Can O' Whup-Ass

Dispatch From Black Rock: Highlights from Burning Man!

BLACK ROCK CITY, NV -- Every year, tens of thousands of smelly hippies with dirty feet and fanny packs crammed with peyote and LSD descend on the playa of the Black Rock Desert for a week of body painting, yoga, drum circles and naked hula-hooping. Welcome to Burning Man. By the time the enormous effigy is set alight at the festival's climax, billions of brain cells have died and just as many crab lice have found new homes in the musky crotches of thousands of faux-dredlocked Starbucks employees.

This year's event (attended by 46,000 artists/beat poets/trust fund bohemians who once read a Carlos Castaneda book), has been particularly eventful. First, a San Franciscan ne'er-do-well by the name of Paul Addis rudely set fire to The Man four days prematurely, causing "wicked downer vibes" and "karmic upheaval on the astral plane" according to participant Summer Catharsis, a half-Cherokee bisexual grandmother who manages an "I Can't Believe it's Tofu Paste" franchise in Sedona, Arizona. Ms. Catharsis is also a part time artiste whose macrame sculpture of a vulva is prominently featured on the main drag of the temporary hippy-opolis.

Another pall was cast over the organic merriment when one artist's rendition of his rarely-done "Hang Myself in a Tent 'til I'm Dead" conceptual performance piece was greeted at first with total indifference. However, once it was discovered that the artist took the title quite literally, it was widely regarded as "a major buzzkill" and "a brilliant commentary on our transient existence but totally creepy and gross" according to art school freshman and Domino's delivery specialist Rain Abramowitz of Taluca Lake.

So far this year, the most intriguing sights/attractions have been:

• The Menstruating Lesbian Street Theatre's production of Lysistrata using only semaphore and limericks written in Esperanto and shouted through megaphones
• A two-story tall sculpture of the Ra the sun-god constructed entirely of toothpaste and boxes of Cap'n Crunch
• Ennui Froglegs, the juggling mime, and his ten-hour organic performance piece "Three Invisible Balls"
• The Naked Fat Guy All-Lute Orchestra's tribute to Ravi Shankar
• The bong parade
• The Om-in, a massive yoga-thon for the differently-bodied, featuring the Sign Language Choir's radical deconstruction of Helen Reddy's greatest hits

ENJOY YOUR LABOR DAY BITCHES! COWA WILL BE BACK ON TUES.

XOX
WAM

Royal Shocker: Prince Charles Finger-Pops Laura Bush!

LONDON -- Making an unthinkable diplomatic faux pas, Prince Charles stuck his thumb up Laura Bush's oopsy hole during a formal function at Buckingham Palace.

The dimwitted heir to the throne was apparently inebriated at the Pre-Diana-Memorial-Service Ball and Boiled Meat Feast when he skulked over to the First Lady's side. Mistaking her faux onyx JC Penney necklace for a set of German manufactured anal beads, he asked her if she'd like to play a round of "Little Jack Horner." An aide who overheard the conversation reports that she responded how much she loves pie, whereupon the mentally-challenged issue of Her Majesty's royal shame-box cut a small slit in Laura's Dress Barn Mother-of-the-Bride gown and inserted his delicate bony thumb through her back door.

To her credit, Mrs. Bush did her best to maintain composure after the first sphincter involuntarily clamped down on the Crown Prince's brittle digit, causing him to get stuck. Her brave Xanax-enhanced smile during the ensuing photo op bore further evidence of her cool-headed nature.

No word on whether the Prince of Wales "pulled out a plumb."

Dispatch From France: Hobo-Be-Gone!

ARGENTEUIL, France -- Let's face it. Homeless folks are eyesores. Their ill-fitting clothes are rarely thoughtfully coordinated and they're always hopelessly out of fashion. They have disconcerting conversations with unseen people, and the heady aroma of old cheese, poop, fish and burning cabbage reliably betrays their proximity. Their panhandling forces us to remove our iPod earplugs to fib about how we haven't any spare change. How fortunate then, that the residents of Argenteuil France have a mayor named Georges Mothron who, taking a page from the Pied Piper's playbook, has taken proactive steps to rid his otherwise dazzling hamlet of just such an infestation. He started using a delightful new product called Hobo-be-Gone. The spray, a noxious-smelling concoction designed to shoo distastefully vagrant winos from doorways and alleys, seems to be effective.

We pause now to state the obvious. The French are not exactly renowned for their pleasant body scents. They fancy malodorous cheeses. Otherwise sane folks in France (and everywhere else) frequently appear to be batsh*t nuts at first glance, lumbering down the street immersed in bluetooth-enabled arguments with thin air. How the heck do they know whom to spritz with this stuff?

Be that as it may, it would appear that some folks consider the tactic a tad rude. Human rights kvetchers complain that the spray's use is an attack on human dignity, a bitter irony coming from the nation that has hailed Jerry Lewis as a genius.

Buckling under pressure from the dignity fascists, however, Mayor Mothron has suspended the act of hobo-spritzing. Perhaps it's all for the best. After all, one cringes at the thought of emptying half a can of Hobo-be-Gone on a nauseating tub of snaggle-toothed humanity only to make the mortifying discovery that he's Gerard Depardieu.

Minutes From a Meeting of the Log Cabin Promise Keepers

WASHINGTON, DC -- Our Godly nation has been blessed with a bounty of morally upstanding, godly Republican geezers who hate fags, support our troops, believe in family values, and loathe the Mexi-rican hoards swarming over our vulnerable borders to steal our jobs and impregnate our daughters. In fact, these folks stand for the kind of stuff where, if you stand against them, well you're an unpatriotic pervert with a boner for Bin Laden. Now, following in the tradition of the Promise Keepers, a new club with stringent eligibility requirements has formed, the members of which like to throw words around like "family," "God," "troops," "morality," and "blow job" like pies in a Marx Brothers movie. Welcome to the inner sanctum of the Log Cabin Promise Keepers. Its esteemed members: Mark Foley, Bob Allen, Larry Craig, Ted Haggard and Jeff Gannon. Below, find the minutes from their most recent meeting, rescued from the paper shredder by one of our ruthless underground operatives.

• Minutes taken by club secretary Jeff Gannon.
• Meeting was called to order in the gimp stall in the men's room at the Ronald Reagan International Airport, at 11:04 pm on 8/23/07.
• Old business: we hate homos. We hate immigrants (except for swarthy pool boys). We support our troops (especially the swarthy grunts with heat seeking missiles in their GI Joe underoos). We honor our wives and tolerate their icky ladyparts. The surge is working. We hate homos.
• US Senator Larry Craig (and erstwhile Mitt Romney campaigner) motioned to take the throne, second-motioned by Bob Allen. Senator Craig complained about the preponderance of undercover police in airport men's rooms, making it increasingly difficult to honor his wife by giving rusty trombones to randy salesmen on layover. Florida State Representative Bob Allen said "preach it, Mary!" Ex-Congressman Mark Foley suggested drafting legislation setting aside one stall in every public mens room for the express purpose of rusty tromboning, felching, dirty sanchezing and ass-spelunking (aka Congressional Page Orientation). Such stalls should provide condom dispensers, amyl nitrate machines, lube packets, slings, assorted buttplugs and copies of US News and World Report.
• Marine-Sodomite-for-Dollars (and erstwhile member of the White House Press Corps), Jeff Gannon motioned to take the throne. Motion seconded by Mark "chicken-hawk" Foley. Gannon suggested that the members of the LCPK do an "elephant walk" for ceremonial bonding purposes. It was soon discovered that lack of space in the cripple stall prohibited the activity. Allen proposed a good old fashioned daisy chain instead, which commenced without incident until Ted Haggard burst into tears and remained inconsolable until Gannon convinced him that Jesus doesn't lurk about in toilets spying on believers.
• Florida State Representative (and erstwhile John McCain campaigner) Bob Allen motioned to take the throne, seconded by Ted Haggard. Allen opined that Gannon's man-meat was a delicious spitting viper of desire, but that Foley could stand to douche his oopsy-hole in a more thorough manner. Allen then asked if anyone had a wet-nap. Craig provided wet-naps all around.
• Ted Haggard, man-o-God and methamphetamine aficionado made a motion to take the throne, seconded by Larry Craig. Haggard motioned to declare Mike Jones a Tattle-Tale Poopy Pants. Motion agreed to unanimously. Haggard asked if anyone had any crystal. Haggard and Gannon proceeded to snort lines of tina off Allen's pendulous bitch-rack.
• No further motions. Jeff Gannon led the members in a moment of Godly prayer, during which the LCPK pledged allegiance to the Republican Party, reflected on the sanctity of marriage, meditated on how much we hate homos and prayed to Jesus to stop making us do the hippity dippity dance with blabbermouths.
• Meeting called to close with ceremonial soggy biscuit ritual.
• Meeting adjourned, 11:38 p.m. by obnoxious Iraq war vet/double amputee knocking on gimp stall door.

Eavesdropper: Alberto Gonzales Calls Dubya to Resign

WASHINGTON, DC -- As the world is well aware by now, super-smart and totally forthcoming US Attorney General Alberto Gonzales has resigned, having notified our beloved commander-in-chief of his decision via telephone on Friday. Gonzales, of course, is the man who fibbed to congress about muscling Dubya's wiretapping fetish into practical use (by pistol-whipping a hospitalized and barely conscious John Ashcroft). How ironic, then, that Friday's phone call to Bush was tapped by our covert band of ruthless operatives in much the same way the NSA has spied on tens of thousands of Americans under his totally sort of legal and kind of constitutional policies. And lucky you, we've provided the transcript of Friday's phone conversation:

(phone rings)

PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: Turdblossom! I knew you'd come running back! I need you, buddy. Pickles mixed rum and Xanax again, and she's talking to invisible men in the rose garden.
US ATTORNEY GENERAL ALBERTO GONZALES: Um, Mr. President? This is Alberto --
POTUS: Speedy!
SPEEDY: Yessir. I'm sorry to inter--
POTUS: I was just talking about you, amigo! Jenna was asking about the best way to conceal doobage up her pooper on her next trip to Panama.
SPEEDY: Listen Mr. President, the reason I'm calling, is--
POTUS: I suggested taping a couple reefers to a tampon and wearing it in her shame hole. But she--
SPEEDY: I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but I'm calling to tender my resignation.
POTUS: You're quitting?
SPEEDY: I feel I can no longer be effec--
POTUS: How come all you folks are up and quittin' on me? Shoot, without me you'd be slinging chalupas at a Fort Worth Taco Bell.
SPEEDY: Mr. President, Congress is just not going to let go of the fact that we fired a bunch of Federal Prosecutors for not trying hard enough to put Democrats in jail.
POTUS: Speedy, I told you. All them damn blue state congress folks are a bunch of fairies and lesbos. And you don't got to talk to them anyways. I get to have something I like to call an Erective Pilgrimage.
SPEEDY: Priviledge. Executive priviledge.
POTUS: Whatever, Frito Bandito.
SPEEDY: Congress is saying I committed perjury when I talked about how I didn't recall visiting Ashcroft in the hospital while he was heavily sedated and convincing him I was the tooth fairy and needed his signature so that all the pixies in Candyland could have ice cream, when what he was really signing was an authorization for the NSA to listen in on the phone conversations of American citizens.
POTUS: Boy howdy, am I glad you did that! Just the other day Pickles and me had a few good laughs listening to some goober having phone sex with his cousin.
SPEEDY: But that's not how it's intended--
POTUS: And that recording of O'Reilly calling his assistant at 3 a.m.to discuss vibrators and loofah sponges...that never gets old.
SPEEDY: I'll make the announcement on Monday.
POTUS: Okie-dokie. Say why don't you say goodbye in song, like Ashy?

(click)

POTUS: Speedy? Speedy? You there? Dag-nab it! Damn Mexistanis never finish a job!

Foxy Brown's Ass-Kickin Prison Pomes n' Sh*t

EXCLUSIVE: Demure buttercup Foxy Brown has been thrown in the clink for violating her probation. Seems a sistah can't bounce her BlackBerry off the noggin of a sassy ho no more without some bitch taking offense. She sits in her cell as we type, a pitiable womb-booger growing in her toxic uterus. What's a bitch to do? Aside from plotting the death of a certain uppity Korean manicurist, she's taken up the pen and is intent on following in the footsteps of Emily Dickinson and Maya Angelou. And our ruthless band of underground spies has gotten their felonious mitts on a few of her most delicate creations. Enjoy!

LIL KIM BE A HO
Ev'rybody know
Lil Kim be a ho
When she spit, she spittin shit
Her ass be made of dough

FOXY BE COO
Lesbo bitches better step
Foxy B, she gots a rep
I ain't here to scratch dat itch
Ain't gonna be yo prison bitch
Ain't gonna muff dive in yo hole
Ain't gonna play the "daddy" role
Ain't gonna fist yo skanky box
Or strap one on, don't front a Fox
I ain't gonna be yo slut
Keep dem fingers out my butt
Dat shit's wrong, you lesbo foo
I'm Foxy B, and I be coo
You say you wanna lick my twat?
Let me think...okay, why not.

FRO DAT SH*T
A ho be talkin on her phone
And folks can't leave a bitch alone
They get up in a bitch's grill
And talk and talk and talk until
They workin Foxy's lastest nerve
They gonna get what they deserve
Fro dat phone right at they head
Dat's whatcha git for shit ya said
Naomi Campbell did it too
Jus' fro dat sh*t, dat's whatcha do
And dat ain't all bitch, check dis out
One time a sistah's weave fall out
She step out to da beauty sto
A bitch need hair glue, dats' fo sho
But sales bitch say dat sto be closed
Then whatcha do? I think you knows
Fro dat glue right in her face
She lucky I be outa mace
Don't close yo punk-ass sto on me
I'll fro dat sh*t, I'm Foxy B.
Dat's right, I'm Foxy. I gots class
I gots it coming out my ass
But those damn manicurist chinks
Who fix my tips, those bitches thinks
That Foxy gots to pay full price
Don't front a bitch, she don't play nice
I'll fro some shade, I'll fro some fits
Karate chop you in yo tits
I'll fro a punch, dats how I grooves
I gots some mad ju jitzsu moves
I loves to choke some bitches out
Cause fro-ing shit's what I'm about

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND, BITCHES!

This Week in Poop Part 8: Poop and Let Die

• MMM, THAT'S GOOD COFFEE: In Australia, some folks decided it would be a good idea to feed coffee beans to a civet cat, and brew it after it emerges from the kitty-cat's poop hole. As with all exceedingly disgusting foods, it has quickly become a delicacy; A cup o' French Roasted Tabby Crap Au Lait goes for 50 bucks in the more trendy cafes.
• SPEAKING OF CAT POOP: When the Jack Nicholson/Helen Hunt flick "As Good as it Gets" premiered in Hong Kong, it was re-titled based on Jack's character's name: Melvin. Unfortch, when "Melvin" was translated into Chinese, an unforseen gaffe occurred, and the film responsible for Helen Hunt's ill-gotten Oscar for playing a crybaby shiksa waitress was marketed to unimpressed Hong Kongians as "Mr. Cat Poop."
• PIMP DADDY SCHOOLS HIS BITCHES IN HIS MAD ASS-WIPIN' SKILLS: Terrance Howard (pimp portrayer, yesteryear's Oscar hopeful) told Elle Magazine in an interview that he don't roll with no ho who don't use a wetnap after dropping the kids off at the pool. Regular Charmin don't do the trick. Howard schools his classy-ass ladies in how he likes them to clean their shame zone and oopsy-holes after making ucky-poo and orders them to stock up on wetnaps during their next extra-crispy purchase at KFC. Cause a pimp has standards, yo.
• SEWAGE FOR KIDS: We have stumbled across an amusing website wherein the Metropolitan Wastewater Department invite the lucky children of San Diego to put sewage on their faces. It also includes recipes for food that looks like sewage (sewage soda and sludge cakes are two mouth-watering examples). Although we're not exactly sure why the copropheliac city of San Diego wants its kids to play with poop, the recipes make perfect sense; it prepares the li'l tykes for what they'll be fed on a daily basis in the unfortunate scenario of a Jenna Bush presidency.
• POOP SURFING IN GAZA: Celebrated surf-Jew Dr. Dorian Paskowitz recently delivered fifteen boards to Palestinian surfers in Gaza, a generous act of interfaith philanthropy that momentarily makes one forget to ponder the complications of surfing in full hijab. Sadly, however, the boards may have a more practical use. Gaza's escalating population has sorely taxed its sewer system, the consequences of which were seen last March when a treatment facility exploded, sending a tidal wave of poop through a village which resulted in five deaths and an exceedingly unpleasant rescue and recovery effort. Experts predict that poop surfing is set to become a popular Gazan pastime, second only to missile dodging and rubble-sifting.

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Carrot Top

Heya, Carrot...or Mr. Top...or whatever you call your icky self...

Hi. Um...wow.

We remember your early days as the skinny, universally tolerated prop comic. In joining the illustrious ranks of Rip Taylor and Gallagher, your career was on a jaw dropping trajectory from playing Chuckle's Funny Bone in Craters-of-the-Moon Idaho to the celestial stratosphere (aka the has-been gallery of shame that is The Hollywood Squares).

We recall how you'd open your trunk-o-mirth and pull out a plastic fish with circles cut out of it and hilariously exclaim "holy mackerel!" as your legion of retarded fans busted their collective gut until their rum and coke came out of their nose.

And now look at you. With your chemically-enhanced physique and your tattooed-on eyeliner. We're having nightmares tonight.

You look like (pick one):

1. A production still from the all-clown re-make of Cape Fear
2. Dolph Lundgren possessed by the malevolent spirit of Lucy Ricardo
3. Pippi Longstocking's gay brother Poopy
4. A cyborg leprechaun
5. You're preparing to audition for the title role in the dazzling gay porn musical extravaganza "Little Orifice Annie: It's a Hard Cock Life"
6. Bloody hell.

XOXOX
WAM

Dispatch From Oz: Down Under Biddy Found Down Under Pet Camel! PLUS: Tourette's Monsignor Speaks!

BRISBANE, Australia -- In an apparent show of displeasure over the brand of Purina Camel Chow she was feeding him, a camel raped the old biddy who kept it as an exotic pet. The woman, who's name has been withheld by her mortified family, had no comment; mostly because she's all dead and stuff. Although death by camel shag is exceedingly rare, animal experts surmise the 60-year-old beastial strumpet brought it on herself by dressing in a suggestive manner. The multiple footprints found all over the camel-humped corpse suggest a zoological quid pro quo for being traumatized by the daily sight of senior camel toe.

***

In other news from Oz, Monsignor Geoff Baron, the senior priest caught on YouTube cursing like a sailor and hurling racial epithets at a gang of unruly skate punks, has resigned. In parting, he led his beloved flock in one final prayer:

Holy Father, blessed be thy name. I pray that you watch over my beloved parish (even the f*ckin wogs and c*cksucking chinks, who seem to be taking over this goddamned country faster than those f*ckin cane toads), and my goddamned fudge-packing colleagues. I've always prayed for Your guidance, O Lord...even if it meant braving the f*cking sh*t storm over that goddamned YouTube video posted by some sperm guzzling f*ggot punks who make a hell of an goddamned argument against our asshole Pope's f*cked up stance against scraping womb boogers from the skanky snatches of c*cksucking n****r sluts. And now I'd have to be a bleeding retard not to see the f*cking writing on the goddamned wall. Heavenly Father, as you know I've endured years of listening to fat-ass lesbo nuns chewing my goddamned ear off about their stupid crap. All the shit-for-brains c*nts who corner me in the goddamned rectory to bore me to f*cking tears about some butt-ramming bake sale where they'll raise $12 in an entire goddamned afternoon peddling their shitty lime jello crap that always gave me the f*cking trots. I'm at peace with the decision, and upon hanging up my collar I'll promptly bid adieu to this chronic case of blue balls and commence spraying sperm at anything with a twat and a decent f*cking rack. No more will I hide behind the pulpit every time I pinch a fatty, no longer shall I wank my pud to anal lesbo porn in the confessional, or walk in on Father O'Malley admininstering doggy style butt-communion to some pimple-ass altar f*g. Kiss my goddamned ass, you miserable bunch of sphincter sucking butt-munches. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen.

The Queen of Dead

SEVENTH CIRCLE, Hades -- The Queen-o-Mean (no, not Clay Aiken, silly!) is dead. Monstrous gargoyle and plastic surgery worst-case scenario Leona Helmsley's heart gave its two-week notice today, effective two-weeks ago. The homo-hating billionaire ex-con was enjoying a peaceful morning at home eating baby flesh and rubbing saddle soap into her favorite maid whip when Lucifer's icy grip yanked her face first into her priceless Steuben crystal figurine display. She was found by her butler, prone on the Turkish marble floor, her beloved lapdog Trouble Helmsley enthusiastically urinating into her open drooling mouth. The butler quickly followed suit, and after photographing her in various humiliating poses and posting the pictures on MySpace, eventually phoned for medics.

As scores of service personnel immediately began rehearsing a rousing, foot-stomping Virginia Reel to be performed to the tune of "Happy Days Are Here Again" at her otherwise ill-attended memorial service, environmental experts started a heated debate as to how best to commit the toxic harpie's poisonous flesh to the dirt without threatening the tri-state area's water supply.

Her maid, Consuela Hernandez, a traumatized illegal with post traumatic stress disorder, stammered in grief-stricken broken English that she'd consulted her Tarot cards and can confirm that Ms. Helmsley is currently being checked into the dazzling Lake-o-Fire Marriott, where she can look forward to many relaxing days being ass-humped by demons after a refreshing lava bath. Thereafter she'll retire to an overpriced room with a breath-taking view of the air shaft, where she can enjoy a glass of sparkling 2006 pink zinfandel from a box and recline on her luxurious sperm-stained Sears hide-a-way cot outfitted with 75-thread-count JC Penney poly-blend sheets with an understated Smurf pattern.

IN OTHER FILTHY-RICH-DEAD-OLD-BROAD NEWS: Brooke Astor is still dirt-napping, yet enjoying a decidedly more comfortable afterlife than her sister-in-oppulence Leona.