Can O' Whup-Ass

Hey, M*******ckers! It's the @#!&% News Roundup with Sailor-Talkin Sue!

NEW YORK -- When Tourettes-afflicted news reader Sue Simmons recently dropped the F-bomb during a live broadcast, she unwittingly stumbled upon a heretofore untapped niche: potty mouth journalism. Although she has since performed her "oops, I'm sorry" tapdance, plans are currently underway for the veteran anchor negress to host her own, highly-targeted newscast: The @#!&% News Roundup.

As one might guess, our network of morally-bereft spies was able to smuggle the teleprompter copy for your general amusement. You're welcome.

Good evening, m*therf*ckers. I'm Sue Simmons. Here's the g*dd*mned news:

• A fat-*ss f*ckwad in Florida by the sh*tty name of Bob Hezzelwood was given a g*d d*mned ticket for wearing a c*cksucking speedo on the f*cking beach. Although a cow-f*cking *ss-licking judge threw the c*nt banging case out, Mr. Hezzelwood has filed an *ss-humping tw*t-licking lawsuit against the butt-f*cker who arrested him, violating his g*d-d*mned right to make other beach goers puke their m*therf*cking guts out at the sight of his nasty-*ss c*ck crammed into his f*ggoty banana hammock.
• In the f*ggot-*ss nation of Great f*cking Britain, an *ss-licking retard by the b*tch-*ss name of Dougal Thorn has been arrested on c*ck-sucking charges of animal f*cking cruelty. It seems the bloody-*ss d*ck smoker got p*ssed off at his c*nt-spelunking d*ke neighbor's kitty cat. So he punched the g*d-d*mned sh*t-eating homo kitty cat in the m*ther-f*cking head and tossed it in the c*cksucking river. He got his tw*t in a knot cause the *ss-hole cat "looked pleased" when it knocked over a c*nt-fisting vase. His neighbor, a m*ther-f*cking whore named Sarah Booker, should stop her g*d-d*mned b*tching and clear the sand from her c*nt, as it's been a tw*t-banging coon's age since she had her m*therf*cking p*ssy punched.
• The g*d-d*mned *ss-hole Tony Nominations have been announced. Leading the m*therf*cking pack is "In the Heights," a c*cksucking musical about a bunch of *ss-f*cking sp*cs singing and dancing like a bunch of g*d-d*mned f*ggots. "The Little f*cking Mermaid," Disney's g*d-d*mned musical about a b*tch-*ss girl doesn't have a tw*t cause she's m*therf*cking fish, was largely snubbed. Patty d*ck-sucking LaPone was nominated for best c*nt-licking actress for her work in the f*ck-me-in-the-*ss revival of "Gypsy". Nominees for best *ss-licking revival included "South f*cking Pacific," "Sunday in the g*d-d*mned Park with f*ggot-*ss George" and "Mac-f*cking-Beth."

We pause now for a f*cking word from our *ss-licking g*d-d*mned sponsors. So keep your c*nty-*ss butts planted in your c*cksucking f*ggoty couch, and we'll be right the f*ck back, m*therf*ckers.

Totally Exclusive!! A Peek Inside the "Jenna's Gettin' Hitched Barn Dance and Hootnanny"

CRAWFORD -- It was the most splendorous social event the Lone Star State had seen in years (no, not the sinkhole). The toughest ticket since the ATF-sponsored Branch Davidian weenie roast, Jenna Bush's Knot Tyin' Jamboree occurred under heavy security, with only the highest-ranking family members, friends and ex-Enron executives in attendance.

But of course one of our shameless moles was able to infiltrate the goings-on, disguised as an undocumented Mexarican cater-waiter. And he was able to report back on the biggest gathering of douchebag yahoos since the FoxNews company picnic. And here's a few magical moments he overheard and transcribed for your exclusive consideration:

THE VOWS:

JENNA: Henry, I'm totally like into being your squeeze and stuff. I remember when I was a little girl and my daddy took me on his knee. After coppin a feel, he said I'm prolly gonna get hitched before what's-her-name. My twin. Her name's on the tip of my tongue. That girl over there with the ugly face. The card-holding member of the Itty-Bitty-Titty-Committee. Oh yeah, Barbara. I totally forgot what I was sayin. I'm majorly psyched that from now on when I give your pants-meat a mouth hug in the back of a limo, the baby Jesus won't get his swaddling clothes all bunched up in his buttcrack. Last night my Mom knocked on my bedroom door. I was tokin' on some chronic doobage so I put it out and gargled with jean nate. She staggered in and sat on my bed, spilling her xanatini and totally ashing on my comforter. And she said that now that I'm hitched I gotta bend to your whim. Well, um, I'm not sure what a whim is but if it's anything like your sperm-barfing underoo viper, I'll like totally bend to it whenever. Unless I'm on my period or feeling farty.

HENRY: Jenna, you look hot. In that dress I can totally see your bodacious boobage. I've had a boner for you ever since I saw you passed out in your puke at that nightclub, those secret service dudes tryin to wake you up and stuff. Your skirt was up over your head and I could see your twat. Then the secret service dudes pulled your skirt back down and I almost creamed my Gap khakis. You totally look like your Daddy if he was like a tranny. I knew from that moment I wanted you for my wife so's we both could be like, rolling in dough. I'll even put up with your nasty grandma's crapola, just so long's I can do lines of booger sugar off your boobs and shove your ankles behind your ears at least four times a week and do to you what your daddy done to the country. Heh-heh...C*NT-tree. I said "c*nt." That's totally hilarious, dude.

OVERHEARD CONVERSATION: BUSH FAMILY WEDDING PORTRAIT

JENNA: Daddy, quit touchin my butt.
LAURA: Who are you?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
LAURA: Likely story. Where's security?
GEORGE: Where's my momma?
BARBARA: Gam-gam's yelling at the Mexicans.
GEORGE: I was a-scared she'd get in one of her moods when Daddy started cryin like a girl and she slapped his glasses across the lawn into a cow pie. Say, who's that skinny gal?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
JENNA: Hey, whore. You can arch your back like a Hustler centerfold all you want, your boobs still look like dried cherry tomatoes.
BARBARA: Shut up, tw*t...your dress looks like wadded up charmin and you smell like you've been frenching Barney.
JENNA: Mom, make the ugly one shut her yap.
LAURA: It was a lovely ceremony. I 'specially liked the acrobatic leprechauns.
GEORGE: How many Xanax you take, Pickles?
LAURA: That's Rainbows to know, and bunny rabbits to find out.
BARBARA: I wish that guy would take the damn picture.
GEORGE: Relax, what's-yer-face. Brownie's doin' a heck of a job.
LAURA: Who's this lady and why is she pressing her mcboobs into my shoulder?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
JENNA: You look like Olive Oyl with scoliosis.
LAURA: Nice to meet you, Miss Oyl. Could you take your thumb outa my buttcrack?
GEORGE: My bad.
LAURA: Cookie monster!

Ask Aunt Betsy: Strange Bedfellows

Hi-dee-di-dee-dosie-dotes-an-little-lambsy-divy! Heavens to me! It feels an eternity has elapsed since last you joined me, settled into my cozy mint green and butterscotch Levitz breakfast nook with matching cornucopia-themed formica table-top, lingering over a blackberry Pop Tart and a steaming cup of Chock Full o' Nuts decaf hazelnut instant. In the background, suspiciously Jewish-looking Matt Lauer is currently interviewing a family with 17 kids, all of whom claim to be Christians. But Aunt Betsy sees in their aggressively cheerful nature evidence that they aren't true Christians (i.e., Baptists) but are instead a tongues-speaking colony of snake-handling fanatics long overdue for their very own Waco-style ATF-sponsored end-of-days gun show and barbecue party. While yours truly is hardly an advocate for birth control (it invites dabbling in sex as a pastime rather than a tiresome duty and is therefore blatantly anti-Jesus), here I make an exception. This poor woman's womb likely resembles a slip-n-slide, and as pampers-filling scream machines slide from her sin hole like logs in a plume ride, the likelihood increases that she'll produce more of what the world scarcely needs: a homosexual or a democrat (po-tay-to/po-tah-to if you ask me). Judging from the looks of Jehoshaphat (the toddler boy whose birth order doomed him to a bottom-of-the-barrel "J" name), his demeanor suggests a latent talent for flower arranging and/or opera appreciation; one rather suspects that particular boat (the HMS Good Ship Sugarpants) has sailed.

Speaking of homosexual Democrats, Lance and Bruce (otherwise known as co-queens of the Ass-sex Republic, which rudely abuts the Christian theocracy of Aunt-Betsy-stan), have adopted an enormously unfortunate orphan of foreign origin and dubious ethnicity. One suspects they did so to fill the void left by Charo the Shih-Tzu, their tedious companion who disappeared a few months ago and mysteriously reappeared in my freezer in the form of delectable Korean dog sausage. As I write this, the three of them are engaged in a scandalous game of peek-a-boo on their front lawn. Why, I hear you ask, does the neighborhood association allow this belligerent display of diversity when they so recently banned my darling lawn jockeys Sambo and Mr. Bones from the driveway of Aunt-Betsy-stan? The answer is clear enough to me. Beelzebub holds dominion over our hell-bound subdivision.

Proof of Mr. Bub's presence occurred at last Saturday's Yahtzee league, during which Loretta Face (the Presbyterian divorcee/catering hobbyist whose stuffed mushroom hors d'ouvres taste like donkey sphincter au gratin) had a seizure directly after rolling a large straight. As she lay jerking about on my House Beautiful olive shag carpeting, amid the scattered freight of an overturned tray of her diarrhea-provoking canapes, I promptly sprang into action by tossing a full bucket of water on the wretched woman. While I'm to be gently faulted for failing to notice the bucket was in fact filled with dirty Mr. Clean fresh-pine ammonia, it did manage to drive beelzebub's spirit from Loretta's herky-jerky limbs. She promptly regained her equanimity before succumbing to ammonia fumes and collapsing anew, this time face-down in Mr. Sillypants' litterbox, which I'd been meaning to clean.

Anywho, let's make a dent in the towering pile of desperate correspondence clamoring for the balm of my wisdom and the insight of my infallible advice. This week, I shall delve into the body politic, answering queries related to matters specific to the Gomorrah located inside the belt parkway.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a member of the House of Representatives, a proud Italian from the boogie-down Staten Island. Until recently I thought I was doing everything right. I've towed the party line, every morning memorizing The Turdblossom Daily: GOP Talking Points Bulletin. I've fear-mongered about arabs, paid lip-service to Jesus, and devoted my entire being to defending the sanctity of marriage. Last week it all fell apart when I knocked back a few shots of tequila with a group of hookers aides, took my SUV out for a midnight joyride and had an unfortunate collision with a lamp post which darted unpredictably in front of my vehicle. Since then it has come to light that my side bitch spat my bastard womb booger from her cooter three years ago. Now folks are calling for my resignation! I feel like I have so much of the Lord's work to do as a member of the GOP congress! I have a lovely family at home in Staten Island to support! Please advise, signed Golly, Our Political Will's Over-Played

Dear GOPWOP: While it may be true that when Jesus gives us lemons we should make lemonade, that doesn't mean that if Jesus gives you poop you should make Yoo-hoo. Honestly! Aunt Betsy was completely in your corner until you mentioned your district. Indeed, if you were truly a champion family values, I rather doubt you'd condemn your own unfortunate family to a life on Staten Island. Your misfortune is compounded by the fact that you unwisely chose to break a commandment, rather than a law. In America, we prefer our politicians to have rapsheets over indiscretions (see: Libby, Scooter). But at the end of the day, I blame your wife. If she were really a good WOP wife (I call them Wipes), along the lines of Donatella Versace, Victoria Gotti or Carmella Soprano, she'd have had your mistress/bastard combo pre-emptively iced before dashing out to have her mustache bleached.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a woman and I have a vagina. For the last few months, I've been running for president of the United States our local "Yahtzee League." Given the fact that our particular "Yahtzee League" has never had a vagina-owning woman as president, my campaign has been groundbreaking. I feel that both me and my vagina are uniquely qualified to answer a phone at three in the morning to answer a life-and-death "Yahtzee" question. And in spite of the fact that I misspoke when I claimed to have come under sniper fire when I attended a "Yahtzee convention" in "Sheboygan," I've run a strong campaign. But now my opponent, a negro by the name of Jihad Bin Laden has been gaining support and I'm being urged to drop out of the race. Is this a vast Yahtzee conspiracy? Signed Dice Yells: Keep Endeavoring!

Dear D*KE: Ah, yes. I attended the Yahtzee convention in Sheboygan. It was lovely, in spite of the fact that it was nearly over-run by bleeding hearts who were trying to alter the official Yahtzee League Rules and Regulations as they pertain to sudden death tie-breaking knife fights. Oh, and between you, me and the pot roast—both you and your revolting vagina are quite fortunate that my rifle jammed when it did.

Dear Aunt Betsy: For seven years I've been living in a pretty house. There are negros here that I can boss around. I have two lovely twin girls, and the one that I like is being married tomorrow. Hold on, my Rum and Mr. Pibb needs another Xanax, be right back. I'm back. Sometimes I see furry talking critters in the Rose Garden. Where was I? Oh! I'm sad now 'cause a new lady gets to move in here next year and she gets to undo all my decorations! Like the singing fish art that I put in the Oval Office, and my Franklin Mint "Hee-Haw" commemorative china. And to add insult to injury, I'm going to be replaced by one of the following three: an uppity negress (negros can't boss around other negros! that's what happens in post offices and we know how that turns out!), an adulterous kleptomaniac beer queen with a fake tan, shady dealings, and a rap sheet, or a bloated sperm hydrant with sticky cigars who's just going to look silly attending state dinners in a dress barn ball gown. What am I gonna do? PS: I sympathize with the heck you've gone through because of Sambo and Mr. Bones. I have a lovely collection of vintage porcelain Mammy figurines and if anything happened to them I'd just die! I like unicorns. Signed, Please Intercede; Can't Keep Life Exactly the Same

Dear PICKLES: While it will be hard to improve on the exquisite taste exhibited by a chain-smoking school teacher with a Donny Osmond haircut and a penchant for vehicular homicide, we feel you'd be most at home on the ranch with your buckaroo-modern naugahyde sofa and matching wagon wheel coffee table adorned by an ashtray overflowing with lipstick-smeared Pall Mall butts. My advice is to leave gracefully, with the pride in knowing that your taste level has set the bar impossibly high. But with the exception of the Rose Garden possibly being usurped by a watermelon patch, Aunt Betsy rather thinks the storied residence will remain what your husband turned it into: a landing strip for Jihadi Airways. 

Coming this Fall: "Swee-tards" (Bonus: COWA Pitches New Reality Series!)

Whilst combing the interweb for something fresh to ridicule, we happened upon an item on TMZ. Apparently someone is developing a reality/dating show for mentally disabled folks, and posted an ad on craigslist for contestants. This makes perfect sense to us, because anyone who would respond to such an ad would qualify by default.

Okay. Even a person who—say, wears a helmet to bed—needs love. We were not unmoved by Shaun Cassidy's groundbreaking performance in "Like Normal People," wherein two people with the mental capacity of a sack of hammers meet and fall in love (remade decades later as "Sleepless in Seattle"). And while one might make the case that shows like "The Bachelor," "Flavor of Love," and "I Love New York" have saturated the "let's watch retards court each other" niche, we still can't help but feel there's something icky and exploitive about this. But of course, we'd TOTALLY watch it.

Below, we've provided not only an exclusive look at the projected winning couple (attained by our resourceful and amoral operatives), but have decided to pitch our own reality shows whose collective aim is to obliterate the remaining scraps of good taste from the American cultural landscape. Enjoy!

"SWEE-TARDS" PROJECTED WINNERS

NAME: Bipsy McGaw AGE: 72-and-a-half TURN ONS: Fingerpaints, Bugs Bunny, Fisting TURN OFFS: the boogeyman STATEMENT: One time I went down the slide at the park but I peed my pants so I got stuck. Then I played a game with the other kids called “I bet I can throw a rock at your face.” Cookie Monster!!

NAME: Doody Bandersnatch AGE: poop TURN ONS: poop TURN OFFS: poop STATEMENT: Cookie Monster!!

WAM'S REALITY SHOW PITCH-O-RAMA:

• "BASEMENT BITCHES" WITH JOSEPH FRITZL: Hosted by the gentleman who locked his daughter in the cellar for a decade or three, this show is "Big Brother" meets "Temptation Island" meets "Hogan's Heroes." Object: first one to tunnel out before giving birth to Fritzl's child wins a $5,000 shopping spree at Bed, Bath & Beyond.
• "I DIDN'T ORDER THAT" WITH RONALDO: Brazilian soccer star (or "football" star for you tedious Europeans) Ronaldo is stranded on a desert island with a dozen beauties, half of which are female while the other half has a platano tucked away in their bikinis. Each episode promises an eye-popping surprise in a daring new reality show that is part "Bachelor" and part "Snakes on a Plane."
• "WRINKLE FARM" WITH SHARON STONE: In a whacky cross between "Kid Nation" and "Cocoon," two dozen burdensome oldsters are trucked out to a delapidated ghost town in death valley and promptly abandoned. Hidden cameras are placed everywhere, and an increasingly inebriated Sharon Stone provides hilarious commentary.
• "HOMO/NOT A HOMO" WITH DINA MATOS-MCGREEVEY: Graduates of Exodus International Ministries' homo-be-gone reparative program are paired with desparate childless women of a certain age. A fascinating hybrid of "The Amazing Race" and "Brokeback Mountain," each couple dashes from circuit party to disco, broadway musical to sample sale in a mad-cap scavenger hunt. The first couple to conceive a child together wins a luxury cruise down de Nile river. Hosted by professionally outraged beard, Dina Matos-McGreevey.

Hump Day Perv-a-Palooza: Penguin Rape (and other sordid tales)

It's hump day again, bitches. It's the day we here at COWA endeavor to entertain our six dozen faithful readers by collecting and disseminating an olio of stories of a pervy sexual nature.

Speaking of nature, it seems, according to National Geographic, nature continues to sin against itself. Biologists have so far documented 1500 species of animals who, unacquainted with Leviticus, have shown a propensity to choose the unhealthy lifestyle of homosexuality. Of course this enrages the stretch pants mafia (aka Baptists), because it suggests that dolphins, flamingos, bonobo monkeys, orangutans, beetles, and (hilariously enough) fruit bats are either sinners (suggesting, among other unthinkable things, that hell might have a SeaWorld). It also suggests that perhaps the good book has a fib or two tucked away inside (that is, aside from that inconvenient "a rape victim must marry her rapist" and "slavery is the shizzle" fiddle-faddle).

Indeed, recall the hubbub when Roy and Silo (two limp-flippered chinstrap penguins at the Central Park Zoo) hooked up, shamelessly flaunting not only their lifestyle choice but a suspicious flair for nest decorating and a distasteful obsession with Ida Lupino. In fact, in a flagrant attack on the family, Silo and Roy even raised an abandoned chick named Tango (we see fresh pasta in Tango's future). Silo and Roy's civil union was inconveniently timed, as it coincided with "March of the Penguins," the movie hailed by the Christian right as a touching ode to the traditional family (apparently, penguin-like, traditional Christian moms barf in their babies' mouths and routinely abandon their chicks). And now, a children's book about Silo and Roy called "And Tango Makes Three," is the most widely banned book in the states, apparently because it endorses the penguin lifestyle.  So to kick off this week's perv-a-palooza, lets stick with the always-titillating subject of penguin sex:

• "SQUAWK" MEANS "SQUAWK" On the sub-antarctic isle of Marion, a lonely scientist by the name of Nico de Bruyn was treated to the enchanting sight of a seal raping a penguin. In fact, the BBC online flagrantly defied all morals and good taste by posting a pic of the two hell-bound interspecies perverts knocking flippers.
• THIS EXPLAINS SCALIA: In Scotland (are we surprised?), the land that invented an item that when swallowed is called haggis and when blown is called a bagpipe, where men skip about in dresses, tossing cabers and humping schwinns, the parliament is actually debating legislation banning cross-species man-on-chimp breeding. Scientists, in fact, say that creating a "humanzee" is theoretically possible (explaining the existence of Antonin Scalia and Robert Mugabe, among others). And although there are laws on the books against inseminating a human broad with non-human trouser spew (presumably to prevent Rush Limbaugh from breeding), there are no laws against putting human skivvy squirt up the hair pie of a monkey. Bitches, please. Only in Scotland. Perhaps they should first address the nefarious highland habit of cloning sheep for use as sex slaves.
• THE GREAT CHILEAN WRINKLE BANG: The retarded mayor of Lo Prado Chile has undertaken the profoundly ill-advised mission of distributing free Viagra to his city's oldsters. In the face of an impending hip fracture epidemic stemming from a rash of spectacularly unappetizing vitamin v-fueled wrinkle orgies, they shall see the errors of their ways. How does one say "Grandpa, get off my leg!" in Spanish?   
• EW: Spencer Pratt, a man whose very name begs us to loathe him, has thoughtfully provided a primer on all things ass-sex. Employing all the erudite wit and worldly sophistication we've come to expect from this dashing trust funded sperm hydrant, the Prattster sheds light on when a bro can pop his thumb up his lady's poo hole, and when that can progress (with enough Jagermeister) to a romantic evening of butt humping. Heidi, you lucky bitch.
• A WAM BY ANY OTHER NAME: You might have have noticed that as web master of COWA, we often refer to ourselves as Whup-ass Master. Likewise, it's unlikely to have escaped your attention that frequently, diddy-like, we also call ourselves WAM. Well, as it turns out (according to Urban Dictionary) WAM also means "wet and messy" as it applies to hetero coitus. Graphically speaking, it describes the fetish of those who prefer doing the hippity dippity with a broad when her Aunt Flo's sleeping on the hide-a-bed. We have mixed feelings about this; first, it's distressing to share our handle with something so uniquely icky. Second, we suppose it serves as a welcome reminder as to why, Silo and Roy-like, we much prefer our chosen path of hellbound sodomy over the hetero prospect of even accidentally WAM-ing it. Ew.

The Foxy News Channel: It's da Ass-Kickin Oprah n' Tomcrooz Puppet Show, Bitches!

Somebody gimme a HO-oh! This be Foxy B, mo-fos. And I gots me some rhymes to spit, yo. Firs, y'all gots to chill bout that bench warrant the Judge bitch put on Foxy's ass yessaday. Lawyer bitch clear dat shit up, you feel a sistah? Sh*t. Use to be a time a ho could frow a phone at a sassy bitch's noggin without all this flibberty-floo. Foxy already done put eight m*therf*ckin monfs in da joint, yo. I did dat *ss-lickin anger mamagemint skoo. I also done edjamacated my ass, readin books an sh*t. Firs, Foxy read that shizzle bout those gay-ass crackers Dick and Jane and they f*ggoty dog Spot. Dat Spot can run, that's fo sho. Then Foxy read this whack-ass book bout a punk-ass Runaway Bunny. Bunny bitch be frontin his mama 'bout hittin da streets but mama bunny don't play dat sh*t. Blow a sistah's mind.

So this be the fird edishin of the Foxy News Channel, bitches. A sistah be finkin bout what she gonna do. Then Foxy get it in her noggin that she gonna do some inna-tainment nooz. Feel dat. Today, a sistah spittin rhymes all bout dat fat Oprah bitch and her innavoo wit dat whack-ass Tomcrooz f*ggit. But dat gay-ass whup-ass cracker who run this *ss-lickin blog don't give a sistah no kinda budjit so I don't gots no video, punks. So Foxy fixin to act out da Oprah/Tom Crooz innavoo wit sock puppets. Check it.

	OPRAH-BITCH This be da Oprah-bitch sock puppet. Oprah gots da bling, yo. Dat ho bring dat shit. She remind a sistah of that bitch from Cell block B who be makin Foxy work her stank-ass muff for a pack of bajinya slims. Oprah be serious. Dat fat sistah gots a razor blade in her weave. Don’t cross dat Oprah-bitch or she like to cut a ho. Respeck.
TOMCROOZ This be da Tomcrooz sock puppet, bitches. Foxy make this gay-ass puppet out of a ladies pair of ankle-socks, like doze lesbo tennis bitches gots. Tomcrooz be one off-da-hook cracker, mo-fos. He ain’t right in his noggin. Foxy can spot a crazy-ass cracka-man. One time Foxy be watchin da TV and his creepy-ass face come on, a bitch drop her bowl of Cap’n Crunch. Dat’s for shizzle.

So now Foxy fixin to shove her hands up these gay-ass sock puppets so a sistah can ack out some m*therf*ckin highlights from dat off-da-hook innavoo they done did at Tomcrooz crib up in the Rocky f*ckin Mountinz (a sistah best not f*ck up her tips dat she just got did, dat's fo sho). Check dat.

OPRAH SOCK PUPPET: Sit yo cracka ass down, mo-fo.
TOMCROOZ SOCK PUPPET: I be chillin like Bob Dylan, bitch. Check it.
OSP: Check yo self, punk. A sistah gots a score to settle. Whoop!
TSP: Den you gots to lay dat sh*t on a brovah.
OSP: Why you gots to looz you m*therf*ckin mind lass time? A brovah jump on a sistah's sofa? What kinda country-ass white trash you be, dawg?
TSP: I be da kinda kat dat be feelin dat shizzle. Dat be how I roll. Don't dis a bro.
OSP: A sistah let it slide dis time. But nex time a brovah visit a sistah's crib, you best keep those stank-ass Reeboks off a bitch's divan. Nex queshin. Let's spit rhymes bout yo creepy-ass lizard baby.
TSP: Dat's hard, Oprah-bitch. Suri ain't no lizard baby. Sh*t.
OSP: Don't front a bitch, mo-fo. Dat baby's got fake-ass plastic skin. Her hair be a weave. She an alien-lizard, punk.
TSP: You talkin smack bout a brovah's girl, ho. She a real-ass baby. Dat's not a weave.
OSP: N***a please. You fink a sistah can't spot a weave? Why you gots to keep dat chillunz in a cage?
TSP: Y'all gots to lay off my baby girl. Tomcrooz will smack a ho.
OSP: Fine, punk. But she half-sleestak if you ax me. Nex queshin. Do it be true you like takin tube steak up yo stank-ass poo hole?
TSP: Oprah-bitch, Tomcrooz fixin to slap the black out yo family. A brovah done bang Cher, Nico Kidmin, Hedda Locklear and Pallepalie f*ckin Cruz! I tap da shit out they ass, ho. Feel dat.
OSP: Oprah gots her some gaydar, cracka. You gots some sugar in yo ass, yo. You on da DL and you gots to fess dat sh*t up right now. Respeck.
TSP: Step correck, ho. I cut some bacon off yo fat back. Dat sh*t be rizzle fo shizzle.
OSP: Suit yo-self, punk-ass cracka. Nex queshin. Why you gots to believe in gay-ass alien ghosts dat live in a m*therf*ckin volcano? Dat sh*t's triflin. Don't you love you no Jesus? Da lord Jesus Chrise love you, chile. Who be dat Xenu f*ggit, anyways?
TSP: Step correck, ho. You on fin ice, yo.
OSP: We gots to pause now fo stashin idenfaca-whatzit. We be back, dawgs. Keep yo fat asses where they be. Respeck.

Dat be all, bitches. Foxy done with this sh*t. Peace out, mo-fos.

China to Make Duper-Super Happy Talk With Frowny-Sad Dalai Lama Peoples!

Si Ton Dong, CHINA -- Herro, and a duper-super Monday day to China-loving world peoples! Yesterday the happy good non-corrupt government official persons to make chatty time with belligerent representatives of frowny poop-eating Dalai Lama.

This is to showing how China likes to pretend it have super-big boner for peace!

Berow, we are provide the minutes from chatty-meet.

Now ugly sad western media peoples to shut yaps. We extra human lights is now. Fun!

You come orympics now, okay?

MINUTES FROM MEETING TO MAKE HAPPY TALK WITH DALAI LAMA PEOPLES

• Non-corrupt Chinese official (Sum Dum Pu) say hello and make bow. Dalai Lama peoples say hello and make bow. Sum Dum Pu make bow back. Dalai Lama peoples make bow back again. Sum Dum Pu make bow and say for Dalai Lama peoples to sit. Dalai Lama peoples make bow and say for Sum Dum Pu to sit. Sum Dum Pu make bow and say "after you." Dalai Lama peoples make bow and say "you first." Chinese guard person make pointy-gun at Dalai Lama peoples. Dalai Lama peoples sit. Ha! That be two point for us, sucker!
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu make tiny talk for to asking "how is your visit to lucky fun China?" Dalai Lama peoples are to saying "is lucky-good but air is brown and smell like yak butt."
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make generous offer of pop-soda to Dalai Lama peoples. Before we give Coke, we play joke by go pee-pee in it. Funny laugh!
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu is to making waggy-finger frowny-face to say "Why Dalai Lama wear lady-dress? Why he to play Yahtzee with Nancy Pelosi? Why he get unlucky award from homosex Frenchy peoples?"
• Dalai Lama peoples to say shouty smelly Tibet peoples only to wanting peace. Then Dalai Lama peoples is ask if we to have some poop for them to eating it.
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make waggy-finger angry face to tell Dalai Lama peoples for to stop saying China is making Tibetans do the silly funny cattle prod dance. Frowny Dalai Lama peoples to saying "why come happy laughing Chinese police peoples to making Tibet peoples doing silly funny cattle prod dance?" Sum Dum Pu make foot-stompy shouty sound that "Chinese Police peoples not make bald lady-dress Tibet peoples to doing silly funny cattle prod dance! Now you to closing your fat pie hole or we make YOU do silly funny cattle prod dance!"
• Dalai Lama peoples are smoking that and putting it in their pipe.
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to transform subject and ask Dalai Lama peoples if wanting to make dirty-sex with naughty fun booby-girlies. Dalai Lama peoples are to saying "no,thanks." Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make motion declaring Dalai Lama peoples to be lady-boy homo peoples. Laughy joke!
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make fist bang-bang on tabletop and yelly sound: "China is duper-super Orympics! China peoples are to having yummy fun doggy-woof chow mein! We are to liking Miss Oryvia Fig-Newton-John-Travolta! Who Tibet peoples got? Hamster-in-fanny Richard Gere? Yelly Bjork lady who wear the birdy flu dress? Ha!"
• Dalai Lama peoples are liking them apples.
• Frowny-bad Dalai Lama peoples to say China not to having human lights. Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu make stompy-foot fisty-pound shouty-face: "China have human lights! You to stop say stuffs that China no have human lights! If you no stop to say China have no human lights, you go to jaily time with no trial!" I am to estimate we told him!
• Non-corrupt Chinese official person Sum Dum Pu make standing up, offer happy lucky gift-stuffs to poopy Dalai Lama peoples: lucky toothpaste, smiley face fun-toys, and silly fun panda poop orympic souvenirs!
• We go see happy fun show with dancy fat girlies in penguin suits! Yay!
  
  

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Heather Locklear

Heather. Hi.

So. Let's wiggle out of our boob-flattening turtleneck swim midriff (?) and whip up a batch of frozen pomegranate daiquiries, what do you say? Sit here. Wait, let's put down a towel first.

We don't know where to start. First, of course, we suppose we should tell you Amanda Woodward rocked. We loved it when Kimberly killed her with a bomb but not really and you emerged from the rubble with perfect hair and freshly applied lip gloss. You're a gorgeous bitch, and we're rather certain you're hilarious after several shots of Jager. Yet we were worried for your sanity when you dated Scott Baio, Tom Cruise and David Spade (hereinafter referred to collectively as The Lollipop Guild). We were further addled when your shrink called the cops on you cause you threatened to kill yourself (we're guessing you just recovered suppressed memories of dating The Lollipop Guild).

But here's the deal. Celebs occasionally get papped in horrifically unflattering candid shots (see: Shriver, Maria), and sometimes a bitch gets cornered by a shutterbug sans face paint, with nightmarish results (see: Ross, Diana). But Heather. Heather, Heather, Heather. You're POSING for this shot.

You look like (pick one):

1. Jocelyn Wildenstein's half-formed "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" pod doppelgänger
2. You've just taken the Nestea Plunge, and there was entirely too much lemon in the pool
3. Harry Potter's Rupert Grint (aka Ron Weasley) in a Lifetime movie called "Brunhilde Glop: Portrait of a Blind Transsexual Surfermole"
4. The twin sister of the banjo player from Deliverance posing for a Rita Hayworth-style WWII pin-up
5. Miss August in the "Sexy Down's Syndrome Mamas" promotional calendar
6. The centerfold in Albino Burn Victims Quarterly
7. The Austrian basement lady; who, shortly after catching her first glimpse of the sun, has been ingeniously stunt-cast as the Annette Funicello role in the eagerly-anticipated remake of "Bikini Beach"
8. Bloody hell.

XOX
WAM

Ask Aunt Betsy: Our Youth are Revolting

Hi-dee-die-dee-dipsy-doodly-rama-lama-ding-dong! It's May Day, dear readers! The day when those eccentric Europeans prance around flag poles, clutching ribbons and eating cheese. As if that wasn't enough to eye them suspiciously, on the first of May protests erupt like boils all over the fanny of Europe, wherein folks make signs in unintelligible foreign languages; honestly, don't these people want anyone to understand what they're protesting? The gibberish, translated into American, advocates for the the proletariat. "Proletariat," for those not in the know, is Russian for "Satanist" (I believe the American translation is "Episcopalean"). Aunt Betsy is enjoying a Raspberry Pop Tart and a demitasse of instant hazlenut Folgers, lounging on my avacado-and-mauve House Beautiful chintz settee whilst on the television Meredith Viera (a woman whose refusal to age gracefully is exponentially aggravated by her foreign-sounding surname) flirts shamelessly with Matt Lauer as they interview a mentally disabled child from the Ozarks who won a pig calling contest. The inbred savant just demonstrated his blue-ribbon sow-beckoning skills when who appears but Al Roker sniffing for truffles and joking about a flash flood that swept a Kentucky brownie troupe to its watery grave.

To inform my adoring readership what shenanigans Aunt Betsy's been up to, let me first address my ongoing legal inconveniences. First, a nosy PETA canvasser ran a DNA analysis on Aunt Betsy's homemade Korean sausage, rudely linking the savory meat products to Charo, Lance and Bruce's deceased missing Shih-Tzu. Bruce and Lance, whose Deuteronomy-defying lifestyle in neighboring Buttsex-burgh violates the sanctity of my marriage to my late husband Cecil (more on him later), have attained a restraining order against yours truly. Indeed! As if I needed legal incentive to avoid that loathsome disco gommorah! Additionally, I've been questioned by a local investigator regarding onerous suggestions that my late husband's fatal injuries were inconsistent with a bath-time slip-n-fall mishap (in fact, the bizarre involvement of a lobster mallet and toaster oven set to "broil" seem the likelier culprits). Fret not though, my gorgeous fans; Aunt Betsy wisely had her one-time spouse cremated, after which she committed the poor sot to the municipal water treatment system during a tearful flushing ceremony in my tastefully appointed guest bath. But I digress. Where were we? May Day!

Today is also, Lord help us, a day wherein spring awakens within the loins of our young people. That being the case, I've decided to devote this column to the alarming rate at which today's youth are descending into sin, debauchery, sassy back-talk and negro rap-hop (read: eternal damnation).

Dear Aunt Betsy: I got me a daughter who's pertier than a prize winnin' hog. She loves her daddy, so she's followed in my footsteps by headin out to Hollerwood and becomin a big ol' star. While back, she posed for a communist lesbo photographer who made her look like a cheap honkey tonk strumpet. In one picture she all nekkid and wrapped in a sheet, lookin like she just bumped uglies with a rodeo clown in a motel six. In another picture, me an her is posin for a daddy-daughter shot, but it shows me accidentally feelin up her boob. Now everyone's callin her a harlot, and she might lose her fans who used to like watchin her wholesome concerts where she gyrates on stage like a Memphis pole dancer on crack. My heart is feelin all achy-breaky, and my mullet's fallin out in clumps. What should a daddy do? Signed, Young-n-Old, Knockin Evil Lechery

Dear YOKEL: While Aunt Betsy doesn't find much to recommend about the profoundly unpleasant customs of Africa, their quaint practice of hacking off oopsie-doodles makes a good deal of common sense. When a young lady's shame-hole grows a beard, the townsfolk drag the nubile whore-in-training to the public square, where a near-sighted elder hacks off her oopsie-doodle with a muddy rhino horn. Then they trade her to a toothless decrepit dirt farmer for a goat. Done and done. Today's kids, with their MySpace and their iPods and their anal orgies, are far too cheeky (what's more, they display a profound lack of interest — nay, I daresay a contempt — for all things Yahtzee). Teaching them at an early age that genitals are a source of unbearable agony and shame is precisely the sort of tough love they are so desperately lacking. I have a cousin-by-marriage named Fingers Romano who's an amature oopsie-doodle hacker-offer and provides this invaluable service for free, in exchange for exclusive rights to the photographs he takes of the procedure. His number's enclosed. You're welcome in advance.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Priya Venkatesan Krishna Vindaloo, and I teach classes at Dartmouth so I'm right about everything. One day a student asked an impertinent question that cast my theories in doubt, and the other students clapped (which made me feel bad and triggered feelings of body shame; I weigh 750 pounds). I was so upset that I dashed home and prayed to a cow. After much thought I decided to send grammatically challenged e-mails to my students, telling of my intent to sue their pants off for hurting my feelings. They responded by posting these emails on the blogosphere and exposing me to ridicule. It made me so mad I've grown despondent. I don't get out of bed. My unibrow has grown over my dot. When will children learn that if I'm older and have a PhD that makes me right, so they need to shut up and agree with the stuff I say? Signed, Distraught Educator Sues Ingrates

Dear DESI: My dear, it sounds to me as if you've gotten your sari in a twist over jack-squat. Unless I'm mistaken, your people believe in reinkharma-nation. With that in mind, it's quite apparent the ghastly elephant headed God in charge of your miserable soul has condemned you to be a universally loathed professor (perhaps in retaliation for your unsanitary bovine-worshiping proclivities). If I were you (and thank God I'm not; Tandoori gives Aunt Betsy the trots), I'd fall on my knees and moo a prayer of thanks to bossie for making you an ivy league professor for a bunch of snotty trustafarians. If it were my call (and I rather think it should have been) you would have been a professor of marksmanship at a hillbilly college in Virginia, if you get my drift.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last month, my 67 sister wives and I decided that daughter number 418B (a strong willed eight-year-old also known as Mary Kate Ashley Marie Osmond Tabernacle Smith), was due to perform the sacred "baby-begating-shame-bolero" ritual with a 58-year old man named Caleb. Instead, she ran away and tattled on us to the police. What, in the name of Moroni, has gotten into our children? In my day I'd never think to act sassy. The good book says to honor thy parents; all 748 of them! Signed, Vexed Over Tattler! Egad, Ma'am, I'm Truly Taxed!

Dear VOTEMITT: Yes, our children do enjoy defying our wishes. For instance, young folks flirt with eternal damnation by experimenting with drugs and sex. In short, they are Democrats. My guess is that daughter number 418B (although she certainly seems to be begging for a spanking) is a blessing in disguise. I say this because quite frankly, Beelzebub will be adding you and your 67 sister wives to his ass-sex harem in due time. And although I don't personally know Mr. Bub, I rather suspect him capable of administering a good sassing. Best get used to it now, dear.

Dear Fraulein Betsy: Ja. Hello from der Austria. I be good Fadder. I make daughter-girlie live in das basement since Wham had a hit, und all doze years I share der bratwurst und give her lots of living dollies for to play vit. Now she make all escape-y time und tell her fadder he no get necktie for Fadder's Day dis year. Signed Sad Time And Lost A Girl

Dear STALAG: Mein Herr, I've recently seen a horrifying movie wherein a demented nun unleashes a brood of chintz-clad Austrian children on the terrified citizens of Salzburg, and leads them in a demonic (and rather homosexual) dance routine up and down the Alps all while gleefully singing a perverse ode to mental retardation. If that film is in any way a fair representation of Austrian youth, I believe you should be commended for locking them in the cellar. If that nightmare-inducing film is any indication, your kids have the wherewithal to traipse over the snowcapped mountains into neighboring countries and beyond. Aunt Betsy thanks you for your pro-active quarantine.

Eavesdropper: McGreevey-à-Trois Pillow Talk!!

Fresh from her "I feel Silda Spitzer's pain" book tour and press junket, professionally outraged victim (and erstwhile Brokeback wife) Dina Matos-McGreevey is currently battling to keep her former marital aid/boy toy from giving rude testimony in her upcoming divorce procedings. Teddy Pederson, apparently, was frequently the meat in a coital McGreevey sandwich back in the day. Dina doth protest he's a dirty fibby-pants, while her ex-husbosexual Jim, er, backs up Teddy's claim.

Well, bitches...it appears Dina's the one with her pants on fire. How do we know? You have to ask? One of our ruthless (and ubiquitous) spies was hiding under the bed during one such encounter, and transcribed the entire event verbatim. And we, because we care, have provided an excerpt:

DINA MATOS-MCGREEVEY: Okay, is everyone ready?
JIM MCGREEVEY: Can I be in the middle?
DMM: No.
JM: Can Teddy-kins?
DMM: No.
JM: Oh, fiddle-sticks. You're no fun.
DMM: Let's ask our guest what he wants.
TEDDY PEDERSON: Um, I want a new car.
JM: She means what position do you want?
TP: Um, something that pays a lot of money so I can get a new car.
DMM: I know! Let's do "the rusty trombonist and the naughty piccolo player."
TP: Or how about "Dirty Sanchez punches his donkey under the hershey highway overpass?"
DMM: We can't. SOMEBODY forgot the sombrero and the mayonnaise.
JM: Oh! Let's do the "gimme-s'more-buttsteak Leviticus lambada!"
DMM: I don't know that one.
JM: That's with me on the bottom, Teddy on top, and Dina in the kitchen making s'mores.
DMM: Isn't that a little faggy?
TP: I love s'mores! Do you have any Mountain Dew?
JM: I don't know. Dina, go check if we have any Mountain Dew.
DMM: We don't have any goddamned Mountain Dew. Now what position, guys. Think!
TP: How about "Gladiator Leapfrog?"
JM: Yes! (MM and TP high five each other)
DMM: Nothing doing.
JM: How about "The Hardy Boys and the Dead Lady Mystery?"
DMM: Veto. Last time I fell asleep.
JM: And...?
DMM: Let's play "Madame Pompadour and her Prancing Poodles!"
TP: Okay.
JM: Fine, but the tu-tu makes my butt look fat.
DMM: Bitch, your butt makes the tu-tu look fat.
TP: Ha-ha! Oh, snap!
JM: Are we going to do this?
DMM: Ready...set...go!
JM: Arf, arf!!
DMM: Bad doggie! Le smack!
TP: Um...arf and stuff.
DMM: Ow! You're on my hair!
TP: Sorry.
DMM: Not you.
JM: My bad.
DMM: Stop! My ankles don't quite go behind my ears today. I missed yoga this week.
JM: I didn't miss it! I'll be Madame Pompadour!
DMM: I'm not in the mood anymore. Let's play Yahtzee.
TP: Darn.
JM: Let me and Teddy finish this hand.
DMM: Fine. I'll go make some s'mores.
TP: Can you make them with cinnamon graham crackers?
DMM: We don't have any cinnamon graham crackers.
JM: Well while you're at the store, pick up some Mountain Dew.
YP: Yay!

(holla-back to queerty)

This Week in Poop Part 14: Chariots of Poop

• MUNCHAUSEN BY POOPSIE: Munchausen-by-proxy is a psychological disorder, whereby someone (typically a mother) craves attention so they make their little poopsie-kins sick (at last, light is shed on Britney's habitual "drop my toddlers on their noggins" gambit). In one recent case, a woman in the enchanted kingdom of Australia (where dingos chow on infants like Alpo) supposed she might get some sympathy if she injected some poop into her profoundly unfortunate baby. When the child got gravely ill, doctors found a syringe o' sewage in the woman's handbag. Confronted, this candidate for Mother of the Year asserted that beelzebub made her do it. She has since taken up residence in a generously upholstered suite at the local nut bin. If she returns to a state of mental equanimity, one suspects she's doomed to lose every argument she ever has with the issue of her retarded uterus. Even the simplest spat is likely to end thus: "yeah, well...you shot poop into my veins; take the trash out yourself, hag."
• THE POOP ZAPPERS OF UTAH: In a spectacular act of guerilla conceptual art, three teens from Utah (the state that gave the world Rosanne Barr, The Mountain Meadows Massacre, and Donny Osmond) decided to enter a convenience store, plop a one-gallon baggie of human poop in the microwave, set the timer for ten minutes, and make their exit. The baggie exploded, the microwave ruined, and that particular Seven-Eleven temporarily became a rather unpleasant place to purchase slim-jims and big-gulps. We applaud this audacious artistic statement, which we interpret as a scathingly brilliant reaction to the sterility of chain-store-and-strip-mall suburbia.   
• DAYUM, HO! WHATCHOO BEEN EATIN?  A late entry into the "Mother of the Year" contest has entered the ring. Meet Ritsuko Taniguchi, a Japanese broad who squeezed a baby into the toilet and, in a spasm of maternal affection, tried to flush. Unfortch, her baby was a floater, and ended up clogging the poor woman's commode. Distraught by her inconvenient plumbing malfunction, she wiggled into her Hello Kitty kimono and rang for an expert who met Ms. Taniguchi's claim that the clog was a baby doll with skepticism (a lucky strike; the toilet blockage could easily have been mistaken for Hasbro's recent sensation "Baby Bloo-lips"). Ritsuko is currently performing in live-action re-enactments of girl-on-girl yuri hentai 'toons with Oki Fanoki, convicted star of the underworld cult of lesbian Sumo wrestling.
• THE GREAT G.O.P. POOP DRIVE: Tom Cole, recently-annointed chairman of the National Republican Congressional Committee, is tasked with the responsibility of asking for donations from our great nation's elephant/Jesus party. Eager to return even a small fraction of what our dear leader has been shoveling down our gullets for the last 7 years, one respondant pinched a loaf into the post-paid response envelope and sent it back to Congressman Cole. The Republicans immediately deposited the envelope's contents into their piggy bank, as the donation's worth surpasses the value of the dollar, long since flushed down the crapper by Bushonomics.
• SAY IT WITH POOP: Had it up to here with your uppity in-laws? Are there no words in the English language to adequately express how you feel about your ex boss? What can one give to the man who has everything (and makes a point of reminding you of the fact on a daily basis)? Enter Poopsenders, an ingenious new service that offers a menu of poo-quets one can order sent in complete anonymity to someone who truly has it coming. For inst, say you've had your fill of Sally Kern's hateful rhetoric. Thirty-two bucks will deliver a one-gallon package of elephant plop to her address at 2300 N. Lincoln Blvd/Rm 332, Oklahoma City, OK 73105. Or suppose you've grown weary of the Ken Hutcherson's endless stream of anti-gay bigotry? A quart of gorilla loaf can be mailed for about 25 clams to the Right Reverend's attention at the Antioch Bible Church, 15135 NE 92nd St./Suite 240, Redmond WA  98052. Curse you, Poopsenders! We should have thought of this first! 

The Foxy News Channel: Whack Shizzle

Somebody gimma a HO-oh! This be Foxy B, and a bitch be makin her second conta-blooshun to the Foxy News Channel, da new shizzle on this gay-ass blog. So step mo-fos, an stay out a bitch's grill. If there be some ig-nint peeps who gots they head up they boot-ay, da man bust a bitch for kickin some kung-fu moves on a couple of sassy Korean manacurisists. Then a sistah blow off dat gay-ass anger mamage-mint class and frow dat Blackberry shit at a bitch's sassy noggin. Punk-ass cracker judge send Foxy to prizzin, where she be fo eight *ss-lickin monfs. Respeck.

When Foxy wake up today, she be finkin it monday. And Mondays in Rikers mean dat fat ho in cellblock B with da lazy eye be 'spectin Foxy to work her stank-ass bagina. Foxy don't go fo dat lesbo shizzle, but a bitch gots razor blades in her weave and she'll cut a ho, dat's fo sho. Every monday Foxy gots to f*ck up her tips fistin some nasty muff fo a pack of ba-jinia slims. It sho-nuff be coo to wake up in a sistah's own bed, wif-out findin out some *ss-hole tie a bitch's weave to da toilet while she be sleepin. A ho be free at lass, mo-fos. Foxy be coo.

This week, da Foxy News Channel be in-bess-a-gatin sh*t, spittin rhymes on current e-bents all 'round the gay-ass worl. There be some whack-ass shizzle goin down, mo-fos. Foxy be a classy-ass in-guess-ba-cu-tib reporter now, bitches. So shut yo punk-ass pie-hole, and don't inta-rup a ho cause Foxy gots da mic:

• SHUT YO MOUF, HO: So last week a bitch be runnin her mouf while some sistahs tryin to watch Tyra Banks on "Merica's Nex Top Model." This gabby-ass ho keep talkin bout dis and dat after anotha ho tell her to shut her yap and that's where fings got all gangsta. Loud-mouf yank a clump of hair outa the bitch who shush her, and shushin sistah take a knife and cut a bitch. A ho got so stabby she don't stop 'til her hand cramp. Now the loud mouf be in the incentive care an sh*t. Foxy always suspeck dat Tyra Banks be trouble. But on the other han, Foxy be all synthapetic to the ho dat shank a bitch. Why you gots to flap yo gums, ho? Don't make Foxy miss the part where Tyra throwin shade at da skinny bitch. I cut a slab o bacon of yo fat back. Respeck.
• DA VON TRAP CREW: Foxy don't fink about Austria much. But when she do, she fink about dat gay-ass movie bout a nun who dress her cracker chillinz in some nasty threads she make outa curtains. Then she make the chillinz bust out all kinda homo dance moves up an down da mountainside, spittin some tired cracker rhyme 'bout do-re-mi whatzama-shizzle. Those Crackers call themselves Von Traps. Well now there be a ho in Austria who's daddy von trapped her ass in da basement. Then that mo-fo be havin whatchoo call insex with her and she spit nine retarded chillunz out her tw*t. Dayum, ho. That bitch like to make Dr. Phil's bald noggin 'splode. Dat shizzle for rizzle.
• JOHNSON & JOHNSON: There be a joint in Affika call the Congo (Foxy gexing dat's where da cons go). And in some stank-ass hood call Kinshasa, some whack-ass brothers be stealin other brothers' junk. They be callin theyselves which-dockers and they be puttin voo-doo mojos on a n*ggas draws, an he wake up to find his trouser pony up an left da barn. Foxy fixin to put on her pumps and haul her ass to that Congo joint and bust a cap in they ass. Why you messin with a brother's tube steak, dawg? That be the best part! That be like eatin all the skin from a bucket o' KFC. Sh*t. Meanwhile there be some honkey-ass crackers in Tallasassy Florida who pimp they gay-ass rides by attaching fake-ass testimacles to da rear hitches. Listen up, mo-fos. Foxy fixin to slap the white off your ass. A bitch see a nasty pair of dangly-ass nuts a-swingin from yo Dodge-f*ckin-Caravan, she gonna ram your ass so hard you be finkin you on Brokeback Mountain. Besides, if a sistah put some fake-ass bouncing titties on da front of her ride you crackers be crashing your fat pastey ass every five minutes. Miss Jackson-cause-I'm-nasty flash one tittie and dis punk-ass country have a m*therf*ckin stroke. Check dat.
• LOOK, DAWG...SHARPTON BE ALL OUTRAGED AGIN: Okay so the po-lice done bust 50 caps in Sean Bell's ass on a brother's wedding day. That be some whack shizzle. Then cracker-ass judge let those ass-hole cops walk (meanwhile Foxy B get eight monfs, and Wesley Snipe get three f*ckin years; no justice, no peace brothas). So there be some rage, dawg. But how come that fat-ass Rebbind Sharpton be shovin folks out the way to spit his rhymes on da TV? That sh*t's been played since Tawana, mo-fo. A brother be such a bitch for the media, he gots "press pass" tattooed on his fat ass. Anyfing bad happen there he be, talkin smack he been rehearsing in da baf-room mirror for a week! Somefin not right in that man's head since James Brown died and a brother don't gots no one to go wig shoppin wif. Why he pushin Bell's girl behind him? Let a sistah speak, dawg! Let channel 4 hear da real rage, bitch! Nex time da cops mistake a brothah for a target at a shootin range, stay home. We do just fine without yo fat ass hoverin over everything like a Mrs. Butterworth balloon at da Macy's Thanks-f*ckin-givin Parade! Peace an respeck, mo-fos!

Kidz Korner with Pax Jolie-Pitt!

Hi. My name is Pax (as in "that lady with the big boobs shops for ethno-tots in smelly countries and pax them in her luggage"). One day I was squatting in a dirt room with 753 other kids in a place called the Nike Factory orphanage and a lady with scary puffy lips and big sunglasses came in. She said "ew gross" and held her nose. She pointed at me and said "he matches my dress." Then she wrote a check and I went to live with her so I could be her pet.

I live with Mommy's other pets in her baby zoo. I like it here. There's a brown girl who acts all bossy and has funny hair. There's a white girl who's sad because mommy hates her. We live in fun cages. Sometimes I see a doggie and I bite it. "Woof-woof-yum!!" I say. But Mommy says we can't eat doggies at her baby zoo. Sometimes a scary girl named Suri comes to play. She wears a skin suit to hide her green scales. She tells funny stories about her daddy and his friend Buttsteak LaRue, who's a cowboy that rides her daddy like a horsie and puts naughty things in his fanny.

My Mommy and my Daddy like to look in their mirrors. They like to stand like statues in the living room. Every day they let us out of our cages to look at them standing like statues. Then they make us vote on who's more "gorgeous." If we don't vote for Mommy she makes us sit on the ouchy stool. We get bored in the baby zoo. Sometimes we're sad. So I decided to find fun stuff for kids to do! Yay!

• MORE-MOMS FUN CAMP! Some kids get to live in a fun camp where they have 84 mommies and one daddy. They call themselves "More-moms." And sometimes the sad girls have to play a game called "if you let grandpa put his shame hose in your oopsie hole you get a lollipop." And sometimes they teach the sad boys how to play "lasso the girls and pretend they're cows." Then they all sit around and drink milk and make macaroni art to send to some scary people called Osmonds. Then they drink more milk and cry.   
• BABY FIGHTS! There's a place called England where people poop on cakes and have black teeth. There's a club called the Chavs, who dress like clowns and act like donkeys. They like to put their babies in a ring and make them fight. They punch and cry and cry and punch so their mommies can get some money to buy more clown clothes. I think they do this so their babies won't grow up to be homo sissies. There's a mean old lady who lives in the biggest house in England. She wishes she made her son be in some baby fights when he was a baby.   
• DADDY'S PEE-PEE GAME: Sometimes daddies drink beers and it makes them get all sad so they go pee-pee on a baby. Then their mommy gets yelly and Daddy has to sleep in a cage like in the baby zoo, except they share their cage with a bad man who puts naughty things in the daddy's fanny and it makes daddy sadder cause it feels like he's sitting on an ouchy stool.
• WHO IS THAT SCARY SKINNY LADY AND WHAT DID SHE DO WITH MY FAT UGLY MOMMY? One time when Mommy and Daddy were standing like statues and making us play "vote on who's more gorgeous," we all voted for Daddy. That's cause Mommy was bloated and had a zit on her chin. And face it, my Daddy's a hunka-licious slab of mansteak. Mommy got mad and told us that some kids have fat ugly mommies with small boobs and big noses. She told us to think about that while we sat on the ouchy stool. But sometimes fat ugly mommies pay a doctor to cut off their big noses and stab their boobs until they're big enough for boys to like them. Then they give a fun book to their kids so they won't be scared of their new pretty mommy who can't stop smiling even when she's punishing them by making them sit on the ouchy stool.
• BIBLE SCHOOL CUT-N-PASTE CRAFT DAY! There's a nice man in Florida who lives in his mommy's basement and teaches boys and girls about Jesus in Bible school. They play lots of fun games. His favorite game is called "Let's take pictures of the kids and paste their faces on pictures of sad naked ladies in magazines!" But now the naked sad ladies look happy because their faces look like happy kids! And we learn that Jesus makes sad ladies happy! But now the nice man is sad because he's sitting in a cage.

Celebrity Def Poetry Jam!

HOLLYWOOD -- Sometimes famous people have feelings. And when they do, you can bet that they feel them deeper than you feel yours. Why? Shut up, stupid; it's cause they're famous. Artistes are just more sensitive than you. Your problems are retarded, so put a cork in the bitching.

So it should come as no surprise that when celebrities bare their souls through the art of poetry, the results are earth-shattering. Last night, in a coffee shop filled with the haze of clove cigarettes, several famouser-than-thou types threw it down and slammed, Russel Simmons-style. And below are three of our favorites:

	THE BIRD WOT I AM By Amy Winehouse I’m a bird wot like a bloke To hold the door and score some coke A bloke who buys a twat a rose Then shoots some horse between her toes He can be a chav or yob He don’t need to have no job Just be wif me at home and harf Hold a bird’s hair when she barf He don’t gots to be no chef All he gots to cook is mef And work my bits good in the sack Be smokin hot and smokin crack Tattoo my likeness on his taint A bird like me, my tastes is quaint
HEY! ROBOTS! By Peter Falk Lock your doors! Sedate your cat! Wear your tinfoil helmet hat! Eat some pudding! Wet your bed! So says the robot in my head He tells me when to eat some cheese When to poop and when to sneeze As long as he’s my friend, I’m sane He’s the robot in my brain He told me martians worship cars And Bonnie Franklin lives on Mars He makes me save my used Depends He’s my robot, we’re best friends So if you’re old and feeling blue If your toaster talks to you Snap your cap, go off your meds You all need robots in your heads!
	I’M ACTUALLY LIKE TOTALLY SMART AND STUFF By Pamela Anderson Think of me and you think tits Rejuvenated filthy bits A muff prolifically spelunked But you don’t know the thoughts I’ve thunked I think of stuff like outer space And how I’d like a thong of lace I think about the polar ice And how to rid my crotch of lice I think of stuff besides my boobs Like how Crest fills their toothpaste tubes And w