Can O' Whup-Ass

The Year in Asshats: Fond Memories of 2007

Dearest bitches: among the many time-honored year-end rituals, list-making is perhaps the most tedious. When forced to revisit the past year's most unfortunate people and events, one can either brace oneself for the demise of the human race, or conclude that things can only get better (curmudgeons and cranky nihilists might see those two as one in the same). Nevertheless, below we've provided a list of folks so retarded, nasty, duplicitous, egotistical and/or dangerous that a person can't help but read it and feel a whole lot better about one's self. In no particular order:

• KRISTEN SWING: Ace reporter for Tennessee's widely recycled Johnson City Press decided to publish the names, photos and addresses of local men arrested for disorderly conduct as part of a public sex sting. A week later, she blithely reported the suicide of one Jerry McCloud, whose identity was among those disclosed in her previous article, without the slightest hint of remorse. Congratulate the twat by dropping her an email and toss some kudos her for destroying forty lives and at causing at least one death. She's single, guys! kswing@johnsoncitypress.com
• DAVID GEST: This is the nelly twat who claims he was beaten repeatedly by Liza Minnelli, yet still shows his unfortunate face in public. Known to throw diva fits if room service won't deliver zebra milk at four in the morning, he's also the douche who went to a costume party dressed as Liza with a "zzzzz" the day after she collapsed and was rushed to a hospital. This oily cow has had fifty thousand cosmetic surgeries and the look he's settled on is a drag queen with Down Syndrome. We believe Liza was fully justified in smacking the sissy out of this putrid lump of head cheese (we picture her with a beefeater martini in-hand, stumbling over Gest's whimpering body to soak her bloodied fists in an ice bucket). The fact that he's recovered from his Liza-whuppins enough to prance about London in sequins and slingbacks is testament to her considerable restraint.
• REICHEN: This professional fame whore and c-list arm candy dated Lance Bass and made him scream "I'M GAY!!" on the cover of People so he could publish a book about being ass-raped at the Air Force Academy. After the book tour he quickly dumped Bass and has since gone to increasingly desperate lengths to hang onto his ill-gotten (and long expired) fifteen minutes. The kicker? The man who likes to pose naked and wrapped in a flag fabricated the only interesting parts of his tiresome memoir (currently ranked by Amazon at 132,345, selling right behind a "When Mommy had a Mastectomy" but ahead of "The Idiot's Guide to Yorkshire Terriers"); chiefly, his being raped, the attempted suicide of a fellow cadet, orgies that never happened, etc. (documents attained through the Freedom of Information Act prove as much). He paints himself as a patriot but one of his classmates recalls that "[Reichen] thought he walked on water, always did. [He] never gave a fellow cadet a hand over the wall, put it that way." Douche.
• MAHMOUD AHMADAHMARAMALAMADINGDONG: Shortly after declaring to an audience at Columbia University that "we do not have homosexuals in Iran, not like in your country" he nevertheless found a homo to be guest of honor at an Iranian necktie party. So when he says Israel should be wiped from the map then turns around and insists Iran's nuclear ambitions are peaceful, there's some strange fruit dangling in the public square who might beg to differ with his pacifist rhetoric. We can tell from his pictures that he smells like a cocktail of camel poop and English Leather cologne. A ghastly little worm.
• LARRY CRAIG/BOB ALLEN: Personally we have no problem with pervs wanking it in bathroom stalls. As long as we don't see or hear them dance their sweaty butt polka it's all good. But these two sperm whales are Republican politicians who have voted against gay rights at every opportunity. Larry "wide-stance" Craig tap-danced like Ann Miller in a Minneapolis Airport men's room in an effort to play an undercover officer's rusty trombone, while Bob Allen offered another undercover officer half a c-note to play a symphony on his flesh oboe. Once arrested, both made pitiful excuses (we love Allen's priceless assertion that he was hiding from scary negros). Both are married to spectacularly unfortunate women. Both ooze a palpable aura of ickiness. We believe the two have no choice but to elope together to Massachusetts and join the ACLU. Only then would they be promoted from pond scum to tacky pricks, which is about as far as their ascent will ever take them.
• ROBERT MUGABE: Vying against Antonin Scalia to be the grossest man alive, this man is two-hundred pounds of zebra poop crammed into a cheap suit. We haven't enough energy to itemize his many retarded, thuggish crimes against the pitiable people of Zimbabwe. He makes us pro-Ebola.
• RUDY "BENITO" GIULIANI: He married his cousin, had the marriage annulled 7 years later, bullied his critics, closed off City Hall to protests, tried to close an art exhibit he found objectionable, informed his wife he wanted a divorce via press conference, sued his family for the right to bring his tart (and current wife) home for sleep-overs at Gracie Mansion while his kids were still living there, pretended he was Mr. 9/11 (when in fact his actions that day were rather cowardly; he was hiding in his personal multi-million dollar taxpayer-financed bunker, that is until WTC1 fell on it, whereupon he emerged caked in death dust just in time for a photo-op), hired a profoundly corrupt police commissioner (under whom such proud moments as the Amadou Diallo and the Abner Louima incidents occurred), created "Giuliani and Partners," which among other things snuffed out critics of Purdue (maker of Oxycontin) for objecting to its wide-spread abuse, addictive nature, and slightly "killish" properties, plays 9/11 like a fiddle on his campaign trail, demands huge sums for public appearances (and has been known to pinch a hissy if the private jet provided isn't big enough), and bears a striking resemblance to the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. All in all, we believe he's the perfect representative of the "values" party.
• DOCTOR BEETROOT/YAHYA JAMMEH: The South African Minister of Health, a foul lump of hyena plop wrapped in a dashiki who answers to the name Dr. Tshabalala-Msimang, is notorious for recommending that people with AIDS shun life-saving ARVs in favor of retarded traditional medicines (such as beetroot; hence her nick). However, when the skank came down with a nasty case of lung-rot, she experienced an unforeseen conversion to the virtues of western medicine. Yahya, on the other hand, is the thuggish and entirely retarded president of Gambia who claims to have discovered a three-day "cure" for AIDS. He keeps a dozen or so PWAs as pets, shielded from public view, on whom he practices his idiotic ooga-booga. Anyone who suggests he might be fibbing is exiled or imprisoned. Together, these two have certainly done their bit to ensure sub-Saharan Africa would become the AIDS-ravaged wasteland it is today. True, African leaders have a lot on their collective plate, what with ass-raping bat demons to contend with.
• CRAZY POOPY PANTS ASTRONAUT LADY: Sometimes a bitch has a bad day. Like when she decides to kidnap her ex boyfriend's girlfriend so she puts on a fright wig and speeds across the country wearing diapers so she could poop without stopping and she finds the girlfriend and tries to force her way into her car but instead gets thrown into the pokey for being a nasty c*nt and gets fired from her job as a spacegirl and her face is splashed all over the news until she can pretty much count on being known as crazy poopy pants astronaut lady until she's buying Depends for more legitimate purposes. Chick, really. Take a Stress-tab.
• KEN HUTCHERSON: This shrill hate-monger-slash-preacher woke up one day and decided that the White House should send him to Latvia to rid the retarded country of its pesky homos, like he was a negro Anita Bryant mincing about in Pied Piper drag. Unfortch, not only did he fib about his non-existent White House credentials (a federal crime), he forgot that if there's anything the pasty white citizens of Latvia loathe more than a fairy, it's an uppity negro.
• FRANCISCO NAVA: Fred Thompson-like, Mr. Nava is a late entry in the Asshat-of-the-Year Awards, but un-Fred-Thompson-like, he actually has a chance to win. Nava, a Princeton University student, was all upset cause he and his fellow homo-hating Anscombe Society members (who preach against any extra-marital, non hetero hippity dippity) weren't particularly welcome on campus (ya think??). A few weeks ago, in an act of one-upsmanship as desperate as it was retarded, he reacted to the uproar over some homophobic graffiti by sending threatening emails to himself (and like-minded conserva-twats) and beating himself up. After filing a police report claiming he was hetero-bashed (queen, please) it was quickly discovered that his scrapes, cuts and bruises were self-inflicted. We see greatness in the cards for Mr. Nava, a third year politics major. Somewhere down the road, we totally expect him (after a meteoric rise through the ranks of the Republican Party) to be found doing his Ann Miller tap dancing routine in an airport bathroom a la Craig.

Haiku Review #26: Sweeney Todd

Bonham Carter makes

Pies out of people, and mince-

Meat out of Sondheim

Totally Exclusive: Amy Winehouse's New Year Resolutions!

London, UK -- Tasteful, holistic chanteusse Amy Winehouse has had quite a year. What with overdoses and interventions, a quickly aborted forray into sobriety, an enchanting episode when the snaggle-toothed heroin-hoover modeled her undergarments on a frigid London street, thereby giving some delighted paps an early Christmas present.

Lately, she's been disappointing fans by the thousands by incoherently slurring her way through her drunken concerts. This gives us pause; we've heard her music. Isn't incoherent slurring her bag? How does one tell when the over-coiffed boozehound's in her cups? Does she barf the high notes? Apparently that's exactly what she does; after all, she's been nominated for six Grammys.

However, since every day brings a new chance to make a fresh start, Ms. Winehouse (her powder-and-blood-caked nostrils flaring with newfound ferver) has graciously offered to stop picking at her heroin needle scabs long enough to share her New Years resolutions:

MS. WINEHOUSE: Hey tw*ts. Yeah, here's a couple o fings wot a tart like me aims to resolve in two fousand eight. Cheers.

1. Yeah. I aim to not flash me stink hole to da paps no more, lest me dear old mum pop her gasket, the daft old tart.
2. Yeah. Me teef be fallin out me head like they was icicles in July. In 2008 a tart aim to drop a few quid at da dentist. Least a bird can score wicked meds from da toof doctor.
3. Yeah. I resolve to not cram me crack pipe up me shame region on maximum security visiting days. A tart forget wot hole she done stuffed it in last time.
4. Yeah. Two fousand eight's da year a tart's beehive be piled so high on me gulliver a bird can sneak a jackhammer into da maximum security visiting days.
5. Yeah. A tart resolve to pull up her knickers nex time she pukin tunes for a mob o' cranky chavs and look down to see me unmentionables round me ankles.
6. Yeah. Dis be da year a tart ceases single-handedly supporting dem Afghani poppy farmers by hooverin horse by da kilo. Psyche!
7. Yeah. A bird resolve to stop putting on makeup wit her feet. Dat makes a tart look like she Cleopatra's tranny brovah.
8. Yeah. Dis be da year dat every time a tart open her hole to sing, she aim to pick a key an stick wid dat shit.
9. Yeah. I aim to toss da shoes wot show my bloody toes where a tart jab her heroin needles.
10. Yeah. Ouch! A tart just cross her legs and feel sumpin break in her oopsy hole. I fink I know where a bird cram her crack pipe.
11. Yeah. Wot?

This Just In: Martha Stewart's Christmas is Going to be Better Than Yours

Greetings and salutations. As many of you may know, there's nothing I enjoy more than ensuring Christmas at my house is a lot better than Christmas at your house. The reasons my Christmases are superior to yours are myriad, but it all boils down to several areas at which I excel and at which you, let's face it, suck: your decorations are second rate, your food is dull and unimaginative, your wrapping paper is store bought, your gifts are tacky and uninspired and your family secretly despises you.

Now before you bitterly dismiss my deluxe yuletide festivities as the result of vast wealth, umpteen personal assistants and many hours of free time, I feel compelled to remind you that not long ago I was locked in the slammer with Negro crack dealers and lesbian thrill killers. Yet despite my limited means, the upper bunk in cell 42 on block D was more deliciously Christmassy than anything you've seen in your long drab existence.

But fret not; always the consummate hostess, I have graciously opened the door to my gorgeous home to afford you a glimpse of perfection you can never hope to attain. I do this so you may feel vicariously festive for a while before you withdraw to your inferior lives and your depressing, anticlimactic celebrations. So let's break it down: decorations, food, wrapping paper and gifts. I can't help you with your family.

DECORATIONS: When I festoon my home, I glue seven hundred thousand individual pieces of glitter to only the most perfectly formed individual spruce needles. Then, using floral wire and pruning shears I fashion a winter wonderland forest in my soaring entryway. I like to throw fun parties where Snoop Dog and Joan Rivers and Richard Simmons all sit around threading cranberries onto silver thread. Then I suspend the strands in grand swags that form an enormous glistening canopy that compliments my expertly trimmed, hydroponically cultivated Douglas Fir. I see that you tossed a few strands of lights here and there and stapled a tinsel garland over your front door. That's cute too.

FOOD: I typically fix a goose for Christmas. I prefer to personally incubate the egg and raise the bird on gourmet nuts and berries. Typically I sing madrigals to it while I'm preparing to chop its head off, as I find a happy goose makes for a tastier meal. I remove the liver and make pate with vintage cognac, I fashion a darling sachet of fine herbs grown from seed and create an endive and truffle salad with home distilled red wine vinegar. I also maul ale, brew traditional wassail, and keep hot buttered rum and toddies at the constant ready. But of course if you prefer to nuke a canned ham and open a carton of Shop Rite egg nog, knock yourselves out.

WRAPPING PAPER: I grow papyrus plants, harvest them during a full moon, shred them by hand and press the fibers into hand made paper. Then I dye the sheets with imported indigo and drizzle them with homemade organic shellac. I like your WalMart Frosty the Snowman Paper too, though. It's nice. Really.

GIFTS: This year I hand carved seven alabaster nativity scenes. I hand-dipped three dozen candles, to which I applied 18 carat gold leafing in snowflake shapes from nuggets I panned in the Yukon. I raised a dozen Peruvian sheep, sheared the wool, spun it into yarn and knitted eight sweaters. I hand blew forty glass Christmas ornaments and acid etched winter scenes into each. But I'm sure your mom will love the Chia Pet and the isotoners.

So pour yourself a lovely hand-thrown ceramic mug of cider from organic homegrown apples and take in the splendor of my gloriously festooned domicile whilst you reflect on that plastic glow-in-the-dark snowman you bought at Target in 1987 standing sentry outside your house where the birth of the Christ is an occasion marked with bitterness and Walgreens tinsel, mitigated only by the cold comfort of knowing that your soul-crushing inadequacies won't spoil anyone's vacation for another 364 days.

Merry Christmas, bitches!
xoxox
WAM

A Christmas Wish List by Laura Bush

Well, howdy! It's that time of year again! Seems only yesterday I woke up hung over on the south lawn wrapped in twinkle lights with egg nog stains all over my Dress Barn pants suit. Tis the season! Now I know the holidays give lots of folks a case of the ughy-poos. Like when Mother Bar ridicules my famous Velveeta-and-Cap'n Crunch cheese log. As if anyone ever asks for seconds when that hideous gorgon whips up a batch of her icky bourbon-and-peanut butter snickerdoodles.

Anywho, as I dissolve another Xanax in my martini, the walls begin to melt away and I feel like I'm just a-hoverin over that barn where Mary's thighs spat forth our Messiah (not to mention the holy placenta, which in my dream is always promptly devoured by Tom Cruise, dressed as a sheep). As I gaze down on the baby Jesus, all peaceful and baby-like, it makes me think about stuff. And just before I pass out, I like to say my Christmas wish. Here goes!

1. Baby Jesus, it is my fondest Christmas wish that you might protect our babies from science. Christian families most certainly did not descend from apes, thank you very much! I hope your second coming is soon, so I can live to see the looks on all the atheist's faces when you zap them with your glowing eyes and laser beams shoot out of your fingertips cause they spread a bunch of fibs about science! When, as foretold by the book of Revelations, the seas rise up and storms and disease cause general ickiness, won't they feel like silly-billies for flapping their gums about all that climate change flapdoodle! I need a drink...
2. Baby Jesus, it seems as if Republican menfolk keep getting caught in toilet stalls doing that thing that makes the angels barf. My Christmas wish is that womenfolk try harder keep their husbands' interest by letting them drive their little choo-choos through our oopsy tunnels. As the party of Christian morals, we must help our menfolk keep it in their pants by bending over and thinking about bunnies or Oprah or something. Only then will the poor dears be able to resist the temptation of doing the shame dance with undercover cops, congressional pages and Scottish terriers of loose virtue. Note to self: take Barney to vet, he's walking funny again. I need ice...
3. Baby Jesus, another Christmas wish of mine is that Santa would bring me a prescription to something that makes me laugh like quaaludes, sleep like valium, float like oxycontin, see furry talking critters in the Rose Garden like Xanax, and melt into a pile of butterscotch pudding like oxyquil (two oxys ground up into a dose of nyquil). But I don't want it to make me want to dress up like a clown and run through the Smithsonian swinging a meat cleaver (like tic-tacs). Oops! I need to freshen my drink...
4. Baby Jesus, I saw on the TV where you sent a big ol' hunk of meteor crashin into a trailer that belonged to a couple in Tuscaloosa, completely decimating their Disney ceramic figurine collection. My Christmas wish is that you would send another one out to Maine. There's a withered old witch in Kennebunkport with white hair and the face of a snapping turtle. She's a mean drunk and she smells like gin mixed with ovaltine and pee. And getting conked on the noggin by a white-hot hunk of space rock might give the old cow the attitude adjustment she sorely needs. Didn't I have a drink sitting around? Guess I hafta get another...
5. Baby Jesus, my biggestest most bestest Chrishmish wish iz that Oprah and me and all the fluffy bunny rabbits could take a spaceship to Europe where we can ride unicorns and eat pudding. That way we could have the beshtest, merriest Chrishmish ever!

xoxo
Pickles

This Week in Poop Part 12: O Poop All Ye Faithful

• EAT MY POOP, GRANDMA: In Scotland (land of deflowered Schwinns and men in skirts) a granny by the name of Ethel McEwan came down with a nasty superbug called Clostridium Difficile. So in a spasm of coprophelic sadism her doctors decided it would be a good idea to make her eat her daughter's poop. That's right, in order to restore normal bacteria levels, gam-gam had her daughter's oopsy plop pumped through a tube down her throat. Is it just us, or has hospital food taken a turn for the worse? Perhaps it was that or haggis.
• AND THE OSCAR GOES TO: The world of late has been bewitched by the charms of "2 Girls, 1 Cup," a sly Brazilian romp wherein two cheeky ladies pinch loafs into a cup, slurp down the resulting mister softee fudge blizzard swirl and barf down each others' throats; a fine piece of cinema verite that was recently remade and given the less literal title "Atonement." The auteur behind the masterpiece has shared (in a court declaration) that  his performers sometimes prefer to eat chocolate instead of poop (ya think?). Marco Fiorito, in hot water for distributing obscene materials in the US, is now responsible for 2007's second most viral video, losing out only to Chris Crocker's "leave Britney alone" moment. Indeed, both have a similar effect on our appetite.
• TRAUMATIZED POOP WORMS OF WELLINGTON: When visionary New Zealander Coll Bell invented a new toilet that uses worms to compost human waste (rather than a septic tank), a local official raised concerns as to whether the poor worms were suffering psychological trauma by being forced to eat poop. A worm psychologist (vermicultural expert Patricia Nadu) was promptly whisked in to evaluate their delicate mental status. While the good news is that the worms were happy and reproducing, the bad news is that Ms. Nadu has slipped into a catatonic depression, having realized she gets paid to psychoanalize poop eating worms.
• THE POOP HURLERS OF O'FALLON: Taking a page from the playbook of the infamous Pooping Fingerpainter of Idaho Falls, a group of teenaged conceptual artistes recently created a dazzling act of interactive performance art when they filled a plastic bag with poop, drove to a Walgreens and hurled the bag through the open door. Upon impact the bag exploded, its foul contents splattering all over an alarmed pregnant shopper. We believe that this performance piece (currently untitled but we might suggest "Have Yourself a Poopy Little Christmas") is a brilliant commentary on rampant consumerism in the post-9/11 era.
• BUT IS IT ART? Santiago Sierra, an artist whose previous work includes pumping a German synagogue full of poisonous gas (when Hitler did a similar work in the '30s it wasn't nearly as well reviewed), has outdone himself by creating an installation that consists of 21 enormous blocks of human diddly-do. Currently on view at a London Gallery, the artist claims the aim of the work is to draw attention to the destitute latrine scavengers of India. However, we suspect it's a brilliant ruse on the part of Gaza's Palestinians who at last have found a lucrative means of desposing their excess gonch skidders.

Ask Aunt Betsy: Aunt Betsy Answers Letters to Santa

Today's children rarely have visions of sugar plums dancing through their heads anymore, at least not without sniffing glue first. Gone are the Christmas mornings of yesteryear, which began with the pitter-patter of feet followed by skull-shattering squeals of delight at what jolly old Saint Nick left behind; hobby horses and train sets, radio flier sleds and doll houses. Just you try giving a child one these gifts today, watch the misbegotten womb booger pinch a hissy fit and get all sassy. In fact, last Christmas I gave a charming gift to my precious niece Madison Ariel (honestly, what a ghastly name for a child — she sounds like a Wisconsin antenna company). I gave her an EZ-Bake Oven (a perfectly darling gift, not to mention practical) and she rudely stuffed the polka-dot scarf I'd knitted for her into the thing and nearly burned down the house. Now it seems every child must have the latest new-fangled whatchamawhozit or their parents could very well be jailed for neglect. So anxious have we become about Jesus' birthday, we've started self-medicating by Columbus Day.

All this stress has started affecting the jolly old elf himself. Teetering on the precipice of a nervous breakdown, Santa recently snapped his cap and started sending profanity-laced responses to letters written by children in Canada. While we find this alarming, we thank Jesus that Santa spared our darling Ameritots from his potty mouth and instead polluted the permafrost-numbed young minds of those charming (though exceedingly eccentric, and to my mind, shifty) Canadians. Santa has since checked into Betty Ford to ween himself from devil reefer and midget porn, and has outsourced his Christmas Eve chimney stuffing duties to a firm in Dubai, God help us.

Be that as it may, as I'm always one to step up to the plate when duty calls (unless of course it conflicts with beauty day or Yahtzee league), your very own Aunt Betsy has decided to pinch hit for the fat guy. Here are my responses to a few letters by a select group of adorable little darlings.

DEAR SANTA: Hey fat-ass. Last year your stupid presents were barfy. Try to get it right this time. I want an iPhone and a flat screen and a Prada gown for my American Girl dolly. I want a charge account at Balenciaga and a Birkin bag. If you give me cheap ugly clothes or a stupid pony again I'll find you and slap the "old" out of your fat face. Love, Ashley Wellington Abernathy, Westport CT. PS: the retarded pony croaked when it pranced into the rotors of my Dad's private helicopter.

Dearest Ashley: Santa is sorry the pony died, especially since it was a magical pony and would have started pooping diamonds had it lived past its second birthday. But since you're obviously such a lovely little princess with remarkable maturity and exquisite taste, Santa plans to make it up to you. If you go on a computer, you will find I've created a facebook account for you. Sign in as "Santa's Good Girl" (password: "betsysezhi") and send an IM to Fingers Romano (one of my elves), telling him you're an adorable moppet with smooth skin and parents who are richer than Jesus. Make plans to meet Fingers at the mall (don't tell anyone where you're going) and he will take you to his van where he'll teach you the magic words that will make everything you desire appear at the snap of your pink rosy fingers. Love, Santa

DEAR SANTA: Every Christmas you have to deliver gifts to about 91 million households. That means your sleigh has to travel at about 650 miles per second, a speed at which air friction would cause a reindeer to incinerate within a hundredth of a second. And if your sleigh really carries a present for 400 million Christian kids, it would be at least four times heavier that the QE2 ocean liner. Sometimes I doubt your existence. But on the off chance that you can survive the 4.5 million pounds of centrifugal force that would result from this unlikely enterprise, I would very much like to have a Gameboy.
From Little Stanley Banderstap

Dear Stanley: Every time a precocious little know-it-all such as yourself starts acting all science-y, the baby Jesus cries and Santa gets sad. It is very bad of you to make Jesus cry, so Santa has no choice but to move your name to the "naughty" column. But look on the bright side: not only was I was planning on bringing you a Gameboy, I was also going to surprise you with your own rocket ship that would have taken you to Mars. So now, thanks to your Jesus-hating letter, my load is now lightened considerably. Sucks to be you, doesn't it? Ha! Serves you right, you nerdy little pansy boy. Love, Santa   

DEAR SANTA: Please send me some panties cause I keep losin mine. Also I would like a new baby Jesus for my living nativity scene. I keep droppin the old one on it's noggin and now it don't act right. xoxo

Dear Britney: Once again, you've given me a headache. Love, Santa.

Why Mike Huckabee Shud Be Prezadint: An Essay by Mindy Smith, Homeskooled Iowan

Coon Rapids, IOWA -- Among the silent army of home-schooling families, a political movement is afoot. Apparently, this odd subculture is creepily uniform, almost pod-like, in their unanimous support of wife-dominating would-be AIDS patient imprisoner and presidential hopeful, Mike Huckabee.

There are 2 million children in this country being taught creationist science at the breakfast nook during commercials while mom watches Oprah. So what exactly is it about Huckabee (besides his unsettling Gomer-Pyle-as-a-Baptist-preacher schtick) that so attracts folks who have decided to shield their children from any point of view that diverges from their own? Borg-esque, they seem to share one mind. What does Huckabee have up his sleeve? Are the home-schoolers being groomed to be his flying monkeys?

These questions, and a multitude of others, go entirely unaddressed by Mindy Smith of Coon Rapids Iowa, a home schooled 11-year-old who wrote the following essay assigned by her teacher/mom Marla:

WHY MIKE HUCKABEE SHUD BE PREZADINT
by Mindy Smith

My mom sez that Mike Huckabee shud be presadint cuz he will stop the devil peeple from making me lern about siens and stuff. My mom sez that Adam and Eve rode dinosores around Edin. My mom allso sez that I did not come from munkeez, even if grandpa sumtimez throws his poop. My mom sez that if Huckabee iz not alektid then hummersekshals will make me go to reel skool and make me lern devil stuff. And if I lern devil stuff then I hafta go too hell. My mom sez that if I go too hell then I will hafta be all on fire and stuff and I'll hafta be with hummersekshals and eat broklee. My mom sez that Hilloree is a devil person and if she is alektid prezadint then all the littul baybees riding in there mommeez stummik will be yankt out and chopt up and maid intoo luzonya and Hilloree will eet it cuz she iz going too hell cuz sheez a hummersekshal. My mom sez that mormuns are devil peepuls and Huckabee sez mormuns think Jesus wuz Saytin's bruther. My mom sez Maree Ozmind lost "Dansing with the Stars" cuz Jesus diddint want her too win cuz sheez going to hell with the hummerseckshals. My mom sez that if I make tin more "VOAT FOR MIKE OR GO TOO HELL WITH THE HUMMERSEKSHALS" sines in the basemint then she will take My Little Pony out of the my-crow-wave and give it back. So far I made Sevin. My mom sez she needs more sines before she goze to a thing she calls the cock-kiss. I want My Little Pony back. My mom sez that the raynbo My Little Pony's tail meenz that My Little Pony is a hummersekshal. In cunkloojun, Mike Huckabee wood be a gud prezadint cuz I dont want My Little Pony to go to hell. The End.

A Guide to the Baptist Hajj

MECCA/TUSCALOOSA -- This weekend, millions of Muslims will swarm the dazzling mecca of Mecca to perform the Hajj. All able-bodied Muslims who can afford it are required, at least once in their lives, to undertake a pilgrimage to Saudi Arabia, wrap themselves in a sheet and shave their heads (in other words, pretend to be Hindi), and engage in a series of bizarre rituals that amount to a rather prolonged and complicated version of the Hokey-Pokey. They have to kiss a rock and circle a cube and run through a tunnel and drink some water. They have to climb a hill and throw pebbles at a wall and kill a sheep. Then, apparently, they have to trample a minimum of 500 fellow pilgrims to death in a mad rush to complete these odd calisthenics within the allotted time-frame. That's what it's all about.

But now, a much more obscure pilgrimage is gaining popularity amongst Southern Baptists. Known variously as the Baptist Hajj (or Bajj), The Stretchpants Derby, and The Praise-a-palooza, it is fast becoming a required pilgrimage in the lives of all insufferable holier-than-thou gasbags.

As you might have guessed, our clandestine network of undercover spies has gotten its mitts on a copy of the required rituals that combine to make the Bajj an experience of Jesus-tastic ecstasy.

• On January 8 (Elvis Presley's birthday) Southern Baptists stuff themselves behind the wheels of their 1983 Lincoln Towncars (Dodge Minivans and Buick Skylarks are acceptable) and drive to Tuscaloosa, Alabama — the epicenter of fried mayonnaise, polyester, varicose veins, incest and Barbara Mandrell fans (i.e., all things Baptist). Upon arrival, pilgrims check into a discount motor lodge and change into the Baptist uniform (Men wear polyester cowboy shirts, preferably brown with white top-stitching, a faux-pewter bolo tie and stretch pants; Women wear floral Dress Barn blouses, JC Penney scarves and stretch pants).
• On the morning of January 9, pilgrims perform the wrihop (or, waddle 'round the IHoP). In this ritual, participants waddle three times around a local International House of Pancakes restaurant (only the most morbidly obese may ride scooters, or in extreme cases, a fork lift). Once three laps are completed, pilgrims squeeze into a booth and kiss the laminated menu, preferably a photo of waffles, and thank Jesus for inventing the rooty-tooty-fresh-and-frooty breakfast.
• The women spend the afternoon barefoot in a hideously linoleumed kitchen. There, they contemplate the inferiority of their sex, the disgusting nature of their stink holes, how best to submit gracefully to their husbands, and how to ensure that their uteri remain viable and prolific womb-booger factories (post menopausal and barren women must eat a Malomar for every post-pubescent childless year of their adult life). The men spend this time on a naugahyde sofa in a paneled-and-shag-carpeted basement clad in stained Hanes tighty-whities, drinking Pabst and eating Cheeze Doodles, all while sublimating their disgusting latent homosexual desires. Together, these rituals are known as "Tuesday."
• The following day is dedicated to a ritual called Stone the Homo. Male pilgrims gather synthetic white pebbles from the front landscaping of the nearest Baptist church and proceed to find at least 7 hell-bound fairies to stone (experience suggests the most fertile hunting grounds can be found at the Home Depot gardening department, the fresh pasta aisle at the Shop n' Save, or any public mens room). This ritual symbolizes the successful repression of any disgusting pole smoking fantasies. In the meantime, female pilgrims bury their heads in buckets of sand until they can truly convince themselves that their husbands are out bowling with buddies even though the local bowling alley was destroyed by a tornado six months ago. And it's perfectly natural for a man to go to a Halloween costume party dressed as Liza Minnelli.
• Finally, the third and final day of the pilgrimage is dedicated to an enormous potluck, where each attendee must deep fry something disgusting, put it in Tupperware, and bring it (along with a can of non-generic pork n' beans) to the Tuscaloosa grange for an evening of fellowship and angina. As the pilgrims each dig into a delicious slab of lime jello marshmallow cottage cheese surprise, the Dixie Chicks are burned in effigy while "In the Sweet By and By" is played on an electric piano.

Christmas Tips with Ann Coulter

PALM BEACH -- Greetings, perfected Jews (aka Christians)! It does my black bile-choked heart good to welcome you to my humble abode. It's Christmas! Time to celebrate the birth of the man whose life has given us a perfect rationale for killing and oppressing brown (and off-white) folks worldwide. Because when the Bible says (in John 3:17)  "For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world" what it really means is we should nuke North Korea.

As I've said repeatedly, one of the reasons I love the holiday season is that when I say 'Merry Christmas' I'm really saying "f*ck you." I would also add that the opposite is true. With that in mind, since Bill O'Reilly isn't here to push my bony knees behind my ears while he Christmases me up the pooper, I would like to invite you to sit by my Yuletide fire, toss back an egg-nog or five, and share a few of my secrets for ensuring the merriest of 'f*ck yous.'

1. As you know, even though I almost got away with committing voter fraud by accidentally fibbing that I lived in a less affluent (i.e., Democrat) precinct, I prefer spending the holidays here in Palm Beach. Unfortunately, while the neighbors and I live in perfect harmony, many of them are unperfected Jews. Meaning, of course, they're Jewish. Always remember that Hanukkah is, in essence, a holiday about conserving oil. To that end, it is patently Anti-American. While I'm mildly irked by the thought of shrill little jewlets incessantly spinning their Jesus-denying dreidels, these bad feelings abate when I show my Christian goodwill by mailing them all a lovely Hanukkah ham. 
2. Since the town of Bethlehem is currently in Palestinian territory, I like to erect a life-sized nativity scene on my front lawn that includes bombs strapped to the chests of the three wise men and shows the little drummer boy throwing a rock at Mary. I also add a personal flourish by wrapping the Christ Child in the Stars and Stripes. This year I hope to editorialize further by depicting Joseph's anal cavity being probed at gunpoint as he's strip searched by Israeli guards. This underscores the fact that if Joseph and Mary weren't donkey-riding freeloaders (i.e., Democrats), not only would there have been room at the inn, but Mary would have squeezed out our savior in the presidential suite.
3. I like to film my own endings to holiday classics so they reflect decent Republican values. For instance my version of "It's a Wonderful Life" now ends with Jimmy Stewart being brought before the House Un-American Activities Committee and subsequently imprisoned for espousing collectivism and aiding communists. My customized "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" has the citizens of Whoville organizing a pre-emptive strike against the Island of Misfit Toys (aka China).
4. I love to go a-wassailing clad in a tired black cocktail dress with the hemline at my pubes (the one I wear on all the conservative talk shows that demonstrates not only how effectively I've tucked my business, but also the true depth of my sexual despair). So to keep my shame zone warm on those chilly nights, I've taken to filling a trojan with figgy pudding and shoving it up my oopsy-doodle.
5. I've bought a f*ck you ornament for every single soldier blown to bits while protecting my freedom to put Iraqi oil in my car. This year they have totally covered my beautiful f*ck you tree, which extends the full three stories of my foyer. Next year I hope to have added LOTS more ornaments! I might even have to add a second tree! Do I hear three? LOL!!
6. Everytime I remember that Christmas Carolers are in fact trespassing, I thank Jesus I'm a member of the NRA.

That's it! In closing allow me to wish a heartfelt f*ck you to you and your family.

xoxo
Ann