Can O' Whup-Ass

Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney's Do-it-yo-damn-self Homo-be-Gone Exorcism Tipz!

Jeebus Chrise love yo ass, chile. Hush up, now.

Y'all saw the videe-oh of dat boy who come to my church "Manifested M*therf*ckin Glory Ministries" for whatchoo call a hummaseckshul exorcism. Y'all watch dat sh*t when I, Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney (ex crack addick, high priestess of da voo-doo hooba-joo) say "Ooo! I finks dat boy gots da debbul in his belly!" Then a fat-azz bruvah hump him from behine til da batty-boy barf out da deminz into da Hefty bag! Hooba-joo!

But since den, y'all been all up in a pastorz grill, sayin dis-and-dat 'bout how da hooba-joo all whack. Den y'all saw me on dat CNN nooz show when I say "Don't go messin wif a sistah's hooba-joo, chile! I puts da voodoo mojo on yo noggin!"

So let me axe you sumpin. Did you shake yo nazz-tay bootie in a parade yessadee? Was you wearin nuffin but pasties an' a buttplug? Did yo stank azz git possessed by da deminz of homo pride? Well set yo azz down. I, Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney be fixin to skool yo azz on step-by-step instuckshinz on how to fro yo gay hummaseckshul deminz out on they azz!

• Firs: Y'all gots to remember dat "deminz" standz for "de menz." So if you git jiggy wif de menz, it mean y'alls gots a deminz in yo bod-ay. Dats how y'all knows you gots to do a ecksa-shizzims. 
• Seckind: Y'all gots to rattle some chicken bonez in a soup can (it don't mattah what kinda soup, foo...just make sho you wash da split pea and pork outa dat sh*t firs). Rattle dem bones an fro dem on de flo. Hooba-joo!
• Fird: Lay yo skinny azz down on de flo, punk.
• Fif: Axe yoself if you wants to A) BE Beyonce, or B) bounce Beyonce's boot-ay froo da ceilin. If you answer "A" den you gotz to holla: "Oh lawd! I gots da deminz in my belly! Get yo azz out my belly, mistah deminz!" Hooba-joo!
• Sixf: Y'all gots to sang dis song (to da tune of "Lord Won't You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz")
  (Firs Verse)
  OH, LAWD HELP ME STOP GITTIN JIGGY WIF MENZ
  WHO POKIN THEY BIZZNISS IN BOFE OF MY ENDZ
  DA VOGUERS AND POGUERS THOSE PUNKS AIN'T MY FRIENDZ
  I WANTS TO FRO STONEZ, SO GIT RID OF THESE SINZ
  (Seckind Verse)
  REMOVE, LAWD THE TURNSTYLE I BUILT ON MY BUTT
  MY POO HOLE'S A NEW HOLE, THE ENTRY'S NAILED SHUT
  IT DON'T TAKE DELIVERIES OF MANLY MENZ NUT
  CHRIST IS DA ONLY MAN 'LOWED IN MY GUT 
• Sebbinf: Y'all gots to jerk 'round on da flo like yo azz is starring in "Breakin 2: Da Electric Boogaloo." Hooba-joo!
• Eightf: Y'all gots to stop sayin' "fierce," "beeyotch," "faboo," "clinique," "liza," and "shantay." Yo new words are "Jeebus," "Chrise," "buh-dunk-a-dunk," "yo," "word," "poontang," and "hooba-joo."  
• Ninf: Y'all gots to imagine yoself in da bosom of da lawd Jeebus Chrise, feelin his fine-azz arms 'round yo azz, yo head restin on Hiz toned chest, smellin' the sweet masculine musk froo hiz robe. Ooo! It get hot in here all sudden-like!
• Tenf: Y'all gots to get a fat negro sistah like me sit on yo azz til you barf out da deminz into a Hefty bag. Hooba-joo!

Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney sez: "Oh lawd, please help me resist the temptation to pick up the crack pipe again and subscribe to dis blog's feed." 

OMG! MICHAEL JACKSON!! (and other stories)

As the King of Pop was transported to Roswell for his autopsy, the world has gone briefly bonkers. Flash mob mourners, Texans conducting sing-a-longs of "Blame it on the Boogie" at the Alamo, Al Sharpton moonwalking in front of The Apollo, and pederasts everywhere are flying their pants at half-mast. (sound of crickets chirping) Too soon?

Ahem. Even on Capitol Hill, congress found the time between bickering and being rusty-tromboned by lobbyists to have a moment of silence for the dude. Where was Farrah's moment of silence? She was an icon too and managed to do it without being the least bit molest-y.

We digress. In the last 24 hours, as humanity witnessed itself pantomiming "The Day the Earth Stood Still" in reverse (about a spaceman leaving our planet), and while boomboxes blaring "Thriller" drown out/outnumber the voices of dwindling Iranian protests, some...um...other stuff was going down.

NORTH KOREA staged one of their cute hootenannies during which they poutily declared that America is "asking for the calamitous situation of having a fire shower of nuclear retaliation" rain down upon us (goodness, that'll teach us to ask for calamitous situations!). Then they all goose-stepped to a lovely labrador barbecue.

THOSE HILARIOUS SOMALIANS held a lil' hoe-down of their own, during which Islamists dragged four young men (each declared guilty of robbery, each screaming their innocence) into the public square, whereupon the godly types macheted a hand and a foot from each before a rabid crowd of amputation fetishists. The fresh amputees now look forward to being fitted with their peg-legs and hook-hands as they prepare for their new careers in the pirate industry. 

IN DAZZLING DOWNTOWN SADDER-CITY a thoughtful Sunni delivered a lovely Congrats-For-No-Longer-Being-Occupied-by-American-Forces Gift: a shrapnel-riffic bouquet of explosives that took the lives of 70 less-than-grateful Shiites.

THE LOVELY MS. AYATOLLAH AHMAD KAHTAMI pushed to reward arrested Iranian protesters with neckties made of rope; not to be outdone, swarthy matinee idol Mahmoud Ahmedinejad chastised Obama for being a buttinsky, thereby positioning himself as a Democrat (seeing as how Republicans have chastised Barack for not being sufficiently buttinksy-esque). 

RWANDANS, apparently wistful for genocide past, are skipping down memory lane by getting themselves slaughtered anew in the jungles of the Democratic Republic of Congo. 

THE CHARMING FOLKS OF KENYA held a good old-fashioned witch burning, during which a reporter for the BBC witnessed five elderly folks being tossed on a fire and burned alive for rudely causing a little boy (a diagnosed epileptic) to have a fit.

W00T!! I DID IT AGAIN: A GAMER SITTING IN A CAVE AT NORAD got all upset and stuff when the words "GAME OVER" flashed on his screen after the drone he was controlling accidentally missed his target 8,500 miles away in South Waziristan, and instead got a little killy with 65 folks who had the bad taste to attend a funeral.

But really, who cares about that stuff?

Sing along now: "It's true we'll make a better world, just you and me..."

xox
WAM

Tito sez: "Michael would have wanted his fans to subscribe to this blog's feed."

Dear Farrah

In the fifth grade, we went with friends to our one-horse town's lone movie house to see something called Logan's Run. When you appeared on screen our best friend Danny Tatterson whispered "dude, that's the Wella Balsam chick!" 

We came away from that flick thinking it was actually a good idea to make people to fly around a carousel and explode on their thirtieth birthday (which seemed a century away), not to mention that coolio gadget that enabled the citizens of bubble-town to browse homo or hetero hump mates from the comfort of home; "wow" we thought, "I hope they invent that when I grow up." But walking home from The Evergreen Bijou, all Danny Tatterson could talk about was "Creamy" (his retarded nickname for you).

Then came Charlie's Angels. That poster. That mega-watt smile, warm and bright as the first sunny day of summer. Holy crap. Suddenly everyone wanted to have you or be you, and we'll leave it to Jesus to figure out which camp we were in. You were single-handedly responsible for making everyone we know (including yours truly), compulsively feather their hair; an unfortunate plague that afflicted Bonnie Franklin, The Bee Gees, and everyone in between (and reaching its tragic apex with Blair in The Facts of Life). You dazzled. If we hated you for anything, it was because you'd taken The Six Million Dollar Man off the market.

So what if you were capable of chronic ditziosity? Aren't we all? You also handed Bill Cosby's ass to him on a platter in a wicked tennis match on Battle of the Network Stars (remember THAT?). And you proved that beneath your seriously pretty face and rockin' bod you had real chops. The Burning Bed is what everyone will talk about. But Extremities was a better performance; harrowing, intense and empowering. Beyond that, anyone who saw you in The Apostle wondered silently to themselves "Damn, she's good. Why doesn't she work more?"

And today. Today, the Pilsburry Doughboy that used to be Ryan O'Neal is reprising the final scene of Love Story, that movie in which his gorgeous girlfriend dies of cancer, long before her time. Why can't the Ayatollah die of ass rot? Kim Jong Il? Robert Mugabe? Bernie Madoff? Where Do I Begin?

And today, on the first sunny day to bless NYC this summer, Jill Munroe is gone. And suddenly, sadly, middle-aged folks like me (for whom age thirty, once again, seems a century away) look back on the time when you exploded onto the national scene as suddenly as the hormones in our adolescent bodies. And today, we feel a lot older. And sadder.

RIP and so long, Creamy. You were a beauty.

xox
WAM

Charlie sez: "Angels, your mission is to subscribe to this blog's feed." 

The History of the World, in 140 Characters

Twitter, that ubiquitous stupid-pill that reduces discourse to half-sentences and has somehow convinced over a million users that Ashton Kutcher is interesting, has emerged as an unlikely weapon in recent days. The efforts of Iran's Mullahs to jam communications and expel reporters (when their hands aren't tied with the complicated business of gunning down its citizens and then taxing the victims' families for the bullets), have been impotent. Armies of citizen journalists have twitted events with admirable tenacity and frightening efficiency. If CNN emerged as the star of Desert Storm, Twitter has totally pwn'd mainstream media this go-around. Indeed, Twitter is dangerous.

For while one must admire its ability to provide multiplied P.O.V.'s on a given event (Rashomon times one million), one must also be terrified of any technology that enables Britney Spears to share her every thought with you. But more to the point, massive tomes have been written about historical events; eloquent theories of cause and effect, meticulous and scholarly reconstructions of the "whens" "whats" "whos" and "whys." One can't help but wonder how tomorrow's history will render the present. Furthermore, one wonders how human history would look today had Twitter been available since the beginning.  

THE BURNING OF ROME
NERO: "OMG, u guys! I just learned how to play 'Smoke on the Water' on my violin!"

THE RISE AND FALL OF THE THIRD REICH
EVA BRAUN: "AH is being a total A-H. So I put some cyanide in his Tic-tacs!! LOL!

THE SINKING OF THE TITANIC
MOLLY BROWN: "Who's a girl gotta f*ck to get some ice in her drink? Oops, Nevermind." 

THE ASSASSINATION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
MARY TODD: "This play bites. Bo-ring! I just wish something would happen. Um, BRB."

THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA
MARK ANTHONY: "Dude, she totally misheard me. I told her she could kiss my ASS, with an 'S'!"

THE DONNER PARTY TRAGEDY
MRS. DONNER: "It's cold here and stuff but I got the coolest recipe for foot meat burritos!"

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
MARIE ANTOINETTE: "Off to get hairdo did. Just having them take a little off the top. TTYL!"

THE TRIAL OF LIZZIE BORDEN
LIZZIE: "Can't go to mall tonight, there's somethin I gots to axe my parents."

Please dear ass-whuppers, submit your own historical tweets!

Ayatollah Khamenei sez: "I would rather eat a pork chop on Ramadan than subscribe to this blog's feed!"

A Letter to Lydia Guevara

Heya Lyds, what's cookin?

We were stunned when we saw this picture, the product of a photo shoot for PETA. Wearing Grandpappy Che's jaunty (leather trimmed) beret, your bodacious lady apples obscured by carrot-laden bandoliers, you invite us to "join the vegetarian revolution."

Okay, we have some stuff to say about that.

First, we have no problem with your leveraging gramps' image. It's far less offensive than the ubiquitous Che tees favored by trust-funded NYU sophomores. Furthermore, we find it apropos that you'd parlay Che's legacy into the retarded PETA agenda.  Che ("The Butcher of La Cabaña") Guevara's revolution was, presumably, for the benefit of the people; unless "the people" in question were the least bit disagreeable or happened to be a tad marricon-y (homo), in which case they were taken 'round back and firing squad-ed. PETA, after all, makes a big stink out of Obama swatting a fly, yet routinely gases pit bulls and other inconvenient critters. 

What stands out in this picture is the vegetarian-esque lethargy with which you've thrust your brittle fist half-assedly skyward, your snotty almost-a-smirk and your debutante slouch. Bitch, you couldn't overthrow a salad bar, and the kick from a glue gun would knock you on your bony culo.

Don't get us wrong, we're not hating on "la revolución;" fact is (despite what Congress might have us believe) the majority of Cubans (who actually live in Cuba) whole-heartedly support their regime. But we hate to break it to you; "la revolución" was in large part about eradicating hunger, and most Cubans would happily shove you into the mud for a nice juicy sirloin. And if gramps tried to overthrow Batista on a diet of celery and alfalfa sprouts, Miss America would be cutting the ribbon at the grand opening of the Havana Caesar's Palace.

So do us a favor, dove. Stop wearing fresh produce. Give your cross-my-heart carrot brassier a quick rinse and take it to a food bank. Because although the revolution will not be televised, likewise it will not be tossed into garden salad with a lovely vinaigrette.

xox
WAM

Lydia sez: "viva la suscripción de este blog!"

PETA's Memo to Barack "The Butcher" Obama re: His Rude Murder of a Housefly

FROM THE DESK OF INGRID NEWKIRK
President of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals

Dear President Obama:

Yesterday, whilst enjoying a lovely plate of tofu paste and lounging on my faux leatherette divan, I watched with abject horror as you brutally executed a cute fluffy defenseless housefly in the midst of an interview. So upset was I by the graphic carnage unfolding before me, I promptly regurgitated my tofu into a nearby biodegradable compost receptacle.

I needn't remind you, of course, that God made all creatures, not just happy cute puppy dogs. He also made the scaley, venomous, squat, vile, plague-ridden, malodorous, cranky, rabid, foul-tempered and poorly behaved creatures that slither, bite, sting, hiss, and gnaw on babies. If Bo romped up to you in the middle of a sit-down with Wolf Blitzer, would you grab a bat and pound his skull into the carpeting until his brains were dripping down the wallpaper? I think not. 

Did you give a single moment's thought that the regal specimen of musca domestica whom you squashed in the prime of its 15-day life cycle might have little maggots at home that depend on him? What are they to do now? Feed on poop and rat carcasses on their own? I'll be right back, I have to go cry.

I'm back. Next time you find yourself in the company of Mr. Fly, please remember that although it might carry Typhoid, Salmonella, Diptheria, Dysentary, E. Coli or Hepatitis, it has feelings too. It dreams of doing the same things you do; to laugh and sing and spawn in a trash can, and puke acidic saliva on their food before they suck it into their abdomen.

Enclosed, please find a humane fly catcher. In the future, please reason with the fly and coax it into the little box, which is fully furnished with a teeny tiny fly spa and macrobiotic salad bar. Then bring it out to the Rose Garden and set it free. Watch as the noble creature hovers majestically over to one of Bo's fecal deposits for a lovely meal. I guarantee you'll have better karma.

Don't you feel better now? I know I do.

Sincerely,
Ingrid Newkirk

Ingrid sez: "not a single fly was harmed in subscribing to this blog's feed."

Sarah Palin Sort of Accepts Your Apology!

***FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE***

First, a big ol' "how the heck are ya" from Wasilla! As you know, that dirty old man on the teevee, Mr. David Letterman, thinks it's funny to joke about ass-raping my babies. Sure, he said he's sorry and stuff. But this morning when I was letting the retarded one out of its cage, I realized I hadn't been on CNN for a whole day. That's when Jesus told me I should send a press release to major news outlets nationwide, all about how as a Christian I totally sort of forgive him and stuff. So here goes nothin!

Dear Mr. Letterman: I forgive you for suggesting that one of my daughters took a pitch high and inside from a negro athlete. Even though you were talking about Bristol (who's had experience with A-Rod or two of her own), it was Willow, my fourteen year old, whom I've chosen to publicly embarrass by embarking on my "David Letterman Wants to Rape My Babies" lecture tour and press junket. Now everyone in The United States of the USA has seen me expressing outrage at those who find my little weeping Willow sexually attractive. Think of how humiliated she must feel! Next time, I advise you to find out which child I'm dragging to my many publicity events, be it Bristol, Willow, Twig, Branch, Stump, Moose-butt or the dim-wit. But as a Christian, I do what Jesus wants me to do. If that means I have to forgive you on prime time, over and over and over again, is that what I'll do? You betcha.

Say, that was fun! I wonder if there's anyone else I can publicly forgive? Hmmm.

Dear Tennessee: In case you don't know, the GOP's looking more like Terry Schiavo every day. So why are you yanking at the plug? First, that Chip Saltzman guy pushed the wrong button and sent that funny "Barack the Magic Negro" song to half of the homosexual press. Now Sharri Goforth, Senator Diane Black's aide, pushed the wrong button and sent out that side-splitting depiction of Black Hussein Fatwa Homosexual Obama as a punchline in a Steppin Fetchit routine (I know a pervert talk show host who could benefit from you guys' hilarious sense of humor!). Heaven knows how many times I've mistaken the buttons on my home security alarm for my microwave. But America needs to be sure we right-wingers know how to push the right buttons. Otherwise they might envision President Palin (2012! Wooo!), making a yummy caribou slurpee in the oval office. And instead of pressing my blender's "puree" button, I accidentally nuke France! That would be a fine howdy-do! But of course I'm a Christian. So not only do I forgive you guys for always pushing the wrong buttons, but I also forgive you for being from Tennessee and stuff.

Who else? Let me think...

Dear Scott Roeder/James von Brunn: When you guys got cranky and decided to use your Second Amendment-protected guns to blow the heads off a fetus killer and a negro employee of the Jew Zoo, you only bolstered President Black Hussein Ass-sex Jihad Obama's rude claim that us right-wingers are a bunch of bitter gun-toting nuts. Honestly! If Bill O'Reilly told you to jump off a bridge would you do that too? If you feel you really must pump a few rounds into a hell-bound carcass, why don't you just join the Army? Good news, they accept mental cases and felons now. Just so long as you're not a Arabic-fluent homo, you're in like Flynn! So I forgive you!

Gosh I feel so much better after all that forgiving! Be sure to tune in tomorrow 'cause I'm sure there's more folks I can forgive!

Sarah sez: "I forgive you for subscribing to this blog's feed."

Auntie Magnolia's House o' Snakes: A Totally True Story

From time to time, growing up, the parents would shove us onto a plane bound for Oklahoma City. Not to panic, Nanna was waiting at the other end (grandparents in our family have a peculiar aversion to being called "grandparents"; Nanna, Meemaw, Pappie, and other bizarre monikers straight out of Lil' Abner are somehow preferable).

Nanna lived in a town called Tuttle, half of which was populated by kin, all of whom were oddly named and resolutely Baptist. The women, invariably, had hairdos dyed in improbable shades, teased to architecturally unstable heights and sprayed into tornado-proof bee-hives. The men wore Roy Clark sideburns and brill-creamed their coifs into oily Conway Twitty pompadours. What a cast of characters.

Cousin Roxie-Lou had the discomfiting habit of shouting "HALLELUJAH!" at inappropriate moments and had a barely-tolerated ability to speak in tongues. Over her plastic-covered sofa, Aunt Ellie Louise had proudly hung an enormous panorama depicting of hundreds of people dying in gruesome ways (car accidents, muggings, train wrecks, fires), as their freshly liberated souls fly up into the waiting bosom of an Elvis-esque Jesus (or a Jesus-esque Elvis, we're not sure which). Cousin Tammy-Sue seemed incapable of saying anything that didn't induce her mother, Aunt Linda-May, to fish a bar of Ivory Soap from her purse and wash out her daughter's mouth. On one occasion, having made a remark about her brother being a butt (not an entirely inaccurate assessment), poor Tammy-Sue (without skipping a beat) actually fetched the soap herself, anticipating the inevitable. Uncle John-Bo once had us take the wheel of his combine so he could take a beer-induced nap. Unable at the age of nine to steer the house-sized vehicle, John-Bo awoke to discover that we'd veered far off course and were well on our way to carving one of those alien-attributed "signs" into his vast wheat field.

But our most fascinating Oklahoma relative lived on the other side of the state, far beyond the Muskogee town limits. We always felt a pang of fear and excitement when Nanna announced we were piling into her emerald green El Dorado and paying a visit to Auntie Magnolia.

Auntie Magnolia's large farmhouse was totally "off the grid," and lacked indoor plumbing. Out back, there was a privy (complete with crescent moon cut-out) and a handle-pump well. She cooked on a wood stove and kept her Cher-length hair in a thick grey braid. Visits to Auntie Magnolia were mostly spent fetching water. This was a terrifying chore, with good reason; Auntie Magnolia's house sat about thirty yards from a bog infested with cottonmouth water moccasins. Understandably, we delayed trips to the privy for as long as physically possible. We were convinced, particularly on one memorable midnight jaunt to the al fresco loo, that we'd sit to answer nature's call and get a potentially fatal bite on the ass (or worse, our tender vittles).

These fears were not unfounded. One morning we awoke to the sound of Auntie Magnolia hacking a cottonmouth to death with a shovel; the unlucky viper had rudely slithered onto the back porch and into the pantry. To her, it was an inconvenience. She was perturbed by the mess. We stared at her, saucer-eyed, and gulped. Before us, mopping up the guts of a deadly snake, was the last remnant of true pioneer stock. She kept a loaded rifle by the door and was not above shooting and skinning a bunny rabbit for dinner. We were in awe of that woman, but secretly believed she could ride a broom.

When time came to take leave of Auntie Magnolia, it was always something of a relief. One afternoon, loading our suitcases into the back of Nanna's El Dorado, Auntie Magnolia looked skyward and said "I reckon you best stay put for a spell." Above our heads, from nowhere, appeared something all plains-state folk recognize with instant dread: a funnel cloud. A half-hour later, huddled in the doorway between the dining room and the parlor, we listened to what sounded like an approaching freight train. As Nanna and Auntie Margaret shouted in reproach, we sprinted from the doorway to the parlor window. We had to see it. And there it was, just beyond the bog, a twister. Churning up all sorts of things (including more than a couple airborne cottonmouths, no doubt).

The storm eventually passed and it was time to disembark. Hugging Auntie Magnolia, we had no way of knowing we'd never see her again. She died well into her nineties while chopping wood.

And no, dear ass-whuppers, the irony isn't lost on us. The only time we saw a real live tornado, we were in the presence of our beloved Auntie M.

xox
WAM

Auntie Magnolia sez: "I reckon you best subscribe to this blog's feed"

CRAP YOU COVET: Dazzling New T-Shirt Designs

We hear you, ass-whuppers. "Why, oh why," you exclaim, "why can't I find a t-shirt about buttplugs?"

Well, you can put a cork in your kvetching. Because we are thrilled to announce the unveiling of five dazzling new designs. Take note, Ms. Wintour. Prick up your ears, Mr. Lagerfeld. Is there an aching void in your soul that can only be filled by an Aunt Betsy mug? Would a set of greeting cards tastefully paying homage boobie-girlies complete you? The answers to those questions are, of course, "yes."

Thank us not. Just whip out your MasterCard and clothe your pets and family. Adorn your fridge with fagnets. Do it.

And to help us roll out our gorgeous summer line of COWA t-shirts (and other Crap You Covet), we have enlisted four regular guest contributors to provide the romance copy.

Clicking on the t-shirts will open a new window which will enable you to enlarge, browse and of course purchase at Cafe Press.

The first two designs (also available in "Jesus Asks What I Would Do")...

Glory! As I wrote in the last edition of God-Beat, my gospel choir The Peducah Praise Singers recently sold out of J.A.W.I.W.D. (Jesus Asks What I Would Do) t-shirts after performing our latest single "My Fanny's an Exit" at the Fayetteville Rapture Daze BBQ and Hootenanny. When the last XXL was sold, we narrowly avoided a riot when a quick-thinking Trudy Plank told a little fib about deep fried Ho-Hos being sold 'round back the Daniel's Den Petting Zoo! Praise be to Jesus, that nice Mr. WAM has stepped in to the fill the demand. It was awfully nice of him to also create a W.W.J.B.D. t-shirt! Because when faced with a moral dilemma, I like to ask what I would do, and I often end up doing just that! I personally purchased 100-packs of J.A.W.I.W.D. and W.W.J.B.D stickers and spent a giddy afternoon pasting them on everything in my house! (my new ferret Baroness Betty Bounce-alot didn't particularly care for the sticker I slapped on her, but she'll get used to it.) And although I disapprove of thongs, as I believe Jesus gets nervous when anything gets near a Christian's buttcrack, I'm sure The Lord has blessed my new W.W.J.B.D. thong! Glory! 
-- Jeannie Bladdersham

The next design...

Well hidee-didee-doodle-all-day! Here I sit, cozily ensconced in my gorgeous (and freshly Scotch-Guarded) House Beautiful divan with Okra-and-Peach Floral Explosion upholstery. I've just finished a yummy plate of microwaved leftover poodle casserole (note to self: send a sympathy card to Lance and Bruce, the sodomites next door whose insufferable pet seems to have wandered off. LOL.) And now, fully sated, I can enjoy the satisfaction of gazing with pride at my trophy case which is stuffed to the gills with all my Tournament Level Yahtzee trophies. When I'm not answering scads of pitiful letters from desperate advice-seekers, I'm either playing Yahtzee, thinking about Yahtzee, or refereeing a Tournament Regulation sudden-death tie-breaking Yahtzee knife fight. It was inevitable, natch, that my regal visage would be immortalized in t-shirt form. "Confessions of a Yahtzee Nazi" indeed! I wonder if that darling dog shirt would fit my kitty cat Mr. Sillypants? If not I can always re-gift it to Lance and Bruce! LOL!
-- Aunt Betsy

Followed by this design...

Herro, and welcome for coming! I so so so am to riking this shirt of tee! It show twelve happy fun China girlie peoples who are to having funny neglo aflo hair stuffs! They are to waking up dragon in my Aquaman Underoos! As Mister Shake-a-spear is to saying: "Some peoples are born naughty-fun boobie-girly, other peoples are to achieve a naughty-fun boobie-girly, and every other peoples are having naughty-fun boobie girly thrust upon their stuffs!" Which one are you to being, yankee boy? If we to give Naughty-Fun Boobie-Girly shirts to poopy sad Tibet peoples, they no to making us do stompy angry sending laughy happy pow-guns to make them do funny jerky bullet dance! Then all stuffs be dory-hunky! WE ARE WANTING TO MAKE BOUNCY SEXY STUFFS WITH NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY! WE ARE TO WEARING NAUGHTY FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY TANK TOP! WE CARRY NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY WATER BOTTLE IN HAPPY GOOD NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY TOTE BAG!! DOKIE-OKIE?
--Hu Jintao

And finally...

When butt-banging sphincter boy WAM asked me to provide my c*nt-fisting critique of his c*ck-smoking m*therf*cking t-shirt design, how could I say "no" to the ass-spelunking jizz-gargler? And I must say I admire this goddamned design. Indeed, finger-popping sh*t suckers, Buttplugs are NOT just for Homos Anymore. What d*ck-slurping expectant mother wouldn't love to be seen at the rectum-poking A&P in her "Buttplugs" maternity tee? And once her stank-ass butt-ramming queef-box shoots her gash-banging sh*t-machine baby from her dong-squatting goddamned bloody-ass thighs, she can clothe her lil' ass-bandit in a "Buttplugs" onesie. This goddamned design is so m*therf*cking chic, it's making me squirt some f*ckin bitch-c*m outa my muff-punching goddamned boner box!
-- Sailor Talkin' Sue

xox
WAM

Anna Wintour sez: "You can take my Boobie-Girly Tote Bag (and my subscription to this blog's feed) when you pry it from my cold colder dead deader hands!"

God-Beat with Jeannie Bladdersham: The Devil is a Homosexual

Glory! Hola, brothers and sisters in Jesus! The Mysterious Ways of the Holy Spirit have plagued chez Bladdersham with all manner of incidents and whoop-de-do! So before we take a running jump into this very special hump-day edition of God Beat, I thought I'd fill you in on all the goings-on in the life of your favorite mezzo-soprano inspirational choir member and ferret hobbyist. Praise!

First, my gospel choir, The Peducah Praise Singers, is getting ready to embark on a tour of Africa! As you know, our first two singles "The Devil is a Homosexual" and "Ride Me Home, Jesus" peaked at 7 and 13, respectively, on the Pentecostal Hit List. Our next song, a disco rap-hop tune called "My Fanny is an Exit (Satan Step Back From My Back Door)" caused such a stir at the Fayetteville Rapture Daze BBQ and Hootenanny that we ran out of XXL "Jesus Asks What I Would Do" t-shirts. In no time, we'd made enough money to tour Sudan, Zimbabwe, Angola, Chad and Somalia! I'm so excited I don't know what to pack! (P.S. I won the cutest scratch n' sniff Moses doll at the Hootenanny's "Mary Magdalene Bean Bag Toss" booth! Hallelujah!)

Regarding all things ferrety, you will recall that Lady Hildegarde Hoparound was decapitated by a leaf blower and her successor Lord Skippy Scamperpants met his gruesome end when he caught on fire and ran under the gas tank of Trudy Plank's Buick Skylark. But I finally put that heartache behind me and got a new ferret!! Her name is Baroness Betty Bounce-alot and she sure is the dickens! She loves sleeping in bed with me and sometimes I wake to find she's wedged herself into the strangest places. But enough silly fiddle-faddle. Let's get to the God stuff! Glory!

• PACK A ROD FOR JESUS: In Louisville (just a hop, skip and jump from Peducah), the nice Pastor Ken Pagano, who's a gun nut (but not in a sissy Freudian way) invited his flock to pack heat for a very special sermon and gun raffle. The subject of the sermon will be "Polish Your Piece For God, Pump a Round Into Satan."
• DEVIL RHINO RAPES A BUICK: What happens when we allow fairy penguins to play house? It inevitably leads to shocking displays of pachyderm-on-automobile hippity-dippity. That's sillier than a man violating the virtue of a bicycle!
• CHRIST-METAL ROCKER WEDS HOOKER FOR JESUS: Oz Fox, the aggressively coiffed front-man of God's favorite Christian hair band (Stryper) got married over the weekend to Annie Lobert, founder of "Hookers for Jesus," which aims put the "oh, God!" back into the sex trade. They enjoyed a tasteful ceremony in Vegas. At last, the sanctity has been restored to traditional marriage! Praise! 
• PAT ROBERTSON DISCOVERS CAUSE OF FAGNICITY: Brother in Christ Pat Robertson, after conducting exhaustive field research, has discovered that the reason homos start listening to Cher and auditioning for Hello Dolly is because they were diddled by their little league coach! So every concerned parent out there whose little boy minces about and imitates Tinky Winky can cure their son by ensuring that he gets molested exclusively by female predators. Glory!
• EXORCISING THE HOMO SPIRIT:Patricia and Kelvin McKinney of Manifested Glory Ministries have posted an enchanting YouTube video of themselves chasing the devil sugar from a flamboyant church member (screenshots at right). While I question the wisdom of that burly negro mounting the possessed fairy from behind and trying to hump the gay out of him, I'm nevertheless reminded of one of Jesus' lesser known beatitudes: "Blessed are the obese fanatical bigots, for they shall de-nelly their flock until they barf into a white hefty bag." Amen!

Pat Robertson sez: "subscribers to this evil blog's feed were obviously molested by their badminton coach."