Can O' Whup-Ass

Hey, Sudan! It's the Mohammed Insult-o-Matic!!

An open letter to the Muslims of Sudan:

In the wake of 9/11 (or as Giuliani calls it, Christmas), while lots of folks decried Islam for the overzealous vengeance of its more radical followers, still more folks made a sincere effort to understand the religion and the various Muslim cultures around the world. However, when gays are beheaded in the public square, rape victims are sentenced to 200 lashes, children are encouraged to strap bombs to their chests and millions scream for blood over a Danish cartoon, the rest of the world can't help but draw the obvious conclusion: Islam is retarded.

Now, before you accuse us of Muslim-bashing, we would direct you to our many posts lampooning Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, etc. In the end, however, we believe in live and let live. If folks want to believe in flying spaghetti monsters or little alien ghosts called thetans, hey...knock yourselves out. Would that you showed the tolerance you crave. True, Christians started it (the Crusades and such), but please, bitches. That happened, like, a millenium ago. It's the 21st century. Join us.

For every ambassador of Islam who claims it's a peaceful religion, there are millions of brutalized child brides, rape victims being stoned for adultery, fathers murdering their daughters for marrying the wrong man, women arrested for showing their hair, gays being thrown from cliffs, and the list goes on.

And now, the glorious nation of Sudan (where a girl can be traded for a cow, and the government supports machete-wielding thugs who gallup through villages on camels hacking men women and children to death), is foaming at the mouth in moral outrage, calling for the execution of a teacher because she allowed her seven-year-old students to name a teddy bear Mohammed. Are you for real?

Hey guys! Let's play the Mohammed Insult-o-matic Game!

Here's how to play: copy n' paste the letter below and circle the items that best suit your depraved sense of humor. Then email the Sudanese Embassy in Washington DC at info@sudanembassy.org or fax it to 202.261.2615 or 202.667.2406!!

Dear sirs:

Mohammed is such a great name! In fact, I've given it to my:
1) Dog.
2) Vagina.
3) Dildo.

I did this to honor the Great Prophet, who as we all know:
1) loved showtunes.
2) was hung like a gnat.
3) pranced about in stilettos and answered to the name Agnes.

I have such a boner for His wise teachings, that I've decided to:
1) sculpt his likeness entirely in ham.
2) tattoo his face on my left buttock.
3) mail a crate of crotchless thong underwear to Mecca.

Why, last night, I even had a dream that:
1) Mohammed paid me to pee on Him.
2) Jesus was fisting Mohammed on Mount Arafat.
3) Mohammed and I sang the score to Mame at a Key West piano bar.

In closing, although His breath smelled like:
1) camel poop,
3) semen,
3) pork chops,

At the end of the day, He was:
1) a woman.
2) Jewish.
2) fictitious.

Sincerely,
1) A homosexual infidel
2) A menstruating pole-dancer
3) Laura Bush

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Marie Osmond

Marie! How's it going?

How's about a nice cold glass of milk? Goodness, a vodka stinger? Coming right up.

Listen, we need to chat. We'd surmise you're in a rather fragile emotional state. After all, in the last few weeks, your daddy took a dirt nap, Larry King ambushed you on CNN, and you lost a dancing competition to a lip-syncing ho and an overzealous chauffeur.

We can only imagine the surreal life you've led. You grew up with 97,000 siblings. You starred in a bizarre variety show wherein you engaged your brother Donny in oddly incestuous marital bickering. And we're periodically terrorized by repressed memories that occasionally jump from the shadows of our disturbed psyche: we're back in 1975, staring with slack-jawed horror at the television as you and brother Donny skate out in neon spandex and perform aggressively retarded ice dancing routines at the top of every show.

Yet when America grew tired of your family's Pepsodent toothiness and consigned you to the compost heap of '70s kitsch, you withdrew. During this sad hermitage you yo-yo-ed between attempting suicide and making creepy devil dolls. And sometimes we start to question whether you and Dawn Wells (Mary-Ann from Gilligan's Island) are actually the same person, much like Imelda Marcos and Kim Jung Il. After all, Mary-Ann, like yourself, was a little bit country.

So when you rose, phoenix-like, from the ashes of oblivion to mambo your way back into our hearts on "Dancing with the Stars," we were totally in your corner (my mom, and this is no lie, had "vote for Marie" on speed-dial). And although you unfortunately felt compelled to validate the Book of Mormon, which says in Moroni Chapter 9, verse 16 that "Old women do faint," we never much worried about your mental state. That is, until you appeared in this creepy baby-doll get-up and performed a horrifying pas de deux. Holy crap, that's scary.

You look like (pick one):

1. Holly Hobby after being turned out by the meanest pimp in Candyland to turn tricks with pervy gingerbread men under the candy-cane bridge
2. You went on a meth binge and decided to become the Mormon Tammy Faye Bakker
3. Your soul has been possessed by one of your creepy dolls, in much the same way Karen Black's soul was possessed by a scary voo-doo doll in that movie where Karen Black is possessed by a scary voo-doo doll
4. You're in rehearsals for the Dried Out Whore Dinner Theater's dazzling production of "The Wizard of Oz"
5. Key note speaker at the Drag Queens for Romney fund raiser
6. You're promoting your new movie "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane 2: The Electric Boogaloo"
7. Bloody hell.

XOXOX
WAM

PS. Please, please for the love of God...tell your brother he's not a little bit rock n' roll.

Annapolis Shocker: Bush, Olmert and Abbas Burst Into Song!

ANNAPOLIS, MD -- As dozens of swarthy middle eastern leaders gathered at the U.S. Naval Academy to pretend they want peace, the heady aroma of their combined scent caused an unforeseen simultaneous dementia in President George Bush, Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert and Palestinian Authority Leader Mahmoud Abbas. Shortly after the lunch break, about ten minutes after the participants reconvened, the odd trio abruptly stood to their feet and burst into song.

Complete with Andrews Sisters-inspired choreography, Bush, Olmert and Abbas minced and sashayed about the dais as they sang the following song (to the tune of Gershwin's "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off"):

You say Allah, we say Challah
You say intifada, we say Masada
Allah, Challah
Intifada, Masada
Let's blow the whole world up
You say hummus, we say Hamas
You walk among us, And then you bomb us
Hummus, Hamas
Among us, Bomb us
Let's blow the whole world up
But oh, if we blow the whole world up we'd all be f*cked
And oh, if we all were f*cked, then how would Bush's d*ck get sucked?
You say it's your sand, I say it's my sand
You placed a fatwah on Barbra Streisand
Your sand, my sand
Barbra Streisand
Let's blow the whole world up
Your fish is fried and ours is gefilte'd
Your wells are dried but our water's filtered
Fried, gefilte'd
Dried or filtered
Let's blow the whole world up
But oh, if we blew the whole world up to smithereens
Then we'd all be smithereens, and who'd immigrate to Queens?
So we'll speak Yiddish and you speak Kurdish
We'll smell like cabbage and you'll smell turdish
Tho you goyim tend to be annoyim
We'd rather blow the blowers up up
Let's blow the whole world up

Once the song was finished, the crowd sat in gape-mouthed silence for a few minutes. Crickets were heard chirping.

Foxy Brown: Sebben Fings A Ho Done Learnt in da Joint, Yo!

NEW YORK, NY -- Delicate flower Inga Marchand (aka Foxy Brown) has been sprung from Rikers, where da man rudely sent her after she bounced her Blackberry off the noggin of a sassy ho from her 'hood. Although her incarceration wasn't without incident (the notoriously even-keeled Brown spent some time in the hole for pushing a bitch into a wall).

Now that the demure rapteusse (and erstwhile manicurist slapper) has once again gotten a lungful of freedom's fragrant air, she has graciously offered a few nuggets of hard-won wisdom she gained whilst cooling her dainty heels in the big house.

FOXY BROWN: Fanks, yo. So check it. Foxy be out on da street bitches. So you sassy-ass mo-fos who like to get all up in Foxy's grill, talkin' smack 'bout dis n' dat an' layin yo tired-ass bullshit on a bitch, you best be steppin. I fro shit at yo stoopid head. But a sistah ain't spittin shit 'bout bein all gangsta, yo. Dis bitch be one coo ho now. Check dis out, mo-fos. Foxy gots to lay down sebben fings she done learnt in da joint (Foxy ackshully learnt eight fings but a bitch f*ckin forgot da eightf one, so f*ck it):

1. Da fat ho wit da lazy eye gots razor blades in her weave. Don't be crossin dat mo-fo. If she ax you to sit on her face after lights-out, a sistah best close her eyes and fink of Denzel or dat ho will cut a bitch.
2. If a sistah say to da guard bitch dat she don't lay her ass down on no sheets dat ain't gots a least a 1200 fred count, a bitch be likely to see her own noggin bouncin off da wall, yo.
3. Foxy be readin in da joint. One book Foxy read be all about some cracker-ass mo-fo called Dick and his ho Jane. Dick and Jane be frontin around da 'hood wit some gay-ass dog called Spot. Spot be coo. Foxy gets to see spot run. Run, Spot, run! Dat shit be off da hook. Sho nuff.
4. When a sistah like Foxy go forty f*ckin days wiff-out no d*ck to sit on, a bitch's uterus be fixin to jump out from her vajayjay and run about da prison yard barkin like a dog in Michael Vick's kennel, yo.
5. Foxy be hangin wit some ho who be all Muslim an shit. A sistah almos converts to da religion of Malcom X. Dat's befo she learn doze Muslim bitches gots to wear some country-ass scarves dat f*ck wit a sistah's weave and she gots to put on a dress dat don't show off her fine titties or her fat-ass booty. So Foxy tell dat ho dat Mohammed can go suck it. Foxy be coo.
6. Vajayjay be tastin like KFC original recipe, but it be smellin like Mickie D's Filet-o-f*ckin-Fish. Dat's fo sho.
7. If a bitch gots a visitor who be smugglin blunts in his stank-ass butthole, dat blunt be tastin like ass. But da weed from a bruvah's booty make a sistah so buzzed she pass out and dream she  Cleopatra. Den sho nuff a bitch wake up and some asshole tie her weave to da toilet. F*ck dat.

This Week in Poop Part 11: The Passion of the Poop

• DOO-DOO DOLLS: When the people who decide the White House's drug policy (which means drugs taken OUTSIDE the White House; relax Laura, your Xanax is safe) decided that folks should get rid of unused prescription drugs lying around the house, their minds quite naturally drifted to ferret poop. The ensuing brainstorm resulted in an official recommendation that we all hide our unused pills in ferret feces in order to discourage potential garbage diving hop-heads from popping your stale oxycontin. To us, this plan seems to overlook the plain fact that anyone who buys a ferret for the express purpose of rolling their pills into  balls of their pet's oopsy-plop is most likely the sort of person who shouldn't be throwing any pills away as they probably need all they can get. Additionally, it ignores the fact that if an oxy-head will spend an evening on his knees in a truck stop bathroom, he'd likely swallow anything for a fix. Right, Mr. Limbaugh?
• OUR SAVIOR DID NOT EAT POOP: A sensitive group of super-Jesus-y Christians wants to prosecute the BBC for broadcasting "Jerry Springer: the Opera" because it depicts the son-o-God as a poop-eating pervert. This, despite the fact that the Bible itself is a copropheliac's paradise: God tells Ezekiel to eat poop (Ezekiel 4:12), instructs Aaron to burn cow poop as a sacrifice (Numbers 19:4), tells his priests he's gonna smear their faces with poop (Malachi 2:3), then talks some more about poop-eating (2 Kings 18:27). It seems to us that if J-Naz was into poo (and we're not saying he was), that particular apple didn't fall too far from the tree.
• BRIGADOO: In Scotland (are we surprised?), where men wear dresses and hump Schwinns and clone sheep so there will be more for them to boink, there's a new highland sports craze: extreme snow pooping. Yes, it seems fashionable of late for folks to hike into the hills, dig a hole in the snow and squeeze out a fudgesickle. Apparently it's actually a problem; when spring arrives the savory smell of boiling haggis is overcome by the aroma of thawing poo. Although a debate's afoot regarding which stench is preferable, a ranger by the annoying name of Heather Morning has been jigging along the high road trying to convince her fellow Scots to refrain from snow pooping by offering up her poop chute. Cheeky lass.
• DON'T ORDER THE PU-PU PLATTER: When in Taipei the discerning poo-aficianado may dine at the gorgeous Modern Toilet diner, where all the chairs are actually toilets and the food's made to look like poop. It's a chain; there are 12 of them throughout the island and business is booming, the owners are flush. Okay...that is so retarded, our head hurts a little bit. Hold on. Okay, we're back. Fine, Taiwan. Enjoy your little poo themed eateries. But the minute the fad's opposite becomes the rage, (and folks begin flocking to restaurant-themed shitteries) we'll have to ask for our check. Thanks.
• EXPLODING TOILETS: When John Jenkins took a seat in a port-o-san to give birth to a couple oompa loompas, it 'sploded. He's suing. A class action lawsuit is brewing against Kohler, whose model 81100 tends to act explode-y from time to time. Parents of a girl whose arm was nearly severed by an exploding oopsy throne are seeking damages. In England (surprised?) a public loo exploded with such force that it blew the roof off, lifted the surrounding pavement off the ground and damaged the nearby stoplight. And the capper: in Charlotte NC, a family's house was made unpleasant when an exploding commode  filled their house with poo. They called the Charlotte-Mecklenberg Utility Department, or CMUD (that joke is just too easy) to de-explodify their crapper. The family's name? Meet the Colons. Our head hurts.

Ask Aunt Betsy: Tips for the Hollow-daze!

Gobble-gobble-gobble! That's what Mr. Turkey-Lurkey says on Thanksgiving and it's also what bickering families will be doing when they sit down to a vaguely anti-climactic and slightly depressing feast featuring the same tired dishes including grandma's nauseating mincemeat pie that everyone secretly despises but chokes down nevertheless, because we love the big checks she writes at Christmas.

It is also, sadly, a time of year when folks tend to feel blue and/or cranky. Well, before you wash down a handful of oxycontin with a gulp of twist-cap cabernet, Aunt Betsy has come to the rescue!

Dear Aunt Betsy: Every Thanksgiving, my family says grace and then we take turns talking about stuff we're thankful for. Well, last Thanksgiving when it was my nephew Lance's turn to speak he said "I'm thankful that I'm an ass-poking homo who's eloping next week with a florist named Brad." His mother burst into tears and withdrew to the master bedroom with a bottle of Dewars. His father chased him around the table with an electric carving knife and his brother threw a bowl of cranberry relish through the kitchen window. This year, it's my turn to cook the bird, and I'm all in a snit about Lance and Brad, who have announced their intention to sit next to each other and hold hands. I've consulted Emily Post to no avail. How does one factor sodomites into the delicate algebra of a seating chart? Signed, Awkward Situations Suck - But Anyway, No Doubt, It's Thanksgiving!

Dear ASS-BANDIT: You poor thing! I, too, have a "sensitive" nephew and know first hand how it taxes one's imagination, picturing a naked family member unnaturally-juxtaposed in a tangle of heaving grunting manflesh. My nephew, a darling florist named Brad, had the good taste not to announce his taste for semen whilst his family was masticating roast fowl. Instead, during a heated Yahtzee tournament, Brad rolled a yahtzee. Rather than tossing his hands in the air and shouting "Yahtzee!" (as is customary), he shouted "I Frequent Rest Stops With a  Pre-Lubed Rectum, Searching For Uncut Trucker C*ck!" Needless to say, we did not award him the 50 points he would have gotten had he simply said "Yahtzee!" He found the penalty objectionable and has spitefully refused to spend Thanksgiving with his family this year. Instead, he'll spend Turkey Day at some dreadful woman's tacky home, the aunt of his partner-in-sodomy. And when it's my turn to say what I'm thankful for, I'll say I'm thankful that future Yahtzee tournaments will be quite free of a homosexual agenda. Regarding your seating chart, I suspect you're Catholic so I'd put them at the card table with the under-twelves.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Munches Like Beaver, a Native American living in a trailer in the frozen tundra of South Dakota. Thanksgiving is not a happy time for my family. It recalls the time those rude pilgrims took our land and our food and raped us and stabbed us and smacked us and gave us purple nurples and then made us bus their table at the first feast. Sure, they made up for it when they gave us this vast expanse of dazzling permafrost to which our moccasins are frozen all winter. But they also gave us fire water, herpes and pox-infested blankets. Signed: Undernourished, Grim, Addled, Weary & Unhappy Girl

Dear UG-A-WUG: Gracious, but all this "poor-me-I'm-a-sad-alcoholic-indian" flapdoodle has grown tedious! Yes, we are grateful you finally got it through your thick befeathered skulls that God wanted white folks to own this country. Yes, we recognize it was you who gave us "maize" (which we wisely re-named corn before shoving you out the back door). Yes, that crybaby injun chief makes us feel momentarily icky about tossing our half-eaten bucket of Colonel Sanders' extra crispy out the window while speeding down the interstate. But if you'd honestly rather be whoopin' and holerin' and jumping around bon fires like a bunch of nutty half-naked savages while feeding on buffalo testicles, puffing on peyote-stuffed peace pipes and subjecting your pitiful papooses to peculiar pagan pastimes without the benefit of Jesus or a proper manicure, then frankly you're not the sharpest tomahawk in the wigwam. If you want to go back from whence you came, I'll crack a bottle of korbel over your canoe and write "bon voyage" in smoke signals. Until then I should think that as a guest in our glorious country, etiquette dictates that you should stop being such a blasted fussbudget. PS: Why don't casinos have Yahtzee?

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last Turkey Day I cooked the bird by stuffing it with cap'n crunch, wrapping it in tinfoil, cramming it into the microwave and cooking it on "high" for 87 hours. It tasted so gross I dropped my baby on its noggin. How do y'all cook good and stuff? Signed: Turkey's Really Awful Super Hard, Y'all!

Hi, Britney. First thing is to truss the bird. Get a sturdy length of rope and tie one end to a chandelier. Tie a slipknot on the other end. Find a stool. While you're doing this, I'd start preparing the stuffing. To do this, put bicycle helmets on your poor children's heads, make a sign that says "CALL CHILD SERVICES, NOW!" and have your kids hold up the sign at the end of your driveway. Remember to baste! This entails taking the phone off the hook and locking the doors. To preheat the oven, climb on top of the stool and wear the slip-knot like a necklace. Follow these simple instructions and within hours you'll have a Thanksgiving to die for!

HAPPY T-DAY, BITCHES!

Eavesdropper: J-Lo and M-Lo

J-LO: Not now, papi. Mami is trying to sing.
M-LO: Oh I thought you were choking on a taco. I come out to give you heimlich maneuver.
JL: I'm singing, punta.
ML: Chica, you so sexy. I can almost get my arms around you.
JL: Quit poking your chalupa at my factoria de chocolate. You makin me go off pitch, cholo.
ML: But Hennifer...my jalapeño is stuck in su grande cueve de caca.
JL: Ay! I forget the words now. Callate!
ML: You were singing a love story about a chihuahua who make beautiful sexy time with a big fluffy perro and make a perrito in the bitch's hoyo de pez.
JL: Get back in your coffin, you anemic zombie!
ML: I tell you, gordita. I'm stuck.
JL: Okay I going to grab your pantalones and yank hard.
ML: Ah, last time you say that was when I proposed!
JL: Ay, papi. You're mami's little pet monkey.
ML: Let's sing a duet!
JL: I can't sing with your platano stuck in my bean can.
ML: Try it, bebe. Maybe it just what you need to sing on pitch.
JL: Callate!
ML: Pretend it's Affleck's finger.
JL: Okay.
ML: Andale!
JL: But stop acting so pokey. I got your baby inside. Too pokey and su bebe go plop on the piso.

Heather Mills Sez: Rat's Milk Does a One-Legged Starf*cker's Body Good!

London, UK -- Uniped sexpot and ex-Beatle ex Heather Mills, fresh off her "Paul is a Big Mean Dough-Faced Poop-Eater" tour, has made a startling discovery. The idea came to her whilst rehearsing for her signature rendition of the peg-leg merengue for Dancing With the Has-Beens, and only now has she bravely come forward with her rather unorthodox panacea for all the ills of mankind: rat milk.

And here she is, a welcome guest of COWA. Reaching into a hidden compartment in her artificial appendage (which also conveniently contains a minibar and a glove compartment), she whisks out a prepared statement, adjusts her bra straps so her bodacious rack is evenly hoisted, clears her throat, and speaks:

HEATHER MILLS: Right. It gives a unipod, bi-boobed gal like me great pleasure to put my kick-stand down and park it in the groovy domicile of the Whup-Ass Master. First thing I'd like to say is that I'm no gold-digging chav. Although getting set for the European "leg" of my "Paul is a Big Mean Dough-Faced Poop-Eater" tour, I'm really a private girl who seeks a quiet life away from the paps' flashing bulbs. Speaking of which, why's there no bloody press here? A girl goes through the trouble of sanding her shin and spackling over a nasty spot where a bloody woodpecker took advantage of her calf, and there's no buggery press. At any rate, back to the subject at hand. Anyone who knows me (or my publicist) knows I have a soft spot in my heart for critters. God's creatures are little miracles, or something. Every beast, large and small...except for woodpeckers and termites and beavers...has a right exist. Unless that creature happens to be the spiteful daughter of a geriatric rock and roller and his dirt-napping starter wife. And it occurred to me: we're so mean to cows and pigs and chickens. And cow farts are melting Greenland. We should all switch to rat's milk! And dog milk and cat milk! I can picture rat dairies springing up hither and yon. Who wouldn't prefer to put their bowl of corn flakes under their kitty cat and squeeze their cute little cat teats instead of trudging all the way to the fridge for cow milk? And what could be yummier than spreading labrador butter on a bran muffin? Arf, Arf! It's the sort of creative thinking that's going to save this bloody planet. Now if you'll excuse me I've got to dash. My SUV is parked outside, motor running for my quick getaway from those pesky paps. Oh, how does my face look? Yeah, I've got a meeting with my publisher for my upcoming memoir entitled "I'm Not Just a One-Legged Pathetic Fame Whore," due on the bookshelves next Christmas. Be a dove and pass a girl her leg. No, that's my real one. Cheers, love. Koo-koo Ka-choo.

(Editorial note: we have made the alarming discovery that if one plays a recording of the above statement in reverse, one can clearly hear the words "Paul is dead")

Sally MacFinn, the Slutty-Ass Schwinn

GIRVAN, SCOTLAND -- It seemed like yet another glorious day in Scotland. Menfolk were prancing about in plaid skirts playing the pipes and tossing cabers. Bonnie babes were busy dancing jigs and cramming a sheep's lungs heart an liver into its stomach so they could boil up a tasty batch of haggis. Factories were cranking out truckloads of whiskey and clear tape. And two unsuspecting cleaning lassies were tidying the rooms of the Aberly House Hostel. When they happened upon a locked door at the room hired by one Robert Stewart, they knocked. They knocked again. Then they let themselves in with their master key. The shameful spectacle they were about to witness shocked the brogue right oot of them.

Mr. Stewart, it seems, was caught doing unnatural things to a bicycle. Tires akimbo, her handlebars pushed behind her seat, Sally MacFinn the Slutty-Ass Schwinn had awakened unquenchable lust in her owner and was surrendering her inner-tube in a shameful manner. Yet it's the poor man she led astray, the man who climbed astride her and pumped her pedals but good every time she wanted to be rode into town, it is Mr. Stewart who has paid the price. He has been convicted of "sexually aggravated breach of the peace" and has had his name consigned to a three-year stay on the sex offenders list.

Now, forced to alert his neighbors that as a bike-sexual he is not to be trusted in the company of schwinns, raleighs, huffy's and (heaven forbid) big wheels, the empty husk that was once a man rues the day his head was turned by that saucy bitch on wheels with worn treads and a comfy seat. Yet his dreams are often visited by visions of that tenderly squeezable rubber bulb of Sally's honky-honky handlebar horn. As for the man-skirt wearing, bag-piping, caber-tossing Scots, the ugly incident recalled that unfortunate episode in 2002 when Robert Watt of Edinburgh did unnatural things with a seductive traffic cone of loose morals and easy virtue.

Sally MacFinn, now living in seclusion as a pre-op tricycle, couldn't be reached for comment.

The Phelps Family Yard Sale

TOPEKA, KS -- When Jesus said "Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," he really meant that it would be a good idea to defile the funerals of fallen soldiers by calling them fag lovers. And that's precisely what the Godly Reverend Fred Phelps and the inbred congregation of his Westboro Baptist Church did when Albert Snyder had to bury his son Matt in March 2006. Well, it turns out Mr. Snyder didn't take too kindly to a gang of white trash bible thumpers carrying signs reading "Thank God for Dead Soldiers" and singing "God Hates America" at Matt's funeral. So he sued them and won; the jury directed the Phelps family to pay the Snyder family about $10 million.

Now, although the bible says "money answereth all things," it also says "the love of money is the root of all evil." Therefore, if money is both evil AND it answereth all things, then the Phelps, when asked about their assets, found it evil to answereth. Unfortch, the court has ordered their assets to be revealed. Doubly unfortch, the lovely Phelps clan stands to lose the polyester off their backs.

So what's a pack of hateful white trash Baptists to do? Two words: YARD SALE!!!

That's right, bitches. This weekend, come hell or high water, the lawn at Chateau de Phelps will be magically transformed into a bargain hunter's paradise. And we've got a sneak peak at some of the more thrilling finds:

• Self-flagellation riding crop, nice patina: $5.00
• "Let Us Spray" rotating Jesus lawn sprinkler (like new!): $15.00
• The Mary Magdalene Bean Bag Toss Game (a pleasant diversion for sin-free Christian families): $10.00
• Two exquisitely needle-pointed "Matthew Shepherd Burns in Hell" throw-pillows: $5.00/each
• Turkish Oil Wrestling coffee table book: $15.00
• Anti-masturbation arm restraints (perfect for blooming adolescents!): $5.00
• Autographed photo of Rock Hudson: $50.00
• Eight-inch cylindrical vibrating neck massager: $3.50
• Shirley Phelps Roper's "Big Book o' Hell-Bound Fag Lovers" (a handmade scrapbook): $30.00
• Clay Aiken boxed set: $35.00
• Sodom and Gomorrah coloring books: $2.50/each
• "So You Want to Samba: Step-by-Step Guide to Swingin' Like a Wetback" $15.00
• "Grit Your Teeth and Recite The Lord's Prayer: The Baptist Kama-Sutra" $10.00
• Vintage recording of Merv Griffin singing "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts": $20.00
• Home pet sacrifice kit: $15.00