Can O' Whup-Ass

Throwing the First Stone: Sodom n' Gomorrah Fun Facts!!

To the hell-bound heathens among you (yeah, you), the story of how Sodom and Gomorrah (Hebrew for "fire-pit" and "Ash-heap," respectively) became Baptist for "ass-sex," here's the short version: God told Abraham of his intent to torch 5 towns (conveniently located in the same valley) unless 10 or more righteous folks were discovered to be living in Sodom. Alas, they only found four: Lot, his wife, and his two betrothed virgin daughters (who later blossom into superfreaks). Sodom, as it turns out, was full of sodomites; they rudely demanded the pleasure of ass-raping two angels who were crashing in Lot's crib (and who were apparently quite hunk-a-licious). A paragon of virtue, Lot offers his virgin daughters to appease the lust-crazed crowd, who concluded that the two girl's asses were patently untappable. Long story short, Lot flees the city with his daughters (his wife took an ill-advised gander at the fireball and was transformed into a cylinder of iodized Morton's). Later, in a cave, Lot's virtuous daughters got him drunk (thankfully, they remembered the hooch as they fled the inferno) and took turns sitting on their father's pee-pee. Each got preggers and plopped out two inbred womb boogers. Thus endeth another Old Testament parable about virtue. But now some scientists believe they've decoded some ancient writing that describes an eye witness account of what really happened. God threw a big rock at us. With that in mind, let us consider the following:

1. How could there be an eye witness account, when witnessing it apparently made one undergo a bizarre transformation into a common table condiment?
2. In Matthew 10:14, Jesus says the real sin of Sodom is that they were rude hosts. This is immediately suspect, as we know sodomites throw the best parties. J-Naz mentions no objection to the fact that every man woman and child in the city was suddenly overcome with a desire to do the horizontal butt bolero with a heavenly messenger. Regardless, if an indecent proposition led to the incineration of 386,000 square miles in the Otz Valley, how did the subsequent daddy/daughter three-way escape punishment?
3. If the residents of Sodom were gay, one ponders how children could have been scampering about. Even then, how to we explain the fact that Lot's daughters were engaged to two local boys? Were they fag-hags? Beards? Should we ask Katie Holmes?
4. According to NASA'S Near Earth Object Program, approximately 330 extinction-threatening asteroids are currently hurtling about hither and thither in our immediate environs. God certainly seems to be well-stocked in ammo. But in today's news, a Kansas man was arrested for raping a picnic table, snapshots surfaced of British race car driver being spanked by dominatrices in a Nazi-themed orgy, a San Diego politician was busted for wanking it off in public, and Britney Spears has threatened to pursue a career in television. What exactly is the Yahweh waiting for? At the very least, why the continued existence of Tuscaloosa?
5. Hurricane Katrina, sent by God (according to McCain supporter John Hagee) as punishment for a recent gay event and destroyed every ward in the New Orleans except for the gay one, plainly demonstrates that God's aim ain't what it used to be. With that in mind, if one lives in Vegas proper, we rather think you're safe. If, however, you're living in neighboring Henderson...well...you're toast.

Sally Kern's Weekend "To-Do" List!

OKLAHOMO CITY -- Sally Kern, the most widely admired woman since Witchiepoo from H.R. Pufnstuf, is a busy lady. What with representing the most bigoted and backward district in "the Sooner State" (a dubious distinction, akin to being crowned the most insufferable Osmond or the most retarded Baptist), unleashing breathless diatribes against butt-spelunking fairies, maintaining her personal relationship with The Lord, dodging questions about her effeminate son and sponsoring legislation to legalize the deportation of shifty, brown-skinned good-fer-nuthins, this tw*t has a full docket. To prove the point, one of our felonious underground moles has retrieved a rough draft of her "Weekend To-Do List" from her garbage, stuck to a copy of "The Watchtower" by an errant dribble of Dentu-creme.

1. Pack a Rapture "go-bag" (include Wetnaps, Tic-Tacs, Dramamine, communion wafters, dress shields and a copy of "So Your Loved Ones Were Left Behind for the Tribulation: A Post-Ascension Prayer Book")
2. Flapjacks and ham breakfast with Christians Unequivocably Need Tradition (or, C*NT) in the Dale Evans event room at the Highway 42 Stuckey's (note to self: wear elastic waisted stretch pants)
3. Photo op with Log Cabin Rebublicans (note to self: bring pepper spray, wetnaps)
4. Toss a molotav cocktail through the front door of that ghastly mosque across from the Shop n' Save to protest Islam as a violent religion
5. Join the 24-hour "Please Jesus Don't Let McCain's Decrepit Ticker Fart to a Stop Before November" prayer circle
6. Convince proprietor of local shooting range to use Obama- and Hillary-shaped targets
7. Bloody Fetus Hurl-a-Thon at the Tuttle Planned Parenthood
8. Guest Judge at the 35th Annual Muskogee Cow Pie Flinging Contest (note to self: bring sensible shoes, rain bonnet, can of Carpet Fresh and/or Fabreeze)
9. Mail monthly "Keep it in your pants and shut your yap" allowance to nancy-boy son
10. Weekly meeting with "Operation Save Our Families" to discuss the best way to wrestle children out of their homes if their parents have similar plumbing in their shame zones.
11. Kneel on rice and beg Jesus to forgive me for the sinful thoughts I keep having about spreading Condoleeza Rice's shapely ebony thighs and dining at the banquet of her nubian hair pie
12. Shopping spree with Beverly LaHaye at Dress Barn, Lane Bryant, and Let Us Spray (the new Christian hair salon wedged betwixt the Jiffy Lube and the Shangri-La Lanes Bowling Alley)

Human Math: Revisited

Hey! It's Happy Fun Math Time Again!!!

When Indonesian Irian Separatists kidnapped 12 Koreans in January 2001, they demanded $12 million dollars, so:

1 Korean Life: $83,333.33 (adjusted for inflation: $99,431.60)

When an Afghani or Iraqi civillian rudely lies down for a dirt nap after carelessly getting shot to bits by a terrified and exhausted teenager from Head Cheese Arkansas, the American military typically pays the victim's family a "condolence payment" of $2,000.

1 Afghani/Iraqi Life: $2,000

In 1893, after a seven year old girl named Ettie Pressman was trampled to death by a team of horses on Ludlow Street (NYC), a court awarded her father $1,000 based on the girl's lost earnings as an enslaved garment moppit. Therefore, adjusted for inflation:

1 American child's life in 1893: $22,802.25

During the Vietnam War, the families of non-commies who made an ill-advised stroll into the path of gunfire were given "solatium payments" as follows:

1 Vietnamese Adult: $35 (adjusted for inflation: $195.89)
1 Vietnamese Child: $15 (adjusted for inflation: $83.95)

Statistically, today's average "street value"* of an American's life (as established insurance companies, auto makers and other potentially liable entities) is $6 million. But for those folks who had the bad taste to have been in the World Trade Center on a certain September morning, the U.S. Government has placed an "oopsie" value of $1.8 million. Therefore:

A normal American = 3.33 World Trade Center workers

So far, approximately 4,000 troops have lost their lives in the war on terror. About 3,000 Americans died in the 9/11 terrorist attacks. In the same conflict, the number of Iraqi civilian deaths is estimated to be between 82,476 and 89,996. Therefore, VERY conservatively, in the open market known as the War on Terror (we'll call this the Barter System):

1 American = 8 Iraqis

However, by the "street value" (*see above):

1 American = 2,400 Iraqis

It would seem, then, that the retail mark-up on Americans is 3,000%. It would also appear that, in Baghdad anyway, Iraqis can be had at bargain basement prices.

In 2003, the Taliban demanded that the Afghan government release 250 terrorists in exchange for the life of Turkish hostage Hanan Onal. Therefore:

1 Turk = 250 Afghani terrorists, and
1 American = 10 Turks (street value)

When 15 British sailors were captured by Iran, Tony Blair seriously considered Iran's offer to release them in exchange for 6 captive Iranians (and conspiracy theorists believe Britain secretly complied). So it follows that:

1 Iranian = 2.5 Brits (barter system)
1 Brit = $30,000 (street value)

We can see then, that the street value of:

3 Brits + 4.5 Iraqis = 1 Korean, and
1 circa 1893 Street Urchin + 3.4 Iraqis = 1 Brit

Moving on: in the enchanting world of celebutots, the gossip rags have put the following pricetags on exclusive photos:

Brangelina's up-and-coming spawn: $10 million
Halle Berry's uterus spew: $7 million
J-Lo and Marc-Lo's twins: $6 million (or, $3 million each)
Christina Aguilera's fresh womb booger: $1.5 million

Therefore, Emme Lopez-Antony is worth two Max Aguileras, who in turn is worth 15% as much as Brangelina's diaper loader. Sadly, Sara Jessica Parker's child, who was unwisely displayed for photographers gratis as she left the hospital, isn't worth anything.

CONCLUSIONS:

• When Angelina Jolie-Pitt squeezes baby #2 through her oopsie-hole, a photograph of the screaming poop machine will be worth the lives of 1.66 Americans, 51,049 Vietnamese adults, and 119,118 Vietnamese children (with the obvious exception of Maddox Jolie-Pitt).
• A photograph of Max or Emme Lopez-Antony, on the other hand, is worth the lives 132 street urchins, circa 1893, but a photograph of Max and Emme Lopez-Antony together is worth an adult American's life (as long as they didn't have the bad taste of dying in the World Trade Center). 
• A photograph of Halle Berry's lil' scream machine is worth 1.2 Americans, 14 Turks, 71 Koreans, 3,500 Iraqis, and 10,500 Brits.
• A snapshot of Christina Aguilera's vagina plop isn't quite worth the life of a WTC worker, but is nonetheless worth 17,867 thousand times more than a Vietnamese child, unless that child is Maddox Jolie-Pitt, in which case the unfortunate infant is worth only 15 cents on the dollar.

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Renee Zellweger

Um...Renee?

Time for a chit chat. Over here. Try to focus. You seem distracted.

So. Can we offer you a wet-nap? You sure?

Anywho, did Jiffy Lube open a day spa? En route to the red carpet did you swing by Bally's for a jazzercize class? Why are we sweating to the oldies?

And while we're on the subject, what's going on with our hair? You were aiming for a Posh, but you've landed in three stooges territory. Is Stevie Wonder your stylist? And the pearls aren't helping your case. It's like putting some poo on a doily.

You look like (pick one):

1. Andy Warhol at the all-drag Turkish bath
2. The air conditioner is out of order in the "worst hairstyles ever" wing at Madame Toussad's
3. Owen Wilson has been possessed by the malevolent spirit Posh Spice, just like Karen Black was possessed by the malevolent spirit of a scary voo-doo doll in that movie where Karen Black is possessed by a scary voo-doo doll
4. You're starring in a sequel to "The Fly" wherein you take an unfortunate jaunt through a telepod and are consequently fused at the molecular level with Brandon Davis
5. You've just completed the world's first formal-attire tri-athalon
6. In an effort to comply with a cheeky pap's request to "make love to his camera," you've thoughtfully applied a thick coat of face-lube
7. Bloody hell.

XOXOX
WAM

Hillary's "Okay, So Maybe My Sniper Story Was a Tad Fibby" Press Release

***FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE***

Hello. I'm Hillary Rodham Clinton and I approved what I'm about to say. First, I would like to say that I'm a woman. I have a vagina. And as a vagina-owning woman, sometimes it's my vagina that does the talking and that means I'm from Venus and you're made of glue. It seems that some vagina-hating fact-slaves out there got all up in a flibberty-floo when I told the story about how I came under sniper fire while visiting Bosnia with Chelsea and Sinbad. What I really meant is that when I posed for a photo op with that eight-year-old girl on the tarmac, it felt like she was a little sniper shooting my heart with her cute-rifle. And when I said we all had to run with our heads down as bullets were whizzing all around my "kindergarten-teacher-from-Saskatoon" hairdo, I meant that Sinbad is hilarious! His zingers just keep coming, pow-pow-pow!! Sinbad's insightful humor about the differences between negroes and regular people just slays me! Negroes are amusing, aren't they? They rap and they tap dance and tell jokes. I saw "Big Momma's House 2" three times and laughed so hard I thought I'd pee my Dress Barn permanent press pants suit. Obama is a negro. He'd be hilarious dressed up like a fat-and-sassy negro lady. But can he answer a red phone at three in the morning?

See the thing is, those of you who have little or no vagina of your own to speak of have difficulty translating vaginal logic. For instance, if a woman says "we'll talk about it later," she means "you better have an excellent divorce attorney." And when she says "tell me what you're thinking" she really means "I'm repulsed by your man-bits but nevertheless require your full attention while I drone on about which shade of mauve we should paint the guest bath and while we're on the subject your mother is an evil gorgon who sprang from the womb of a rabid hyena."

So I ask you, when that red phone rings at five in the morning and it's Vladimir Putin, for example, would you rather have a groggy negro spitting rap-hop rhymes about hos and bling, or would you prefer a woman who can talk and talk and talk and talk and talk in such circular logic that "pouty-lips" Putin will agree to the construction of missile defense facilities in Kamchatka just to shut her up?

I think it's time for America to put its vagina where its mouth is.

This Week in Poop Part 13: There Will Be Poop

• THE SPRINKLE BRIGADE: One day some sensitive (and maladjusted, one assumes) artistes got together and decided it would be a good idea to devote their lives to finding dog poop in the street and decorating it with plastic army men, toy horsies, etc. In other societies, or in simpler times, their bizarre hobby would have earned them an all-expense-paid trip to the Bedlam Club Med. However, oddly enough, their calling has found its niche; this last December, the guerrilla pooch plop aficionados had a show at the Riviera Gallery in NYC, which was swarmed by flocks of poo-starved coprophelial sculpture enthusiasts. They have also published their first book, for those of you whose parlors need only a dog poo art coffee table book to be ready for its Metropolitan Home cover shoot. We find their work to be a scathing commentary on the Bush administration, in that they've discovered a way to dress up poop and sell it to the public.
• HERE, HAVE SOME POO CAKE: Last month in Cardiff, UK ("This Week in Poop" regulars will recognize that the Queen's realm has an abnormal propensity to generate poo news of note), a customer bought a chocolate cake at a pizzeria. Noting its odd aroma and its nutty palate, the suspicious cake eater brought baked confection to local health authorities who discovered that the shop's proprietors had rudely sprinkled human poo on the otherwise lovely gateaux. Although a cursory glance through chocolate cake recipes offered by Epicurious make no mention of this innovative ingredient, we can totally picture Martha providing some, um, organic frosting to a cake before sending it to Rachel Ray with her compliments.
• ARE YOU GOING TO BE IN THERE MUCH LONGER? Two years ago, Pam Babcock of Wichita decided she didn't want to leave her bathroom. In the intervening years, her enabling boyfriend brought her food, water and clothing making her self-imposed crapper exile possible. Unfortch, having spent much of that time sitting on the throne, the classy bitch's ass melded to the seat. When paramedics where called after she became disoriented, the toilet/woman hybrid had to be wheeled into the hospital intact, whereupon a team of expert surgeons extracted the seat from her ass. Ms. Babcock is currently indisposed in hospital. No word yet as to whether she intends to return to her tiled realm, but our advice to her boyfriend is to use the loo while it's available. And while he's in there, it wouldn't hurt to burn a match or two.
• HAVE YOURSELF A POOPY LITTLE CHRISTMAS: On Christmas eve, as much of the world was preparing to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus, an old geezer by the name of Robert Schoff took a stroll out to his septic tank to find the source of a clog. Unfortch, he lost his balance and fell into the opening, getting stuck. His wife alleges that she noticed his feet kicking in the air about an hour later, then promptly called the sheriff's department who rescued the unfortunate sap. But we secretly suspect she watched as it happened, giggling at the kitchen window as she sipped her eggnog delighted by her husband's scatological misfortune. We further suspect she used up several rolls of film on snapshots of that particular Kodak moment before alerting authorities. That'll learn him for giving her a chia pet last year.
• THE WISCONSIN LAUNDRY POOPER: Ronnie Ballard, a totally well-adjusted citizen of Madison, Wisconsin, has issues with his neighbors. So rather than buying a gun and pumping their fannies full of lead, he opted to express his frustrations by embarking on an inter-active conceptual art piece. Mr. Ballard pooped in his neighbors' laundry. He pooped in their shoes. He pooped in their hallways. Unfortch (not many "This Week in Poop" stories are fortunate, are they?) he was caught. In the highly entertaining criminal complaint posted on The Smoking Gun, one object of his targeted poop campaign (a retarded woman by the name of Felicia Walton), proclaimed that she "had not given" Mr. Ballard "permission to defecate in her Reeboks, and was therefore disturbed." While we're disturbed by the notion that Ms. Walton can conceive of a circumstance when such permission would be forthcoming, we are delighted by the judge's instructions to Mr. Ballard to henceforth "only defecate in toilets."
• THE SQUAT TOILETS OF BEIJING: China has poop issues. They make Olympic souvenirs out of panda poop. They have recently passed an ordinance disallowing food vendors to operate in public toilets. Renegade future breakaway nation Taiwan has a popular poo-themed restaurant chain. Their relationship with poop differs from ours, just as their willingness to see a labrador as a potential entree. You see, the Chinese poop standing up. Rather, most public toilets are "squat toilets" with no seats. And when the International Olympic Committee discovered that many of the thousands of public facilities being built to accommodate the games were of the "squat" variety, Beijing was forced to race against time to replace them with sitting models. We westerners are culturally adverse to the squat-like-a-defensive-lineman loaf-pinching method, rather we prefer to sit whilst dropping the kids off at the pool. Just ask Pam Babcock.
• WELCOME TO POO LAKE: There is a neighborhood in Baghdad in which mansions are strewn hither and yon; it was once the enclave of Hussein's inner circle. Now, however, with the nearby presence of US troops, many displaced Iraqis have made these abandoned palaces their home. Unfortch (again with the "unfortch!") the sewer system has long been defunct. So this erstwhile playground of the rich and murderous, transformed by rivers of blood as the war broke out, finds itself transformed yet again by rivers of poop. And although the advancing shores of what the jarheads laughingly call "Poo Lake" are of some concern, the new residents take solace in the fact that few suicide bombers will venture there. In Iraq, poop equals peace. Isn't that right, Mr. Cheney?
• AMBER WAVES OF POOP: Livestock farmers across this glorious nation of ours have taken to feeding poop to their animals. Chicken poop gets fed to cattle, cow poop to pigs, pig poop to chickens, which in turn get turned into McNuggets for your delectable consumption. In fact, to cite just one example, JP Fontenot (VA Polytech/Animal Poultry Science) determined that 2 million tons of chicken splat is served to our beef cattle annually, whose diets now consist of nearly %70 poultry waste. This bold new science is being exported by the UN, touting the use of "recycled animal waste" in livestock feed. Dig into that McWhopper!

Easter Greetings From Pickles, the Easter Bunny and the Pope!

VATICAN CITY -- As Easter approaches, and millions of folks worldwide make preparations to mark the resurrection of The Lord by hiding unfertilized gaudily-festooned chicken embryos and devouring pig flesh, Laura "Pickles" Bush, the Easter Bunny and Pope Benedict would like to extend their cruci-tastic Easter wishes to you and yours!

LAURA BUSH: Hello from the Pope's house! I must say that you Cathy-licks sure know how to decorate! I wish I could have your decorator come to Crawford. Georgie insists on nailing talking fish plaques to the wall in every room. Do you have a talking fish plaque in your house?
POPE BENEDICT: No, but speaking of nailing things, Happy Easter!
EASTER BUNNY: Make that a hippity-hoppity Happy Easter!
LB: When I see imaginary talking animals, it's usually after one or four xanatinis.
EB: I'm not imaginary.
LB: I wasn't talking to you silly.
PB: I'm not imaginary either. Nor am I an animal.
LB: That's what you all say!
PB: I'm quite real. If I told the members of our communion to poop their pants, there'd be a run on pampers in Guadalajara faster than you can say "kyrie eleison."
LB: You talk funny. Are you magic?
EB: Oh, yes! I'm full of hippity hoppity magic!
LB: I wasn't talking to you, silly.
PB: Yes. Yes I'm magic. If folks make me cross I put on my pointy pope hat and zap them with my pope ray and they turn into a cane toad.
LB: Well I do like your dress. Did you get it at Dress Barn?
PB: Thank you. It's silk.
LB: I wasn't talking to you, silly.
EB: I'm not wearing a dress. This is fur.
LB: Poppy-cock. Last Easter George gave me a rabbit fur stole but Barney buried it in the Rose Garden.
PB: Perhaps we should talk about Jesus Christ.
EB: Yippee!
LB: Jesus is depressing. I know whereof I talk, I saw Mel Gibson's movie. Why would we talk about Jesus? It's Easter!
EB: Yippee! 
PB: We talk about Jesus because on this day, lo many years ago, Jesus saved our soul by being executed by the Romans.
LB: Romans are so scary. The women wear mustaches and the men are always touching their pee-pees.
EB: Yippee!
LB: Besides, if Jesus saved my soul by being executed, Texas is saving souls by the gazillions! Seems like a nary a day goes by where Texas isn't jabbing some dirt-nap juice into the arm of a scary negro.
EB: Jesus crawled out of his cave and flew up into the sky! Hooray!!
LB: Are you on vicodin?
PB: Jesus flew into the sky, but just like Mein Brudder Arnold Schwarzenegger, he'll be back. And when he comes back, he'll smack the beanies right off of those Jews who killed him.
LB: I thought you said the Romans got killy with Jesus.
PB: I take it back. It was das Juden.
LB: This is so confusing. It's like Dancing With the Stars.
PB: Achtung!
LB: You remind me of my mother in law. She gets yelly too.
EB: Hippity-hoppity Happy Easter, everybody!
PB: Ja! Glückliches Ostern!
LB: Um, okay. Cigarette break.
EB: Yippee!

Prez Bush Speechificates to Mark Iraqistan's Fifth Year of Shrapnel-riffic Freedom!!!

*** OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT ***

Good morning. Today I come to this here Pentagram building to speechificate on the fifth anniversary of the shrapnel tsunami my daddy and me like to call "Operation Do-Over." As Pickles will tell you, the fifth-year anniversary gift is s'posed to be wood. When I and she marked año-numero-cinco, I gave her a set of teak swizzle sticks carved with topless hula bitches with grass skirts and bodacious ta-tas. To this day every time she mixes up a pitcher of xanatinis she puts wood in her drink and I get wood in my pants. I also get wood in my pants when I think about stuff like how Iraqistanis are all free and stuff. Free to be blown to smitheroonies while window shopping at Hijabs-R-Us. Free to perform their hilarious nekkid-iraqi-pyramid skit at the Abu Ghraib Cabaret. Free to enjoy exciting evenings having their front door kicked in by jittery high school dropouts with machine guns in the middle of CSI: Tikrit re-runs.

Let me pause at this part to look serious and make a meaningless, impotent hand gesture. Every day I wake up in my "mission accomplished" cammo underoos and thank Jesus for our brave young men and lesbos in uniform, who every day are defending God's favorite country by riding convertible Humvees through the streets of Falluja with targets painted on their almost-armored backs. But now a bunch of cry-baby commie demon-crats want to bring our sons and daughters home before we even get them properly fitted for toe-tags! They say that even though we blowed up their country and threw a necktie party for Sadam, we're gonna lose the war! I say fiddle-sticks! I say we shockified and awe-ized that smelly sandbox to get rid of WMDs! Well guess what, buckaroos! How many WMDs are there now? Zilcho! Nada! Mission accomplished!

I'll pause right here so I can put frat boy smirk on my face and make another empty, awkward hand gesture. You know, yesterday an uppity negro named Barak Hussein Bin Laden Allah Muhammed Ali Mahmoud Fatwa Jihad Obama gave a little speech about how negros are people too; they think thoughts and know what they say and stuff. At least that's what I think we was talkin about 'cause when he got to the part about his honkey mammy, Barney started humping Condoleeza's leg and Pickles started laughing so loud she choked on a tequila worm so me and Perino had to shake Pickles upside-down until she hawked the worm critter across the room where it got stuck on the portrait of James Madison. But I Tivo'd it so whatev. Anywho, it got me to thinkin two different thoughts. First is that Arabiac folks are like negros cause they're kind of similar to people too. Second, just cause he talks good and stuff and people like him and trust him, that don't mean that after 7 Bush-tastic years of terrorism, phone-tapping, screwing up on that Katrina thingy, pissing off the world and driving the economy into the toilet, that people want change and stuff! Change is bad! Change sucks! Just ask the folks in Baghdad.

Thank you, and may God bless America. And stuff.

Ask Aunt Betsy: My Two Cents

Howdy doody diddly do! Greetings, dear readers! Here I sit, just as cozy as you please, sipping a cup of decaf Tasters Choice at my darling avocado-and-burnt orange pleatherette breakfast nook, those whores from The View droning in the background about orgasms or Barak Obama or some analoguous depravity. Aunt Betsy greeted this brisk March morning with a rare and unwelcome hangover; neighborly etiquette dictated that I attend a St. Patrick's Day soiree at the O'Malley's, the Cathy-licks in the ranch-style bungalow two doors down from Aunt Betsy-stan. It turned out to be a profoundly hedonistic bacchanal, featuring green beer and a tournament of a revolting game called "Scattergories" (yours truly regards any game with "scat" in its title to be automatically morally suspect and quite likely unsanitary). After my twelfth trip to the keg to freshen my stein, I discovered within me the strength and gumption to confront Brad and Lance (the sodomites whose homosexually well-groomed Colonial abuts Aunt Betsy-stan to form the most unfortunate common border since the Christian States of America was forced to rub salaciously against Mexarico).  As the Scattergory participants were feverishly scribbling down entrees that start with the letter "S," I wittily shouted "Shih-Tsu Sausage!" (faithful readers will recall I recently dog-napped Brad and Lance's insufferable Shih-Tsu Charo and quite ingeniously whipped up a batch of spicy Korean dog sausage). Unfortunately, not all attendees appreciated Aunt Betsy's sophisticated humor, and the party reached its conclusion shortly thereafter.

But enough of that fiddle-faddle! Time to address a few of the many thousands of letters seeking my invaluable advice. This week, what with the nation's economy taking a faster nose-dive than Tara Reid at a cocaine party, I've decided to direct my attention to matters of financial concern.

DEAR AUNT BETSY: My husband recently found himself unemployed because he accidentally lost billions on a bet that busboys could afford mortgages on split levels that had been spec-built on endangered wetlands. While we are thankfully not a member of the unfortunate classes, this has proved to be a double-edged sword. For instance, I've had to fire my personal shopper, my shiatzu therapist, my sushimi chef, my colonic therapist, my feng shui consultant, my hair care staff, my rolfer, my yogi, my pilates and ceramics instructors. But when I try to find a sympathetic ear, no one seems to feel my pain. My husband is no help, as he has chosen to deal with our financial discomfort by indulging in marijuana-fueled bridge tournaments. Why don't people realise that wealthy folks hurt too? Signed, Can't Understand Negative Treatment

Dear C*NT: As I read your letter, I wept into my bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats. Listen, dear. No one understands what it's like to bear a stearn financial crisis more than I. Perhaps what you need is a quick jaunt to Saint Barts. Once there, instruct limo driver to take you on a tour of the outlying slums. As soon as you're confronted by the horrendous sight of Hyundai-driving folks who live dangerously in the absence of alarmed gates, dash back to your seaside spa.  After your seaweed wrap and a soothing volcanic mudbath, remind yourself that, even deprived of your sushimi chef, you are infinitely better off than the unfortunate girl who has to hose the mud from your taint.

DEAR AUNT BETSY: About a year ago, I met a nice man at a bus stop who told me if I bought a five bedroom split level bungalow in a new subdivision on the outskirts of Fresno, I would only have to pay $99.50 a month for the mortgage. I was taken in by his promises of a brighter future and his complimentary refrigerator magnets. Six months after moving my seven children into our dreamhouse, my mortgage bill jumped to $70,000 a week. Well, I can tell you...as a part-time Stuckey's hostess I wasn't quite able to make those payments. Long story short, we now live in a Pinto hatchback behind a Jiffy Lube. Although I'm always discovering new ways in which Hamburger Helper enhances the taste of Tender Vittles, I've had to sell a kidney and hire my youngest out to pose as a model for a local photographer named Chickenhawk McGaw, who's working on a series of web-based art studies. My question is this: I just felt a lump in my breast...can you spot me five for a bus ticket to the free clinic? Signed, Finding Unique Challenging Knowledge Every Day

Dear F*CKED: Land sakes, what a Sally Sulkypants you are! When life rolls snake-eyes, Aunt Betsy makes a yummy batch of s'mores and surrounds herself with the trophies from eight consecutive Yahtzee tournaments. In your case I'd try to scare up a pan of Alpo lasagna and tell your unfortunate children to pretend the Pinto hatchback is a covered wagon in the old west, headed up into Donner Pass. With respect to your cash request, I purchased a box of thin mints from that whorish girl scout Polly Fickerton last week and therefore my monthly charity quota has been fulfilled. I'd definitely go back to that bus stop, however. That nice man with the free fridge magnets will gladly loan you the fare, at current sub-prime rates, of course.

DEAR AUNT BETSY: I used to make lots of money and stuff but that stopped after I got hitched to a taco bell chalupa chef. After that the spacemen living in my brain started makin fun of me cause sometimes I drop my babies on their noggins. But yesterday, after shooting meth between my toes, I fell asleep on my driveway and woke up with my dress over my head so I thought it was night time. But when I started feeling a draft in my cooter I pulled my dress back down and saw that my daddy done took my cars away so's he could sell them for beer money. Now I gots no way to go to the Taco Bell. Signed, Need Unlimited Tacos

Hi, Britney: You don't need a car. Next time you're in dire need of a chalupa, step out to the street, remove your blouse and scrawl "Taco Bell or Bust" across your breasts. I'm sure one of those nice photographers would be happy to give you a lift. One in particular, by the name of Chickenhawk McGaw, is rather sympathetic to confused young mothers of brain damaged tots.

Everything's Coming Up Crap (or, Where Are We Going and Why Are We In This Handbasket?)

UGHSVILLE -- Hey bitches. So here's the deal. We're all going to die. Yes, you...with your Starbucks decaf Frappa-latte and your fashionably ecclectic iPod playlist. As it turns out, the filthy lunatic standing on a milk crate at the corner is absolutely right; the end of days is upon us. True, those heathens among us can take cold comfort in the fact that, in that brief post-rapture period before the skies start raining fire, the most dreadful of earth's citizens will have been whisked skyward to the virile bosom of The Lord (thereby making life on earth temporarily, though significantly, pleasanter). Why, we hear you ask in unison, has this rude rush of nihilism overtaken our otherwise sunny disposition? No, it wasn't the birth of J. Lo's devil babies. But the signs are myriad, as set forth below:

• OUR MILITARY HAS LAUNCHED A UNILATERAL OFFENSIVE AGAINST TULSA: On Thursday, in a blatant signal that we, as a nation, have had it up to here with Oklahoma's tiresome crapola, an F-16 fighter plane bombed a Tulsa apartment complex. Ok, sure, the bomb was a dummy; a smoke bomb used in training. But the underlying message couldn't be clearer. Shut your yap, Oklahoma. Straighten up and fly right or there's more where that came from.
• NEW YORK IS LITERALLY BEING LED BY THE BLIND: Last week, it was revealed that Client 9 spent over $4,000 to drive Ashley Alexandra Dupre (Celine Dion fan, future memoirist, whore) like a Buick for a few laps around the stained Serta mattress in the Mayflower Hotel's room 871. And now, bada-bing, we've got a new governor. Although by all accounts David A. Patterson is a witty, accomplished, and thoroughly capable man, the symbolism is writ in neon, in a font so large Patterson himself could read it.
• CHINA ATTACKS BJORK, TIBET: Whilst enchanting a Shanghai audience with her ear-raping music, waterfowl-clad ice-elf Bjork screamed "TIBET!! TIBET!!" after howling her way through her song "Declare Independence." Her audience dutifully coverered their ears and pretended they hadn't heard, while China itself forever banished the martian pixie from its pollution choked shores. Soon thereafter, the eccentric Scando-nymph's message triggered a pavlovian reaction from the monks of Tibet, who reacted by prancing en masse through Lhasa, overturning tourist buses and hurling rocks at riot police, who through their adept use of cattle prods and machine guns, convinced the marauding baldies to act more polite.
• BUT REALLY, IT'S ALL ABOUT MOI: The underlying reason for this gloomy diatribe is purely selfish. We, the sole contributor of your favorite blog, routinely post during downtime at work. Unfortch, we're likely to have a lot more downtime in the near future, as our employer rhymes with Stare Burns. Oops. That's right, bitches...as Bush treats the press to a charming soft shoe routine, Rome is burning...or rather, sinking. It's nice to know that as the dollar plummets, foreclosures sweep the country like the macarena, and the richest nation on earth gazes into the abyss, our commander in chief has the presence of mind to perform his cowboy rendition of "Tea for Two." Call us crazy, but isn't the captain supposed to go down with the ship? Instead, there's George "My Pet Goat" Bush, playing the cello on Titanic's poop deck. Ugh.

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