” is too vague to be defensible in court (or so my hosting company's legal department tells me). Luckily for you, the guys and gals at YouTube don't need no stinkin' “distribution rights.”

Bless you, you lawless heathens. Bless you for hosting that post and this one, my second favorite song from the album.

And, yes, I am officially in love with Iris Dement.

God Bless Us, Everyone, with Ball Gags and Doms

Funny Videos | Funny Cartoons | More Video Clips

This is Extreme Biography: Santa Claus

Our story broke when we found this footage of a drunken sleigh accident.
Santa: I use to love Christmas. Now, all I get is “I want. I want. I want.” There's no magic anymore, so I'm canceling the whole damn thing, seriously. I'm just going to spend a day at home whacking off. …

Voice over: It turns out Santa has many appetites.…

Female Elf: (as Santa) “Ho, ho, ho. Sit on my Yule log. Everybody knows Santa's got a sweet candy cane and a gigantic sack. Let's put mistletoe over camel toe and this'll blow.” (as self) I'd rather fuck a yeti.…

Santa: (in his sleigh, making the rounds) Rudolph! Find me some chubby chasers with a daddy complex.


You know I'm not given to exaggeration, so you can believe me when I say this is the best holiday special since The Little Hummer Boy.

It Would Probably Help if I Weren't Focusing so Much on Her Boobs

She spends counter-clockwise. So far, I've only been able to affect the speed in which she spends. I've had no luck changing her direction.

And, no, math doesn't help. But what do I know about math? I'm just a guy.

First Name Rhymes with Shaky. Last Name Rhymes with Worm

Today, a good friend of mine turned embarrassingly older than I am. Oh, don't get me wrong. She's embarrassingly older than I am throughout the year. It's just that this is the day we celebrate that incontrovertible fact.

Having known her for over twenty years, I can safely say that sending her the above card would be wildly inappropriate. So I'm just going to post it.

Happy birthday, unnamed friend!

The Standing 69 (or, possibly, 68)? That's Been Done to Death

I never quite understood the term before now, but, now, I do. The mask, sir, that's “gilding the lilly”. Thanks for the English lesson.

Dude, when It Comes to Poking Me in My Anal Eye, There Is Only the Hard Way. My Proctologist Will Back Me Up on That.*

Voice Over: We met Fleece Johnson, a longtime inmate, who practices a very different kind of homosexuality.

Fleece Johnson: We have sexual desires, right? So you got a bunch of mens locked up in one place. All of them get hard. All of them horny. All of them have sexual desires. So what are they going to do?

You won't let them have a woman. They going to have each other. Somebody's going to have to give us booty.


Um, that's not a different kind of homosexuality. Unless he desires men, that's a different kind of heterosexuality, one based on the inability to acquire men and the substitution of a sphincter for the preferred vagina, a heterosexuality based on deprivation, erection deception, and rape, obviously. It's the pruno of heterosexuality, where you're making do because the real object of your desire is impossible to obtain. So really, this is a different kind of masturbation, with the other inmate playing the part of the fleshlight, not a different kind of sexuality.

Of course, if Fleece desires men, then this isn't a different kind of homosexuality. It's just a prison rape. Nothing new or different about that.

*There might be an easy way to tap that, but if you're not Monica Bellucci with a dainty strap on and a lot of lube, there's really no reason to discuss it. You really need to be Monica Bellucci to gain access to the easy way.

“Oh Crap!” Pretty Much Says It All

Life Rarely Ends as Happily as a Bad Bar Joke

Porkslap is a new interpretation of the English Pale Ale with a hint of fresh ginger spices (and without their tendency toward cross-dressing). It's balanced, not overly bitter, easy to drink and incredibly refreshing. We brew PorkSlap with two row barley and a little chocolate malt for color. It pours orange and crystal clear with a frothy white head. If your nose is working, you might get a little malty whiff that soon gives way to pure thirst quenching goodness and happy satisfaction.

The finish is clean, crisp, and dry, and it plays really nice with spicy food like tex-mex, bbq, or hot wings.

Go ahead. Slap that pig.


Just don't get so drunk that you slap your inamorata on the ass and slur “You're next, fattie,” into her ear.* Things won't end well for you.

*You know the joke I'm referring to.

Reason #7497 Why It Should Never Be Allowed to Snow in Seattle

Billy Vacation, …, sent these ball-numbing photos he took to celebrate the rare snow falling in Seattle right now. Looks like fun — maybe we’ll try it next time it snows!


Because anybody can make snow angels.

“When Will It Be Our Time?”

Wanda Sykes: Me, I'm for gay marriage. But I don't like that I have to say that because to me, it shouldn't even have to be debated. It shouldn't be in the court system. Government shouldn't be involved in this, because it's very simple: if you don't believe in same-sex marriage, then don't marry somebody of the same sex.

I don't understand people all up in arms over shit that don't affect them. Really, you know, I'm only going to protest and march and get involved in shit that affects me. Look, if they said, “Hey, we're going to ban the sell of alcohol after 9:00 p.m.…”

[Pantomimes marching in protest]
“THIS IS BULLSHIT!”

I'll start the Million Alcoholics March.…

I don't understand it. How does someone else's marriage affect your marriage? …

What is the fear? What are people afraid of, that gay marriage will be better than your marriage? Is it something like

“Look at them happy-ass gays.”

Afraid your wife will nag you like

Wife: Honey, Honey, look at Bill and Ted. Oh my god, I love those guys. They sit on that porch for hours and talk. And I run into them all the time at the mall. And I see them shopping. I mean, they spend a lot of quality time together. I wish we could do that. I wish we could be a little bit more like Bill and Ted.

Husband: Really? (Pause) Well, maybe, if you let me fuck you in your ass a couple of times… That could be me and you right there, baby. We could have that.

– And Scene –

This is one of my favorite bits from her last special. It's particularly poignant now that she's come out of the closet.

What I found funny today, though, is that now that Wanda is openly gay, the ads on her videos now cater to gay and lesbian viewers—lesbians especially. For example, this one was showing when I watched the above on YouTube.

That's just sad. I mean, I can browse the pictures, but they won't help me meet my match. And it's killing me inside.

When will this discrimination end?

“Hey, Cletus, Watch This”

SEATTLE - Two charter buses packed with passengers collided while sliding down a slippery hill in Seattle, and one is now hanging precariously over a 30-foot wall beside Interstate 5.

About 60 passengers were aboard the two buses, which crashed through a metal railing and screeched to a stop seconds before toppling onto the freeway below.

The bizarre accident happened at about 12:30 p.m. as the buses nosed down a hill on East Thomas Street approaching Melrose Avenue East in central Seattle.

Witnesses said the rear bus was heading down the hill too fast for the slippery conditions, and slammed into the back of the front bus.

Both buses slid across Melrose Avenue, which borders a wall above northbound I-5, and kept going through a metal barrier at the top of the wall.

By the time the first bus stopped, its front end and front wheels were dangling suspended about 30 feet above the freeway.


I'm from the South, and, in the South, after a winter storm, a new arrival is likely to share this piece of wisdom with the natives, “You guys don't know how to drive in the snow.” Although I generally ignore all the trite observations made about us—that we don't own a lot of teeth or shoes, that we take forever to say the simplest things, that we'd rather stick our penises into our relatives and farm animals than into the crab and wart wonderlands of venereal plague and low self-esteem your women call vaginas, etc.—today, I want to comment on this old snow-driving saw.

No, we don't know how to drive on snow. We don't know much about how to do anything that regularly happens north of the Mason-Dixon line, or west of the Mississippi, or south of whatever the fuck is south of Georgia. Yet, even though we let our bibles occasionally cloud our minds to things like the theory of evolution, we do know science (it's in all the schools now)—gravity, friction, the laws of motions, all that jazz. More to the point, we know how to apply it, in engineering and our daily lives. Because we do, we know better than to drive on snow and ice. 

And since snow and ice storms are rare, there is no reason for anyone to develop a bank of experience driving on those substances. All anyone has to do is wait for it to thaw, and then go about his business, which, as you know, involves telling stories, marveling at footwear, and not fucking things that would rot our privates faster than molasses and Co-Cola rot our teeth.

If only these boys had been from the South.

* And, yes, I-5, over which that bus is hanging, is a major—and heavily trafficked—piece of the NW interstate system.

Homie Don't Play That, and if You Think “That” Is Repeating a Catchphrase until No One Can Find the Humor in It Anymore, You're Wrong

Homie: Siddown.

All right, kids. I'm Homie the Clown. Y'all ready to have some fun?

Kids: YEAH!

Homie: All right. What do y'all want me to do first.

Kid: Homie, Homie, Homie! Do a silly clown dance for us.

Homie: Oh, degrade myself, huh? I don't think so. Homie don't play that.

What else? What else?…

Kid: Ooh, me. Hey, hey! Can we smash a cream pie in your face like they do with the clowns and stuff?

Other Kids: YEAH!

Homie: I think you got it backward, son. [Kicks pie into little boy's face.]

Now, how do you feel about yourself?

Kid: Totally dissed, Homie.

Homie: That's why Homie don't play that.…

Let's get something straight, kids. Homie may be a clown, but he don't make a fool out of hisself.

Kid:Why you become a clown, then?

Homie: I guess it's because I've got so much love to give.

And it's part of my prison work/release program.…


Wow, me, too: I've got so much love to give. Maybe, I should consider a career of sucker punching children and kicking The Man in the ass.

Oh, wait. I do that now—except I don't have to wear grease paint. (And most days, I'm more the kickee than the kicker.)

If the Siemens Machine Generates those Breasts to Do Every Load (Snicker: I Said, “Load”) of Laundry, It Is a Bargain at Any Price

Link:

This is a European Siemens commercial for a $900 washing machine that features a bunch of bare-breasted women skydiving from a plane. Because, just like Jesus dictated to his secretary in Psalm 49: Large boobs sell large appliances.


If you're asking what large boobs have to do with washing clothes, then you, like me, don't know jack about getting your mentionables and unmentionables squeaky clean. You probably spent your time worrying about water temperature and degrees of agitation when you should have been worrying about nipples—lots of nipples (they're like the scrubbing bubbles of proper laundering)—cold, rushing wind, and just a touch of camel toe. Live and learn.

On the bright side, at least, now I know what it takes to get my brights their brightest and my whites their whitest.

Million-to-One Shot, Doc. Million-to-One

The clergyman, in his 50s, told nurses he had been hanging curtains when he fell backwards on to his kitchen table.

He happened to be nude at the time of the mishap, said the vicar, who insisted he had not been playing a sex game.…

Speaking of the vicar, A & E nurse Trudi Watson, of Sheffield's Northern General Hospital, said: “He explained to me, quite sincerely, he had been hanging curtains naked in the kitchen when he fell backwards on to the kitchen table and on to a potato.

“But it's not for me to question his story.”


No, questioning stories and mocking the storytellers, that's my job.

Now, vicar—can I call you “Dude?”—I don't know where to begin. Questions surround your fell on to a potato story like a distressed sphincter. (Take that Dashiell Hammett.) Sadly, none of the possible answers to them leave you shining in a good light.

Seriously, what answer to Why were you hanging curtains in the nude? helps you. What awkward silence following Do you expect us to believe you “fell” (read as air quotes) onto an un-lubricated potato and it slipped into your un-prepped bunghole without injury to yourself or the delicate tissues that compose that tender orifice? could dispel the disbelief and invoke the holiness that once clenched tightly around you like the ass cheeks of a diarrhetic who fears he's about to shart? (Okay, you win this time, Hammett, but this is far from over.) You would have been better off saying “I was just conducting an experiment to see if potatoes could blossom in dark and lube-y places. Now, we'll never know.”

Better yet, how about “Sometimes, a vicar gets lonely.” Trust me: say that, and you will get no follow-up questions.

Really, people, honesty is the best policy—except in any shenanigans that implicate me. Then, the policy is to lie like O.J. at a murder trial. (Point, Loman.)

** Above, is a picture of two vicars without potatoes in their bums. That's so rare nowadays that I thought it important enough to share. Of course, the day is young.

It's Great to See an Artist Grow Old Gracefully. Kudos, David Byrne

Um, I'm pretty sure I was free that day/night. Why wasn't I invited?

OMG ROTFLMAO

Elizabeth Frisinger will be a living proof that you have to be extra cautious when you have a good friend named Darcy.

After she had her “1st time,” she decides to tell her good friend Darcy. Probably she was still excited over it all, she sent it to “Dad” instead. Dad then responded, telling her the class trip is over and she’s on the next flight home.


But on the plus side, Dad sounds like a cool, level-headed guy, not some hot-headed “I'm coming up there with my .45 and shovel to straighten this ‘1st’-timer out” wacko or “Good 4U”, New-Age, stoner parent. I think Lizzy's going to be okay, albeit grounded for a while.

Of course, this sounds like a hoax, but whatevs

Peace Out, My N–rs

Pruno, a prison wine created from fruit, sugar and ketchup, is such a vile and despicable beast in the California state penal system that prisoners can't eat fresh fruit at lunch.

Back in December 2002, the warden at Lancaster prison in Los Angeles County removed fresh fruit from box lunches in the maximum-security lockup, as an effort to reduce violence. Apparently, sober, scurvy-addled felons are much easier to control than drunken, violent convicts.…

In the first 270 days of 2002, staff at Lancaster prison were assaulted 102 times—about once every three days.

By most accounts, pruno isn't something a normal human would want to drink, so potent that two gallons is said to be “a virtual liquor store,” enough to get a dozen people mindblowingly wasted. And while it tastes so putrid that even hardened prisoners gulp it down while holding their noses, they'll go to incredible lengths to make it, whipping up batches from frosting, yams, raisins and damn near everything.

What's all this fuss about? The Black Table decided to investigate.


My favorite lines come from Step One—Peel, Mash, and Heat:

In a San Francisco Chronicle article from 1990 called “The Games Guards Play,” author Dannie Martin describes how prison guards—or hacks—would search prison cells for any sign of pruno. But instead of taking it away, the hacks who were really hell-bent on getting even would piss in it. As Martin quips, “Wine that has been urinated in several times is far too presumptuous, even for a convict's palate.”

Why am I posting this? Well, I know from reviewing my logs that this blog is really big among the incarcerated. (Let me give a big shout out to Double D, Straight Razor, Tiny T Psycho, and Peaches. I know in my heart you're all innocent, and that if you just keep taking it to the Man, the truth shall set you free. Except for Straight Razor. I think we all know you did that shit. Okay, and you, too, Peaches: point of information, no one commits suicide with a hammer—and if someone were to commit suicide with a hammer, he wouldn't commit suicide by hitting themselves 13 times. In the head. So, no, I won't write a letter to your parole board. But I digress.) And, two, occasionally, you, the un-incarcerated, find yourself in that pre-date predicament where you're too busy to shop for wine for that dinner for two you've got planned, but not so busy that you can't scrape a few minutes up to ferment prison wine. This blog's for you.

It's just another public service message from Biff Loman and The Truth* Network.

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

If you're looking at that shirt and thinking, “Oh, man, a shirt like that would so get me laid,” you are right to think so. It would. It totally would. (Pardon me for not pissing on the dreams of the deluded and enfeebled.)

Getting laid aside, I prefer shirts that are more about attitude, that say something about who I am and what I have learned over my almost five decades on this rock. For instance, I've learned a little Spanish. I know what the word “pendejo” means. I love this t-shirt.

Yes, as It Turns Out, He Can

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Provinces in Peril - Indecision Oh-Eh?

Barack Obama Interview
John McCain Interview

Sarah Palin Video
Funny Election Video

Jon Stewart: Can a brother get a “Nazi bastard!” up in this bitch?

I Type in BLOGGER Hurriedly/Check to Make Sure No One Else Can See/Press “Publish Post” Stealthily/And I…

Lock eyes from across the room
Down my drink while the rhythms boom
Take your hand and skip the names
No need here for the silly games

Make our way through the smoke and crowd
The Clubs the sky and I'm on your cloud
Move in close as the lasers fly
Our Bodies touch and the angels cry

Leave this place and go back to yours
Our lips first touch outside your door
The whole night what we got in store
Whisper in my ear that you want some more

And I

Jizz in my pants …

I need a few things from the grocery
Do things alone now most-ily
Left me heartbroke, not looking for love
Surprise in my eyes when I looked above

The checkout counter when I saw her face
My heart stood still, so did time and space

Never thought that I could feel real again
But the look in her eyes said, “I need a friend.”

She turned to me. That's when she said it
Looked me dead in the face, asked “Cash or Credit?”
And I

Jizzed in my pants…

It's perfectly normal: nothing wrong with me
Oh, we're going to need a clean up on Aisle Three

Now, I'm posed in an awful dance
because I

Jizzed in my pants…

To be fair, you were flirting a lot
Plus, the way you bag cans got me bothered and hot

Please stop acting like you're not impressed
One more thing I'm going to pay by check. …

Bruce Willis was dead at the end of Sixth Sense. I

Jizzed in my pants…

I hear words like “most-ily” and I

Jizz in my pants

Or I would if I wore pants when I blogged.

NSFA—NOT SAFE FOR ANYTHING

Stop me if you've heard this one. A man tries to make sweet, sweet anal love to a consenting, yet maybe a little reluctant and coy jar. Jar can't accept his love. Seriously disgusting, lacerating, and bloody Ass Fu ensues.

I'm posting it because it's making the rounds, and I want you to know what everyone is talking about, but to paraphrase the originating poster, it's enough to make you want to quit the Internets. True dat. (See? It's even enough to make me get Ebonic on your ass.)

As with Most of My Bad Ideas, if There's a Downside, I'm Not Seeing It

Until now, I'd never thought of Richard Simmons as a role for sexy costume playtime, but all of a sudden, I want to wear striped shorts and scream “Yeah, swim to daddy! Come on, swim, baby! Swim!" Ahh, yeah, I think I can make that work. I just need to find the proper medium for sexy swimming.

I'll get back to you.

Humble in Victory, That's Me

Love 'em or hate 'em, blogs are everywhere you look these days. From Britney to your boss's bratty nephew, it seems everyone has something to say — and no one's shy about sharing.

Let's face it, though: The blogosphere isn't all brilliance. For every innovative and inspiring site, there are at least a dozen downright dreadful alternatives.

We decided to seek out the lamest blogs lurking around the Internet. Big or small, notorious or obscure, we tried to leave no cringeworthy creation uncovered. And here are the fruits of our labors.

Consider this an award show of sorts, only without Billy Crystal. Or, you know, the honor that usually accompanies a win.

Click on the arrows above to see the 11 lamest blogs.


Woo hoo! I'm No. 12 (at least)! I'm No. 12 (at least)! I'm No. 12 (at least)! In your face, Bad Hair Day blog! Suck it, you 10 other losers! Yay, me!

I Guess This Was More Cost-Efficient than Actually Making a Soda that Tasted Good

Pepsi was made in the Carolinas. I don't know if this new ad campaign is making a statement about that. (I've been more suicidal since moving to my new home, here, in the Land of Mist and Gloom.) What I do know is I'm no longer confused about why Pepsi comes in second to Coca-Cola.

While its competitor is teaching the world to sing in perfect harmony and using polar bears and penguins to show us how cute celebrating difference can be at Christmas time, Pepsi is showing us the way to deal with holiday depression. As much as I find that a valuable public service for all of us at this time of Yule—hey, Christmas time sucks hard on the soul for lonely and serotonin-challenged peoples (true story)—I don't think it's the best way to sell soda.

Seriously, even if your ad campaign is successful, you're targeting a one-and-done demographic. You're totally missing out on the repeat business that's flooding your competitors' coffers.

I'm just not sure they've thought this through.

What I'm Listening To

He ain't got laid in a month of Sundays
I caught him once and he was sniffin' my undies
He ain't too sharp but he gets things done
Drinks his beer like it's oxygen
He's my baby
And I'm his honey
Never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves
We'll end up a'sittin' on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we're the big door prize
We're gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts
Dancin' in our eyes.

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin'
And keeps on tickin'
I'm never gonna let her go.

He's got more balls than a big brass monkey
He's a wacked out werido and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and he's howlin' at the moon
He's my baby I don't mean maybe
Never gonna let him go

“Man, Them Schnitzengrubens Will Wear You Out”

Bryce Fitzpatrick was working at the Cheesecake Factory at Chandler Fashion Center when he was promoted from server to food expeditor, a step toward management. One day, while he was inside the produce walk-in to hunt down watercress, the door suddenly swung open.

“About 10-plus cooks and dishwashers shut the lights out,” Fitzpatrick recalls. “A guy grabbed me from behind and made me put my butt on top of his genitals.”

One cook grabbed Fitzpatrick's right leg and held it up in the air. Another held his left leg. Two other men grabbed Fitzpatrick's arms.

“A cook would stand in the middle and rub his genitals into my genitals,” Fitzpatrick said.

During his tenure at the restaurant, he suffered the attacks more than 20 times, he said. Then, it stopped being fun. Somewhere after the twentieth time, it just began to seem like work.

Now lawyers are involved.


Lawyers. Phbbt! It's getting so you can't have any un-litigated fun anymore. No, wait: that's not the point of this, is it?

What I meant to say was, “This happened 20 or more times before you did something about it?” Dude, what? Did they start using ugly guys after the 20th bukkake? I'm missing something, here, aren't I? Please explain. Help me help you.

* image courtesy of Seattle's own Erotic Bakery

Say It Ain't So, Ron. Say It Ain't So.

Declassified U.S. government documents show that while Saddam Hussein was gassing Iraqi Kurds, the U.S. opposed punishing Iraq with a trade embargo because it was cultivating Iraq as an ally against Iran and as a market for U.S. farm exports.

According to Peter Galbraith, then an idealistic Senate staffer determined to stop Hussein from committing genocide, the Reagan administration “got carried away with their own propaganda. They began to believe that Saddam Hussein could be a reliable partner.”


I don't know about you, but I'm shocked—SHOCKED!—to find Republicans palling around with terrorists/genocidal maniacs. Shocked, I say.

It Could Be Worse. It Could've Been 20 lbs. of Pork.

It took Brad Sciullo 4 hours and 39 minutes to finish a marathon. A meat marathon, that is.

The 5-foot-11, 180-pound western Pennsylvania chef is the first person to eat a monstrosity called the Beer Barrel Belly Bruiser: a 15-pound burger with toppings and a bun that brought the total weight to 20.2 pounds. The mountain of beef is the product of Denny's Beer Barrel Pub, about 100 miles northeast of Pittsburgh in Clearfield.

Sciullo, 21, of Uniontown, said he was surprised he finished the sandwich Monday. “About three hours into it, things got tough,” he said.


They use to say American had streets of gold and other embarrassments of riches. That was then. Now, they just gawk at us for being the geeks in the capitalist carnival of wretched excess that we are.

I just hope no one in a country where they eat to live is on the Internet today, reading about life in our country, where we live to eat. We've got enough enemies.