Can O' Whup-Ass

A Very Brady Shocker: Mike and Carol's House Was Depraved Den of Incest!!

BURBANK, CA -- Maureen McCormick, yesteryear's Marcia Brady and current reality show fat person, has penned a breathlessly-awaited tell-all entitled "Here's the Story."  Apparently, according to details leaked to The National Enquirer, Marcia and Jan (aka Eve Plumb) stole precious moments on the set where they hoisted their plaid polyester skirts over their heads for a few frantic sessions of nubile muff spelunking. This, in addition to previously confirmed rumors of Carol and Greg engaging in mom-on-son hippity-dippity, reveals a new image of the Brady household as a disgusting den of incestuous depravity. In fact, when taping stopped for the day and the network censors went home, legend has it that the cast, using super-8 cameras, filmed several vile episodes that were made available only to wealthy and well-connected Hollywood perverts (i.e., Merv Griffin, Agnes Moorhead, Sebastian Cabot, et al). And wouldn't you know it, our ubiquitous spy ring has gotten its hands on a few of the plot summaries:

ALICE EARNS HER BROWNIE BUTTON: When Alice exposes herself to Cindy's Brownie troop, Sam the butcher anally punishes the zaftig housekeeper with an enormous sausage from his butcher shop. Mike walks in on the spectacle, frees the Brownies from their cages, and gives Sam a rusty trombone. Carol fries up the sausage and feeds it to her children. When Peter remarks that the sausage tastes like ass, Carol and Mike exchange knowing smiles.

'ONLY TWO AT A TIME ON THE FAMILY SLING': Bored with playing "post office," Bobby and Cindy decide to play "gay bathhouse." Peter and Greg get in on the fun, taking turns in the sling and alternately fisting and felching each other. When Marcia straps on a dildo and jumps into the pile, the sling breaks. Mike punishes his children by jamming sounds up their peeholes and giving them enemas. The contrite kids devise a plan to buy a new, sturdier sling by whoring Bobby out to a visiting convention of Catholic priests.

JAN'S PURPLE NURPLES: When Jan walks in on Carol pooping on Mike's face, Carol gets embarrassed; that is, until Jan reveals she didn't see anything because she wasn't wearing her glasses. Carol punishes Jan by taking her to the garage torturing her with the station wagon by attaching jumper cables to her nipples. Jan's screaming wakes Alice up, who goes to investigate. On her way to the garage, she stumbles upon Greg in the living room, violating Jack (the beloved family pet) with his fist and a can of crisco. Hilarity ensues.

Paris Hilton's Super Smart Step-by-Step Plan to Make Rwanda Less Gross and Stuff

Hi, whores! I'm Paris Hilton. And while I was on the path to inlietonmint enleyetinment getting smart during my two weeks in jail, I totally like had an epinaphy. A pipaphiny. An enaphapy. I had, like, a smart idea. (shut UP!! LOL!!) Ready? Okay, get this. Instead of snorting booger sugar off Brandon Davis' greasy manboobs in the VIP room at Hyde every night, maybe I should do something that totally makes me look like I care about stuff, you know? And that made me think about how Angelina and Madonna are stealing those gross fly-covered babies from Africa and cleaning them up and dressing them in totally cute Baby-Benettons. Well I totally do NOT want a negro poop machine in MY house (I just had it fyoomagaytid from Britney's last visit). Besides I already, like, have a pet. But I totally have good taste and stuff. I like to design majorly hott clothes and draw pictures. So maybe I could, like, use my talints to help one of those gross smelly places in Africa! Totally brill, right? Okay, so that's why I'm taking the jet to Rwanda. To make it less gross. And I have a super smart step-by-step plan to do it! Check it out, whores:

1. Body shame workshops: I saw a picture of some Rwandan chicks and they're too skinny! I bet they totally barf up their cob salads after shopping at Prada, just like Nicole (hi, whore!). I could totally help them to appreciate their bods more. Oh and they need to wear, like, bras. Hello! Their girls swing down by their knees! LOL!!
2. Step classes: I also knowtissed that women try to get ex-her-size by walking with big heavy vases filled with wheat or dirt or something sitting on their heads! (I know, right?) That, like, can't be good for your back and I bet it totally effs-up their weaves. I could SO teach a step class. And we could listen to my CD, and I could learn to say "get those knees higher, whores!" in like Africanese.
3. Oh I totally had another cool idea! I could hand out otto-graffed copies of my CD! Cause I heard that in Rwanda, like a long time ago, the people got caught in an anger spiral and started acting all stabby and killy with each other and then they got all sad. Well anytime I'm sad (like, if I go out with Nicky and she looks hotter than me or has a cuter dress), I listen to my CD and it totally makes me all happy again!
4. I should also bring Consuela along. I think that's her name. Anyways, whoever that whore is who cleans my house. Rwanda is totally, like, jonesing for some pest strips. It also would not kill them to use a little Fabreeze. Carpet Fresh is not a four letter word! LOL!! We could buy like a thousand roombas and just set them loose all over the whole country!
5. Fashion Show!! My line of clothes is so hott! I could show all those girls who only wear table cloths and sheets and stuff that a pair of leggings totally looks cute with an oversized top!
6. Wait. What? What were we talking about? I forgot. Anyways, Stavros just texted me so I hafta go. Peace out, whores! LOL!!

Bill O'Reilly is TOTALLY Down With the Negros!

HARLEM, NY -- Recently, Bill O'Reilly (vibrator enthusiast, loofah sponge user), had an unforseen attack of jungle fever and went on a date with Al Sharpton. A week ago, all giggly and breathless, O'Reilly reminisced on his radio program about their magical night at a Harlem soul food joint called Sylvia's:

"I couldn't get over the fact that there was no difference between Sylvia's restaurant and any other restaurant in New York City. I mean...even though it's run by blacks. There wasn't one person in Sylvia's who was screaming, 'M-Fer, I want more iced tea.' And there wasn't any kind of craziness at all. I think black Americans are starting to think more and more for themselves"

Well, wouldn't you know it? There's a bunch of uppity negro crybabies who, thinking for themselves, consider those comments to be just a wee bit bigoty. But always willing to go the extra mile to right any previous lefts wrongs, O'Reilly has devised a fool-proof formula to reach out to the coloreds. With an invaluable assist from Vanilla Ice, he's re-invented himself as MC Honkey-Kong-King. And below is a sample of da rhymes a brothah be spittin:

Yo, listen to da rapper called Honkey Kong King
I gots mad fresh rhymes and I gots me da bling
I likes me da ladies and I'm tellin you what
I likes to stick a dildo up a cracker ho's butt
Yo, Honkey Kong King be down wit da blacks
So why do da negros like to dis me, I axe?
Is it cause I gave da props to my brother Obama?
All I said was dat negro wit a non-negro Momma
Could talk so good I could understand him too
Why, he even talk as normal as da white folk do
Is it cause I say the reason dat the black folk drown
When da Hurricane K make da levies fall down
Is cause they all strung out on da booze and da crack?
Dat was jus' a joke, dogs, cut me some slack
Then me and Big Al go where colored folks eat
Where da blue plate special's deep fried pigs feet
And I go on da radio and rap about how
I be impressed dat da negros be polite wit their chow
How they don't throw their food, they just sit there and chew
They use a knife and a fork like the cracker folk do
How they think real thoughts and they know what they say
Shoot, da negros be just like real people dat way
But Honkey Kong King somehow caused some offense
For comparing y'all to humans, it don't make any sense
It's da liberal media, dat's who I blame
They twist a brothah's words and they slander my name
Word to da en-double-a-see-pee
I be down wit da coloreds, they be almost good as me

Mahmoud Ahmadahmaramalamadingdong's Big Apple Itinerary

NEW YORK, NY -- As the eternally polite residents of New York City greet yet another day of security blockades, closed streets, re-routed buses and traffic restrictions with their customary good cheer, it is clear that Mahmoud Ahmadahmaramalamadingdong is still in town. The scrawny charmer has thus far spread his pungent charm, crab lice and considerable body odor all over Manhattan. From his well-received and totally lucid speech at Columbia through his expected address to the UN General Assembly, his dance card seems to be full. However (you knew this was coming) our cut-throat band of underground operatives has managed to get their hands on the malodorous monkey's itinerary:

• Speech at Harlem's Apollo Theater. Subject: Did Slavery Really Exist?
• Broadway Tickets: Xanadu! Note: Try to get Miss Olivia Fig-Newton-John-Travolta's autograph. Convince her that Sandy's decision to become a whore at the conclusion of Grease was ill-advised and played a large role in igniting the Iranian revolution of 1979.
• Nightcap at bar in Chelsea called Splash (it is rumored to be a place of ecstacy, which intrigues. It is also said to be a place of much disco dancing and commraderie, free of feminine distractions)
• Statue of Liberty: Convince proprietors that nothing good can come of an enormous green woman flashing her arm pit to the harbor. Her brazen pose is designed to illicit lust, her devil-mounds are clearly visible under her sheet and her pointy hat fails to adequately cover her hair.
• Diplomatic Trip to Hooters: Try to convince hell-bound waitresses to cover up while serving their cheese sticks and nacho platters. Petition management to change restaurant name to "Hijabers"
• Broadway Tickets: A Chorus Line (I'm informed it's a "reality musical" where show sluts are executed one by one for dancing poorly and dressing like whores)
• Beer Blast at The Eagle (One hears it is a place where swarthy men gather for slave auctions. We understand they keep live bears there, and strong men frequently flog ornery boys. Sounds like Tehran!)
• Mission to Radio City: Attempt to gain permission to publicly flog the Rockettes
• Visit Mr. Woody Allen. Pitch movie idea about neurotic dictator plagued by "mother" issues, sexual dysfunction and excess plutonium. Offer to buy Soon Yi.
• Broadway Tickets: Rent (sources say it is a morality tale of how Allah punishes homosexuals who listen to rock & roll)
• Diplomatic Trip to Temple Emanuel. Try to reach compromise. Iran will recognize the existence of the Holocaust if Israel will admit that Mahmoud Ahmadahmaramalamadingdong is virile, potent, handsome, not abnormally short and entirely free of offensive odors.
• Broadway Tickets: The Drowsy Chaperone Throw figs at chaperone to keep her awake.
• NOTE: If I start to feel homesick, I will get in a taxi cab.

A Eulogy For Marcel Marceau

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Oscar De La Hoya

Dear Oscar,

Hi, whore. Let's freshen our cocktail and have a little chit chat.

Well. Get a load of you. This might be one of those rare instances where we're rendered speechless.

No...on second thought, we have a couple of things to say.

First, bitch...you're just precious. Look at you. Prancing about in your Jaclyn Smith wig and your Judy-Garland-sings-"Get Happy"-fedora. That Mona Lisa smirk on your face betrays how delighted you are with yourself and we can't help but share your joy. You're an alarming sight, but we suppose it shouldn't surprise us. Drag queens, after all, would make perfect prize fighters. Not only would they put on a helluva show, but an angry drag queen is scarier than a premenstrual grizzly bear. In fact, if one were to throw Mike Tyson into the ring with, say, Flotilla DeBarge, and if Mike took her crack pipe away and insulted her shoes, he'd never survive to see the second round.

Truth is, we're secretly pleased to discover you've got a cup or two of sugar in your veins. We dismiss rumors that this picture is the handywork of a spurned lover/photoshop hobbyist as vicious and patently untrue. In fact, Milana Dravnel, the Ruskie ho who allegedly snapped the pics, has stated that our boy Oscar occasionally gets tequilla'd up, minces about in panty hose and answers to the name "Goldie." Some stories make you feel like Christmas inside, don't they?

Regardless, you're a dish. Everyone wants you to play for their team, and everyone wants to get into your trunks (even you, Winksi...admit it). HOWEVER, you need some serious work if you're truly going to take the highly insular world of drag boxing by storm. First, you need a drag name. We suggest Chihuahua Chalupa-Valdes. Second, and we can't stress this enough, lose the "smack me around, pimp daddy" fishnet body stocking. Girl, it's just tacky. Oh, and it looks like your Lili Saint-Cyr g-string is riding up your buttcrack; revealing to the world that, in your haste to get all tarted up, you forgot to remove your white Fruit o' the Looms.

You look like (pick one):

1. Kate Jackson rehearsing as Roxy Hart for the Headcheese Arkansas Dinner Theatre production of "Chicago."
2. You're greeting weary commuters at the mouth of the Holland Tunnel at 3 a.m.
3. The daily catch from Lake Oops.
4. Front bitch for a new all-tranny death metal group called the Saskewatch Sisters.
5. Michael Jackson after testosterone therapy.
6. Bloody hell. No, dammit...we can't say it. You're still cute.

XOXOX
WAM

FRIDAY BONUS!! A Friendly Note to Our Jewish Friends

NEW YORK, NY -- Yom Kippur is upon us, and given that we are of the gentile persuasion, we would like to take this opportunity to...um...okay, we know we're not supposed to say "happy Yom Kippur" cause it's supposed to be all somber and serious and you have to fast and stuff (which, frankly, never sounded like much of a holiday to us, but hey...knock yourselves out). On the flip side, it sounds equally inappropriate to wish you a miserable Yom Kippur. A Jewish friend once instructed us to say "easy fast," but that sounds phony as well; we doubt it's supposed to be easy, and "easy fast" sounds suspiciously like we're encouraging you to cheat. Perhaps what we should do is discreetly slip you a Xanax and an Oreo with a knowing, friendly smile, and be done with it.

And another thing, Jews. You have so many odd holidays and customs. We've never understood why your menfolk tie black boxes to their noggins (or why we're too embarrassed to ask why there's a black box tied to their noggins). Or why a bitch can't fix her face when she's in mourning (that verges on sadism in our book). But perhaps the biggest mystery to us is the profoundly bizarre ritual of Kapparot. Kapparot (to those whose closest brush with Judaism was playing an Anatevkite their high school production of Fiddler on the Roof where Tevye was played by that fat Irish kid from marching band), is a ritual wherein Orthodox Jewish Men choke their chicken (quite literally) as they pray to G-d for their sins to be transferred to the bird.

First of all, we ponder whether the chicken in question is simultaneously celebrating its own holiday wherein its Avian Flu is transferred to the Jew. But that's quite beside the point. Why a chicken? For instance, if a Jew has no access to a live chicken, may he transfer his sins to a kitty-cat? Is a goldfish an improper receptacle for Jewish transgression? If so, why? Can a city Jew transfer his sins to a McNugget? Could some poor schlemazel wave a Perdue skinless breast about and call it a day? And does one eat the chicken afterward? What does a chicken taste like when it's stuffed with Jewish sins? Is that like Stove Top? It hardly sounds kosher.

Don't get me wrong, Jews. Other religions are just as retarded, if not more so. Zoroastrians long to be eaten by vultures. Shiites beat their heads with sabers (a highly unpleasant notion which brings new meaning to "damned if you do, damed if you don't"). Catholics kneel on rice and see virgins in tortillas. And perhaps most barbaric of all, my people (the Presbyterians) attend potlucks where we eat lime jello marshmallow cottage cheese surprise (it makes one shudder).

I suppose it all boils down to one remaining question: why can't I leave work early today too??

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND, BITCHES!
WAM
P.S. Have an easy fast

Dispatch from China: Fat Dancing Penguin Broads, Gam-gam Thinks I'm a Pin-Cushion (and other stories)

BEIJING -- To many of us in the west, the quaint customs of China seem more than a little odd. This is the country that, until a few short decades ago, considered it sexy to wrap a bitch's feet in silk until her dogs turned into petite clumps of gangrenous flesh at the end of their ankles. And recently, when some chick went to the doctor complaining of abdominal pain, it was discovered that her grandparents had been shoving needles into her tummy for years in an attempt to slowly kill her. In fact, the widespread infanticide inspired by the one-child policy has led to a bride shortage so intense that many families are selling their lil' girls into marriage at the age of five. We find that a tad peculiar. And below, we've included an abreviated potpourri of bizarre news items to escape the jaundiced scrutiny of China's totally transparent, entirely humane government: 

• FAT AND COOL: In China's dazzling Jiangsu province, seven enormous broads (ranging in weight 230 lbs to "dayum, bitch!") have formed a dance company called "Fat and Cool." While we appreciate the entertainment value of watching these rolly-poly bitches strain the floorboards as they huff and puff through awkwardly executed fan kicks and tour-jetes, we believe their chosen name is a bit of a misnomer; as pictured in their Lane Bryant penguin outfits, they look anything but cool. In fact, just looking at this picture fills us with an inexplicable urge to airlift a crate of dress shields and Masengil products to Jiangsu.
• BAD ETIQUETTE: In China's dazzling Hunan province, a man invited thirty of his closest friends to dinner. They gathered at a local restaurant and sat down to break bread together in brotherhood and fellowship. And then their host blew them up. Perhaps someone made a rude suggestion regarding his pu-pu platter.
• NASTY BUNS: In China's dazzling Gansu province, 260 kindergarten kids are in the hospital after their school fed them e. coli-infected buns for breakfast. The school's cafeteria manager is currently second-guessing his decision to marinate the buns in pig poo.
• WHAT EXPLOSION?: When Bo Xilai was named its governor, he declared that there would be nothing but good news in China's dazzling Liaoning province. Unfortch, a bomb tore through a karaoke bar/massage parlor/casino shortly thereafter, killing scores (if not hundreds) of people. The government reacted by ordering the locals to pretend it never happened. Even as they were picking glass shards from their skin, neighbors who so much as talked about it amongst themselves were quickly rounded up by the police. Reporters who defied orders not to investigate the event were confronted by townsfolk who refused to acknowledge the enormous crater in the epicenter of their sleepy hamlet. Merely admitting the crater's existence earned a one way ticket to a happy fun torture camp and a thrilling odyssey through the purgatory of China's super-fair and totally efficient court system.

Totally Exclusive!! Oprah n' Justin Interview (unedited)

CHICAGO OPRAHSTAN, IL -- As the world tries to catch its collective breath following the spectacular interview with Justin Timberlake and Fat Oprah (Skinny Oprah was otherwise engaged according to Fat Oprah's handlers, who deny all vicious rumors that Fat Oprah ate Skinny Oprah), our amoral network of felonious spies has uncovered a moment or two that was wisely edited out. Below, find a transcript of the shocking exchange deemed unviewable by the powers that be (aka Oprah):

FAT OPRAH: So, J-Tim.
JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE: Sup, ho?
FO: Oprah gots to tell you somethin, and she don't want you buggin out and shit.
JT: Then you gots to lay dat shit on me, yo.
FO: Feel this, baby. I don't want you to go ripping my blouse so my enormous negro boob flashes our sensitive home viewers. A sistah ain't wearing her nipple brooch today.
JT: J-Tim keeps it real. Like when Miss Jackson-cause-I'm-nasty be grindin her tired booty in my face at dat football game. Shit, I tells myself dat ho's booby gots to get some airtime. I do da same to Winnie Mandela. Dat bitch be goin on 'bout Africa and shit and talkin 'bout  how white boys be stealin da negro music. So J-Tim rip dat ho's dashiki til her saggy-ass titty be bouncin in da wind like a yo-yo.
FO: Baby, on behalf of nubians everywhere...you're not black.
JT: Huh?
FO: We need you to stop pretending you all ghetto and sh*t. You a white-ass honkey poof from the Mickey Mouse Club. Quit frontin' like you some bad-ass gangsta rapper, you feel a bitch?
JT: Whatever. J-Tim ain't frontin. This be how I roll.
FO: Oprah be coo, don't wig out on a bitch.
JT: J-Tim be coo.
FO: Coo. Let's change the subject. Back to Britney...what up wit dat daisy-may cracker bitch? One minute she be a fine-ass pop goddess, and the next, she be a fat bald crack-ho flashin her nasty ass twat ever five seconds and droppin her retarded babies on their noggins.
JT: Well, Oprah-bitch. It be like dis. Brit be getting five hundred emails a day from some punk-ass fairy named Chris Crocker. Dat's what made her flip out and marry dat skanky Taco Bell Chalupa chef.
FO: You sure it ain't you? I mean look at little miss Cameron Diaz. She be bouncin her booty all over da screen, karate choppin' spies in Charlie's Angels...den you hooks up with her and suddenly a bitch is a tired-ass has-been.
JT: You be dissin a brother? You best check yoself, Oprah-bitch. Dat left boobie of yours is just itchin to be emancipated from dat playtex prison.
FO: Oprah thinks it be time for a commercial break. Touch my tittie and I'll slap yo family.

SAUSAGE, SAUSAGE, SAUSAGE!!!

• HURL YOUR SAUSAGE: Once upon a time (on August 11, to be exact), in the retarded kingdom of England, a twelve-year-old boy got into a bit of a spat with a neighboring oldster (a snaggle-toothed coot named Michael Deegan). Things careened out of control when the incorrigible youth hurled a cocktail weenie at the helpless pensioner, who was so traumatized by the unpleasant turn of events he had the boy arrested. That's right, bitches. In Manchester, hurling a cocktail sausage at some wrinkled geezer wins you a trip to the clink and an assault rap. His distraught mum told the press that her sonny's a special needs student and only hurled his weenie because he panicked. We've been there, old chap.
• MUZZLE YOUR SAUSAGE: Elsewhere in the queen's realm, Lucy (a 9-inch "sausage dog," as the Brits quaintly refer to dachshunds) was on trial for running amok and savagely attacking one Shawn Anderson, a 250 lb bus driver. According to Mr. Anderson's harrowing testimony, on a gray October afternoon last year, Lucy lept from the Hobson family car, bounded up to a terrified Mr. Anderson, ran a few laps around his feet in a fit of demonic glee, and nipped at his ankle. Still suffering the lasting effects of this gruesome mauling, Mr. Anderson told the court he was "inconsolable" for some time afterward. Inexplicably, the court failed to see justice done; Lucy has been returned to her negligent family of hell-hound breeders and spared the righteous gassing she most certainly deserved.
• HIDE YOUR SAUSAGE: So, it's like this. A man from the UAE visited a German sausage shop in Manhheim and purchased two enormous schwartzenmagens (doesn't that sound dirty?). When he later returned to the shop to have them wrapped for transport back to the UAE, the German sausage monger noticed the cheeky Middle-Eastern had concealed several plus-sized dildos inside. While our initial response its to chuckle merrily at the  swarthy pervert's expense, we sympathize with the plight of our Arab brothers, for whom putting a sausage (real or artificial) up one's oopsy hole is looked on somewhat less than favorably.
• WHACK YOUR SAUSAGE: Lest we forget, a mere four years have passed since our nation witnessed Randall Simon (erstwhile first baseman for the Pittsburgh Pirates) whack the Italian Sausage on the noggin during the Milwaukee Brewer's spectacular annual "sausage race." One Mandy Block, who was clad in the Italian sausage costume, was unhurt; but she did stumble into the Polish sausage, and the two fell. As the shocked fans gasped, the unholy sight of Polish and Italian sausages writhing together and co-mingling in the dirt was etched into their eyeballs for decades to come.