Can O' Whup-Ass

SHOCK: Naughty Candy Wrappers Vex Uptight Brits (BONUS: Kung Fu Nun!!)

WEST YORKSHIRE, UK -- When pasty twit Simon Simkins and his long-suffering wife minced into a candy shop to purchase sweets for their unfortunate snaggle-toothed children, he was shocked when he saw the wrappers of Haribo Maoams. One is a disturbing depiction of a lascivious lime having its way with a lemon of easy virtue, while another portrays the same citrus cad gang-banging the cherry twins. Simon Simkins told The Sun that whilst he complained to the shopkeeper, his excitable wife "became quite distressed and had to sit down in the car park."

Monstrous, isn't it? Isn't the world unpleasant enough without candy companies forcing sensitive women to sit down in car parks upon exposure to copulating produce? We believe the Simkins have suffered quite enough, thank you. So we've decided to offer a few words of comfort:

Dearest Mr. and Mrs. Simon Simkins:

It is our sincerest wish that you've recovered from the trauma of being exposed to rude citruses having it off. One suspects your delicate sensibilities remain haunted by the distasteful and confusing questions that linger. First and foremost, what kind of depraved lime would engage in carnal activities with a lemon (who's obviously a godless tart), and then cheat on said lemon whilst contributing to the delinquency of two cherries? Certainly not the sort of lime we'd want our children to suck on.

Furthermore, had you known fruit was capable of such Leviticus-defying debauchery, it's highly unlikely you'd have ordered the Waldorf Salad at yesterday's luncheon. Heavens, we thought that was mayonnaise! 

May Jesus give you strength in your crusade. Stay vigilant, Mr. and Mrs. Simon Simkins; this must be nipped in the bud, and you seem ideally suited to bud-nipping. One cannot allow pornographic sweets packaging to blossom into a trend. We scarcely think upstanding Christian parents want to wake up one day to discover the M&M boys jamming their peanuts in each other's chocolate. One shudders to think of the filthy juxtapositions those randy Three Musketeers could get into. And the thought of Crackerjack pushing Little Debbie's ankles behind her ears while his dog Bingo has a go at her gooey ring-ding, is frankly too much to bear.

Sincerely,
WAM

***

KEIFING, China -- In precarious economic times, it often becomes necessary to consider a career change. Meet one Zhang Tingting, a lovely woman who has delighted the People's Republic for decades by pulling cars with her hair. A Kung Fu expert, she's made a career out of having her braid hitched up to various motor vehicles and pulling them through China's cities like a nightmare one might have about Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer after eating too much mu-shu pork.

Unfortch, there just isn't as much money to be had anymore from being yoked like a yak to heavy machinery and being mushed through the mainland as if there's a two-for-one dogmeat sale at Costco.

So the enchanting Ms. Zhang has shaved her noggin and entered a nunnery. We consider it an astute career move. Had Maria von Trapp learned Kung Fu so she could pull Studebakers through Salzburg by her hair, by the time she'd developed her irritating habit of clothing rich children in calico draperies and forcing them to gallivant across the alps whilst singing show-tunes, we suspect the Nazis would have thought twice about the whole Austria thing.

Mr. and Mrs. Simon Simkins say: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is as wrong as allowing fruits to marry."

Foxy News Channel: Rappin' Wif Caster Semenya

Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Check it, punks. Foxy be havin whatchoo call issues wif da tax man, so she go to da boogie down Marsha's Bin-yard to chillax. It be a island where da rich peeps go ev'ry Oggist. Even our prezadint Black Bobama be here now. Prez be doin dis and dat, playin putt-putt golf wif the First Ho and the two first bitches (I think they names be Shasta and Malaria or sumpin). They gots secrit serbice dawgs wif shades on and wires comin out they ears. Bobama's putt miss the clown mouth on the fif hole, so his posse pull they heat and pop a cap in da clown. Dat's hard, yo. Yessadee a sistah hit da farmer's market and some uppity old white ho say "excuse me, why you lickin' da frosting from all da cupcakes?" I say "bitch, git out my grill befo I cut yo motherf*ckin frote." She turn all red like crackas do when they fixin' to 'splode. "Who you fink you be?" she say. "I be Foxy Brown, mo-fo. Who you be?" Turn out she Marfa Stewart, da ex-conbick! "Yo Marfa, we bof be ex-conbicks!" So now me and Marfa, we tight. We buy all da cupcakes and fro dat shit at Shasta and Malaria when da Secrit Serbice dudes ain't lookin. Cause dat's how we roll, dawg.

On da self improobmint tip, Foxy finish readin that long-ass book call "Little-ass Crib on da Motherf*ckin Prarie." It be all 'bout some uppity cracka bitch name Half-Pint (Foxy need a half-pint of Colt 45, dats wassup). So Half-Pint and her posse go campin in a field and build a crib. Dat's it! No injuns tomahawkin they noggins, no 'splosions, nuffin. Jus' a bunch of gay-azz crackaz chillaxin and cookin up rabbitz. Foxy don't eat no bunny, foo. A bitch get her cell and call up some Dominos. Feel dat.

In today's espizode of da Foxy News Channel, a ho be spittin' rhymez wif a bitch called...dayum, yo. Foxy forgit a bitch's name! It be Affickan, like Oogabooga Jalalala or sumpin. She be whatchoo call a affa-leet from Afficka kickin' da cracka bitches azz. So now da Inna-national Associa-whatzit of Affa-leets tryin' to find out if she a sistah or a brovah. Respeck.

FOXY BROWN: Somebody gimme a HO-oh! This be Foxy B, and I'm reppazintin in da boogie down Afficka wif a affa-leet named Oogabooga Jalalala. Whoop!
CASTER SEMENYA: Miss Foxiness, my name is not Oogabooga.
FB: What yo name be then, foo?
CS: Caster Semenya.
FB: Cast yo semenz at what?
CS: Huh?
FB: You some kinda affa-leet bitch?
CS: That's right Miss Foxiness. I am being a runner. I breakin records.
FB: How come you Affickan bitches so fast? Is you bein chased by hyenas? When Sally Strubbers fly by and drop a sack of wheat in your hood, do you gots to get there first if you wants supper?
CS: I am a serious runner, I train every day.
FB: Bitch, don't get sassy. Foxy tryin' to lay some queshinz on yo azz.
CS: Then Miss Foxiness is laying that shiz-nit on a person of ambiguous gender.
FB: Dayum girl, yo voice sound like Barry White. You all pumped up like fiddy. You gots titties and a five o'clock shadow. Is you packin' a pony or a hoobajoo in yo draws?
CS: I am a female, Miss Foxiness. And when the test come back in two monfs I will be proving dat shiz-nit. 
FB: How come dat take two f*ckin monfs? Why can't those foos just yank down yo draws and look at yo hoobajoo?
CS: Because I gots whatchoo call testosterone in my body.
FB: Ooo, chile! Foxy gets da testawhatzit in her fine bod-ay ev'ry time da Dominos boy deliver his pepperoni up a lady's poo hole! Dat fine boy can cast his semez at Foxy any time, yo.
CS: They fink I might be a hermaphrodite.
FB: Foo, Lil' Kim gots her afro dyed too and now she look like a cheap-azz ho.
CS: True dat.
FB: Don't it also be true dat yo coach used to injeck German affa-leet bitches wif so much juice they all turn into a bunch of horses?
CS: Those cracka judges tryin to take my trophy away, dat's wassup. 
FB: You gots to tell those mo-fos to suck yo dick, girl. Respeck.

Foxy sez: "Ya'll gots to suskibe to dis coo blog's feed, mo-fo."

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear K-Fed

Um...Mr. Federline?

Kevin?

Hi! You're looking...um...summer-y. What do you say we haul our carcasses to the nearest Taco Bell? You can order a couple dozen gorditas whilst we lounge over a super-sized vodka-spiked Sprite. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it bro? We KNOW!

So it's like this. We've never hated on you. Sure, you are famous only for the dippy broad you banged. You embarked on a meteoric rap career wherein your freshman effort went pewter. But after the divorce, when your ex was busily shaving her head, flashing her hair pie and dropping the issue of your loins on their soft lil' noggins, you became the responsible one. And although we know we're entirely alone in this (and we're likely to lose our readers' respect with this shameful admission), we always secretly thought you were something of a hottie, in a trailer-trash-crystal-meth-guest-star-on-COPS kinda way.

As your baby momma disappoints thousands with her spectacular lip-sync-to-gawdawful-music-whilst-dressed-like-a-pole-dancing-circus-whore tour, you're being paid $30,000 a month to babysit your own children. That's a truly excellent gig, and it leads us to believe that you're no dimwit; you know exactly which side your bread is buttered on. Which brings us to our point: You could stand to cut back a tad on both the bread and the butter. 

It's like this: just because you're pulling in 30 g's this month doesn't necessitate investing it all in Ho-hos, Little Debbies and Ringdings.

Dude. You're big as a house.

The thing is, we really don't have a beef against fatties (as long as they purchase two seats if they insist on flying coach). Okay, perhaps we've ridiculed Val Kilmer, Simon Lebon, Oprah Winfrey and thunder-thighs herself, Nikki Hilton. But that's just 'cause we care too much. Honest.

As you waddle hither and yon in that seck's-y Chairman Mao capri pants ensemble you picked up at Tents-4-Tanks Discount Big-n-Tall Emporium, scientists are finding oodles of new ways fatties die of fattiosity. Their hearts fart to a stop. They get the diabetes. They fall through floors. They snap bungee cords and elevator cables. And as we learned from Bugs Bunny, to a Tasmanian Devil they look like yummy hams.

Worse still, a new study undertaken by the University of California has shown that folks with excessive gravitational pull have smaller brains. Their fat bodies are choking their noggins with all the fat.

The results are incontrovertible: fatsos are dumb. This, among other things, explains the Southern Baptists.

So drop the malomars and the yodels, stat. Pick up jogging, K-Fed, you've been K-Fed enough.

Otherwise, as science demonstrates, your new nickname will soon be Special K.

xox
WAM

K-Fed sez: "Science has shown that subscribing to this blog's feed makes you less dumb and stuff"

Let's Talk About Seck's: A Totally True Story

Yours truly was fortunate enough to grow up in a bucolic mountain town. Us kids from the neighborhood used to ride our bikes up and down Gigi Street (we know), a gently sloping dirt road with exactly nine houses on it, each a couple hundred yards apart. Our house was squarely in the middle and had a nice circular driveway so chez WAMster was the hangout. Back then, the bike made the boy, and the WAM-cycle was unbearably groovy. It was a metallic gold three-speed, with a sparkly silver banana seat. We'd pimped it out with rear-view mirrors, a handle bar-mounted AM radio (with a built in push-button horn), and a day-glo orange flag mounted on the back. Sometimes we'd play bike-swap and take each other's rides for a spin.

David Catterson and his older brother Ronnie had matching red banana bikes, Scott Montgomery's was yellow. Paul Phillips had one of those new-fangled 10-speeds (we disapproved of the awkward ram-horn handle bars), and Jimmy Hall's was a red-and-white Pee Wee Herman-esque number. We'd often construct a jump out of cinder blocks and plywood, and double dutch dare each other to perform the most ill-advised airborne stunts (under threat of having one's name entered in the "Chicken Book," an infamous registry of the faint-hearted which existed only in theory). Consequently, everyone had the pleasure of picking gravel from their bloody knees and elbows with alarming frequency (with the sad exception of Paul Phillips, whose name was entered repeatedly in the "Chicken Book").

We were always having a full-throttle blast, us kids, yet we also complained tirelessly of boredom. When ennui descended, the oldest kid (Ronnie Catterson, approaching puberty) reliably steered the conversation towards a subject he knew very little about: S-E-X. We listened attentively, for despite his sketchy expertise, he had far more than the rest of us combined. He talked of "boobs" and "popping boners." He talked about "Creamy." He talked about popping boners when he thought about Creamy's boobs. Jimmy Hall talked about a magazine called "Hustler" which he found in his father's garage, but was too scared to swipe. About this time, young WAM was browsing through Mom and Dad's library of musty boring books and struck gold: "Human Sexuality by Alfred Kinsey." It was illustrated. Holy crap.

We tiptoed from the house with that dusty tome under our shirt. The Gigi Street gang spent an afternoon gasping at the horrors and marvels contained in those yellowed pages. There were numbered drawings of nekkid men and women getting into the most awkward and inconvenient positions.  A few days after carefully returning the book to its place on the shelf we discovered that our parents had relocated it to the locked cabinet. The Gigi gang demanded more naughty diagrams. So we decided, as a group, to publish our own magazine filled with dirty drawings and erotic jokes. We were eight; rest assured both the drawings and the jokes were retarded and nonsensical. And we decided to name our fledgling periodical "Seck's" (a name we still consider flat-out brilliant).

We designed the cover; a charming illustration of a nekkid woman thrusting her titanic breasts skyward. The other kids submitted jokes about hoo-hoos and shame hoses, boobs and buttholes. Ronnie Catterson sketched a loving portrait of himself holding hands with Creamy whilst popping a boner. We thought we were onto something. For about a week, we took turns taking it home and hiding it under our pillows. Unfortch, only one copy of the first issue was ever produced.

One summer afternoon after a lovely peanut butter and jelly washed down with green Kool-Aid, Mother confronted us. She had found our premier issue of Seck's, and wasn't happy about it. A few days later, a book from the Evergreen Public Library appeared on our Charlie Brown bedspread. It was filled with horrifying illustrations and explanations. That goes THERE? Ew!! We were appalled, and not a little skeptical. Chapter One's opening line was particularly unpromising: "When a man and a woman love each other..."

Although it was years before WAM would bloom into a full-fledged homo, both the "woman" and the "love" parts of that first sentence felt entirely superfluous.

And that, dear readers, is how we learned the difference between Seck's and sex. 

WAM sez: "A subscription to this blog's feed is better than Seck's."

Holy Osmond! It's The 2010 Moroni-Riffic Calendar of Latter Day Ass-Sirloin!

Mormons are hilarious!

They bankroll proposition 8 for the purpose of defining marriage between one man and one woman (which presumably means they only allow their bitches out of the wife kennel one at a time). And the grounds surrounding Salt Lake City's LDS Temple has become the go-to place for a dude  who wants to tongue-wrestle with a randy homosexual; the Mormons' recent harassment of a homo couple smooching on their grounds has resulted in an ever-growing "let's embarrass the Mormons by staging a big gay kiss-in" meme. 

Ever since a Catskill hillbilly named Joe Smith dug up golden book that only he could read (a book which depicts Jesus having pow-wows with indians, and tells us God is going to make us eat our own arms), the Latter Day Saints have experienced growing PR issues. In the 1970's, they very nearly overcame said issues by unleashing Donnie and Marie Osmond, whose retarded 70's variety show included lively disco pairs skating routines, slightly icky bro-on-sis flirtations and repeated insistence that they're "a little bit rock and roll" (despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary). Additionally, the Mormon's recent efforts to erect fresh wife kennels in Mexico hasn't gone as smoothly as they'd hoped.

Enter the "Mormon's Exposed" calendar, now proudly enjoying its third year (see our reviews of the first two editions here and here). Yes, those milk-swilling slabs of boner-tastic Latter Day ass-meat are back, proudly exposing their nipples and biceps in an effort to improve their image. True, in the past you might have grabbed a shotgun and hid behind the couch at the sight of these boys mincing up your walkway, Books of Mormon in-hand. But after swooning for twelve short months at the sight of their supple young bodies, you'll invite them inside to discuss Moroni, gladiator films, and that titillating passage of Isaiah 3:17 wherein God "discovers our secret parts."

So without further ado, meat a few of these ass-tastic morsels of polyga-riffic butt-steak!

MEAT CHRIS: Representing the steamy dog days of August, Chris turns the fire in our loins up to "eleven" with his naughty pout and his Mrs. Beasley bowl-cut hairdo. Chris has been enchanting the Amazonian natives of Peru with hilarious stories from the BoM about how God gave injuns dark skin and made them stinky because they didn't believe in Jesus. "After all" he'd quip, "That's why the Incas were stinkas!" Chris spent a good deal of his time in Peru personally ministering to a virile indigenous hunter in the privacy of his leaf hut, and judging from the guttural moans and cries of "Oh God!" that echoed throughout the Andes, Chris and his beloved chief filled each other with the spirit at least twice a night. Stick a fork in this plump specimen of man sausage. Does juice squirt out? Serve him up!
FAVE OSMOND TUNE: "One bad apple"
TURN-ONS:Zac Effron, jock straps, exotic oils
TURN-OFFS: Gluttony, discount bins, vaginas

SLAP SKIN WITH JORDAN:We can all say "thanks" to Jordan for "giving" us a slurp-a-licious November! Jordan's buffed and waxed bod provides perfect camouflage for his mission in Fort Lauderdale, where the muscular menz seem eager to help him "plant his seed" (actual quote). As soon as he stepped off the bus in this superstitious Florida backwater, he quickly found that the beach side men's rooms provided just the sort of privacy for his unique brand of one-on-one ministry, during which time he developed callouses on his knees and lost his gag reflex. Hail! We dub this gladiator "Gluteus Maximus!"  His Speedo banana hammock looks even better on our bedroom floor! 
FAVE OSMOND TUNE: "Go Away Little Girl"
TURN-ONS: Dwayne Johnson, Kathy Griffin, a fabulously baked quiche
TURN-OFFS:Pride, unshaved scroti, vaginas

GIVE A "HEART ON" TO MATTHEW: Will he be your Valentine? You betcha, and you'll be salivating at the altar of Matthew throughout negro history month. The divine miss M spent his mission in Namibia and South Africa, teaching the orphans how to be cute enough for Madonna's growing African Baby Zoo, and forcing the Malaria-stricken populace to learn how to vogue. He recalls many long hours hunting with men from the village, who gave him many valuable tips on how to handle their spears (step one: face Utah and grab your ankles). His time on the dark continent also taught him a deep appreciation for dark meat, and inspired the locals to develop a new tribal motto: "If he talks about Moroni he will ride your chocolate pony." Slather this hunk-tastic boyburger in ketchup and stick him twixt your buns!
FAVE OSMOND TUNE: "Paper Roses"
TURN-ONS:Prada loafers, fresh pasta, Project Runway
TURN-OFFS:Lustful thoughts, uni-brows, vaginas 

Joseph Smith sez: "Moroni told me to subscribe to this blog's feed"

Anne Frank, un film de David Mamet

A long time ago, a homely Jewish girl was hiding in a closet (no, not Barry Diller, silly!). Her name was Anne Frank, and as we all know she became the world's most widely-read diarist. Of course, her story is at once painfully sad and beautifully uplifting. It's been adapted to stage and screen. Those tasteful Spaniards even made it into a musical (we bet the tap number was FAB; "screw the Nazis, Ma! I gotta DANCE!").

So Disney (realizing they were out of fresh ideas after almost green-lighting "Lion King vs. Mary Poppins 2: A Spoonful of Whup-Ass") has decided to gnaw on Miss Frank's carcass anew until cash shoots out of Mickey's ass.

And guess who they've hired to pen and helm this desperate oscar-grab? Why, our favorite potty-mouthed president of the He-Man Woman-Haters Club, Mr. David Mamet. We love that. We LOVE that. So much so, that we had our covert band of sociopathic ninja operatives swipe a copy of the screenplay's first draft, excerpted below.

You're welcome.

FADE IN:

INT. THE ATTIC - DAY

EDITH and OTTO FRANK are arguing. ANNE writes in her diary.

EDITH
F*ck you, numb-nuts. You never take me anywhere.

OTTO
Shut up, c*nt and suck my c*ck.

EDITH
F*ck you.

OTTO
No, f*ck YOU.

ANNE
(pounding on the floor with her fists)
Yo, butt-wipes! We're up here!!

INT. THE ATTIC - NIGHT

ANNE writes in her diary. Over the SOUND of grunting and moaning from the VAN DAANS' bed, we hear ANNE speaking in VOICE OVER.

ANNE (V.O.)
Dear Kitty, I'm going out of my goddamned mind. 
Uncle Fritz keeps making me sit on his lap to play "horsie."
He's such a dick smoking motherf*cking asshole bastard.
I had a dream last night that Peter farted in bed and held my head 
under the covers again, so I bit off his left nut and spit it out the window,
where it landed in a tuba from a passing Nazi parade.  

INT. THE ATTIC - MORNING 

EDITH, OTTO, HERMANN and MARGOT are eating pancakes. ANNE is jumping up and down and throwing heavy books on the floor.

EDITH
Anne, for God's sake, we're trying to eat our f*cking pancakes.

ANNE
F*ck you. And f*ck your f*cking pancakes.

EDITH
F*ck me? No, f*ck YOU!

MARGOT
F*ck both of you, you motherf*cking f*cks!

OTTO throws a pancake across the table like a frisbee, decapitating MARGOT.

HERMANN
What the f*ck?

ANNE
(yelling out the window)
What do you f*cking nazis need, a goddamned engraved f*cking invitation???
(singing at the top of her lungs)
Hava nagila, hava nagila, hava nagila venis'mecha!!!

OTTO throws a sausage at ANNE, knocking her unconscious.

David Mamet sez: "F*ck you if you don't f*cking subscribe to this goddamned blog's motherf*cking feed."

"Gog and Magog," Bush Said to the Frog

Remember how Bush loved talking about Jesus? He talked about Jesus so much he forgot about other stuff (see: drowning negros, Afghanistan, how to speak English). But we were always skeptical. He seemed to bring up J-Naz when he wanted to change the subject or couldn't think of any other polysyllabic word. Every time he bowed his head in prayer for a photo-op, he always appeared to be peeking or thinking about other stuff. It seemed phony. Well...apparently it wasn't.

A Doctor Romer (Old Testament expert) recently told the story about how, in the run-up to Operation Enduring Quagmire, higher ups at the French State Department contacted him to ask about what the heck "Gog and Magog" could mean. It seems Bush had phoned then President of France Jacques Chirac and said:

"Gog and Magog are at work in the Middle East. The biblical prophecies are being fulfilled. This confrontation is willed by God, who wants to use this conflict to erase his people's enemies before a New Age begins."

Holy friggin' crap. What the heck is a Gog and Magog? Well, in Ezekiel Chapter 38 Jehoshaphat says that Gog is the prince of Magog, and He wants to stage a cosmic cockfight between Gog and Israel. This, on top of that truly creepy revelation by GQ magazine that Rummie used to deliver his intelligence updates to Bush with covers emblazoned with pictures of tanks tearing up swaths of desert with scary Bible-y captions like this one (from a fluffy piece of beach lit called Ephesians):

"Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand."

These men ran our country. Jesus H. Deep-fried Christ.

But to us, "Gog and Magog" rather sound like impish twins in a Doctor Seuss story. With that in mind we've commissioned torture enthusiast and Seuss-esque children's author John C. Yoo to pen a little story about Gog and Magog. No need to thank us.

"GOG AND MAGOG" HE SAID TO THE FROG

Once in the magical kingdom of France
Where they eat smelly cheese and they don't wash their pants
At the way-past-his bedtime of zero o'clock
A phone call awoke Monsieur Froggy Chirac
His jammies all twisted, his head a bit foggy
"Bonsoir" croaked the Froggy, still feeling quite groggy
"Bomb what?" said the cowboy named Dubya McTard
(Who tried to learn Frog talk but found it too hard)
"I don't got much time here, so listen up Jackie
I'm calling about whuppin' ass in Iraqie"
"Oui" croaked Frog Jacques (who'd heard of Iraq)
"We what?" Dubya asked "Enough pillow talk!
Sadam is besties with Gog and Magog!
How 'bout them apples, old Jockie McFrog?"
"You're cuckoo for coco-puffs, Cowboy McTard"
(The "Gog and Magog" thing had caught him off-guard)
"Why do you Froggy types hate baby Jesus?
And blaspheme while swallowing stinky-ass cheeses?
Gog and Magoggy will get you, old Froggy
They'll bend your ass over and tag team you doggy
Make you sit on a tack and make fun of your mammy
So come to Iraq, Jack...and let's get sadammy
Cause Jesus wants France to be one of the willing
To pitch in and help with the torture and killing"
When cowboy hung up, Chirac sat on his bed
He sat and he sat as scratched his frog head
Before he lay down, feeling both awed and shocked
He added the White House to numbers marked "blocked"


Jesus sez: "If you don't subscribe to this blog's feed, I'll get all gog and magog on your ass."

Beware of the Acid-Spitting, Lightning-Farting Mongolian Death Worm!

ULAN BATOR -- Mongolia sucks ass. It's a miserable place, even worse than Tuscaloosa. There's nothing much to do there, other than sit around in your yurt waiting for the five minutes of summer when your balls become unfrozen from the permafrost of the steppes. Then you ride your yak into the dazzling metropolis of Chuluunkhoroot and spend your hard earned Togrogs on a steaming plate of Khorkhog, which you wash down with fermented horse milk.

And as if Yahweh hadn't cursed this wretched land enough, here comes the dreaded "Allghoi Khorkhoi." Worse even than the widely feared "Popo Bawa" (the Tanzanian ass-raping bat demon), the Allghoi Khorkhoi is a killer acid-spitting worm that shoots lightning out of its poo-hole (and no, silly...it isn't Glenn Beck!). It's been frollicking about terrorizing the miserable denizens of the Gobi Desert for the longest time.

So now a retarded cryptozoologist (those are the folks who believe in Sasquatch and Nessie, Thin Baptists, Heterosexual Evangelists, Unicorns and Alabamans with Teeth, among other fanciful creatures of folklore) is venturing into the Gobi in the hopes of encountering this thing. He's a New Zealander by the name of David Farrier and he's trekking about with a payload of dynamite (because the charming critter is attracted to tremors).

There are several important points to be made here:

1. If your town is infested by acid-spitting, lightning farting mega-worms, that's a pretty good indication to move. We hear South Dakota's lovely this time of year.
2. If the creationists are right, and Yahweh created this enchanting creature, He must have been taking the LSD and listening to Quiet Riot. Or maybe He was crabby after everyone laughed at the aardvark and the platypus.
3. Why exactly would a person use explosives to elicit a flash mob of Allghoi Khorkhois? It sounds exceedingly unpleasant. We can't imagine enjoying ourselves at a convention of acid-barfing, lightning pooping worms.
   
   Which is why we're not a Log Cabin Republican.

4 out of 5 Mongolians say: "we'd rather subscribe to this blog's feed than encounter the acid spitting lightning farting death worm"

Squeaky Fromme's "To-Do" List

One brisk autumn day in 1975, Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme woke up, put on her Little Red Riding Hood costume, grabbed a handgun, and decided to go have a chit-chat with President Ford about the plight of the redwoods. It didn't work out too good.

As soon as Squeaky openly demonstrated her Second Amendment rights to the President, she was wrestled to the pavement. At her trial, when the prosecuter dared characterize the petite flower as "violent," Fromme hurled an apple at his face and broke his glasses. Squeaky quickly found herself serving a life sentence. The following 34 years were relatively uneventful, except for that time she conked a cellmate on the noggin with a hammer and that other time she escaped prison for two days when she heard her boyfriend Charlie Manson had a case of ball rot.

Next week, Granny Squeaktress (now age 61) will be released on parole. And faced with the prospect of dancing in the full sunlight of freedom, the totally emotionally balanced woman (who embroiders swastika vests, writes letters to trees and calls herself "Red") has stuff she wants to do. And our subterranean cabal of ninja spies has gotten its hands on her post-release "to-do" list.

You're welcome.

1. Go shopping at WalMart for Depends, Dentucreme, Smith & Wesson double-action semi-automatic.
2. Marry a redwood. Get impregnated with sapling.
3. Score some chronic doobage from Betty Ford.
4. Return long overdue books to library: "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret," "If I Ran the Circus by Doctor Seuss," "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and "Once is Not  Enough"
5. Go to offices of Huffington Post. Drop acid with the staff for old time's sake. 
6. Join AARP.
7. Organize a reunion tour of The Westchester Lariats.
8. Take Metamucil. Shave head. 
9. Phone Sondheim.
10. Hook up with Sandra. Carve crosses into foreheads. Play mah-jong. Laugh.
11. Contact Phil Spector. Convince him to reconsider producing a cover of me and Charlie singing "Da-doo-ron-ron"
12. Go on Springer. Call out that copycat bitch Sarah Jane Moore. Bust some Kung Fu moves.
13. Write poem about trees.
14. Go to IHOP, write "Helter Skelter" on pancakes with syrup.  
15. Embroider a shawl depicting Charlie fornicating with an elk.
16. Find pregnant starlet. Get stabby.
17. Watch syndicated re-runs of "Matlock."
18. Become Yoko Ono's BFF.
19. Subscribe to the "Can o' Whup-Ass" feed. 

A Gal Named Stu

Sometimes, as in the case of LA Times sports writer Mike Penner, a dude decides to send back his plate of bratwurst in exchange for the clam dish. Or in the case of Chastity Chaz Bono, a gal realizes she's not in the mood for meat pie, and opts instead for the kielbasa. In either case, it requires a brass set of cojones to willingly have one's shame hose hacked off and replaced with a batcave (or vice versa). It's not like having one's cavity filled. This is not an out-patient procedure. As we've mentioned previously, unless you're Mr. Potato-head, genitalia are not easily interchangeable.

And of course, transgendered folks make the Jesus crowd all nervous. Any man in a dress (who isn't Milton Berle or Flip Wilson) makes them all fidgety. The sight of Ru Paul makes them want to vacuum their Volvos. If a man isn't the pope, he simply cannot flounce about in a gown. And of course, there's a blossoming fear that under Obama's health plan everyone will be forced to have sex changes. It's ironic that the uberconservative Iranian theocracy will execute a dude for fagnicity, but accepts gender identity displacement as a valid medical condition; if you chop it off and wear a hijab, they won't give you a rope necktie. But that's neither here nor there. Let's get into the meat of things, shall we?

Meet Stu Rasmussen. Girlfriend has recently undergone sexual reassignment AND been elected mayor of Silverton Oregon (we admire multi-taskers). Since being freshly equipped with a set of boobalicious ta-tas and corresponding oopsie hole, Lady Stu has been displaying the merchandise; she showed up for a speaking engagement at a children's charity clad in a mini skirt over a backless one-piece bathing suit and open-toed "f*ck me" pumps. This prompted yelly vibrator hobbyist Bill O'Reilly to yell about how trannies are harming the kiddies. But f*ck O'Reilly. He's retarded and yelly.

We'd like to address Ms. Stu:

Dear Mayor Rasmussen,

First, get a load of you. How many years have you longed to shake your maracas and mince about like Mitzy Gaynor? It must be terribly liberating. So you go, girl.

What's more, we believe our country needs more transgendered mayors. For instance, if Lady Bunny was Mayor of New York, everything would instantly be much more entertaining (we imagine Bunny at a press conference spontaneously lip-syncing "Come on-a My House"). But more to the point, city hall would be whipped into shape faster than you can say "sashay shantay." One does not irk a queen and live to see tomorrow. The only thing scarier than an angry transsexual is a premenstrual minotaur.

But we have some issues. First, you've endured the discomfort of having your pants worm refashioned into a hoo-hoo. You've had more estrogen jabs than all of the Golden Girls put together. Why then are you still named Stu? To our mind, you look like a Babette or a Prudence. That settles it; hereinafter you shall be Babette.

See, Babs, it's like this. We really have no qualm with an ex dude tarting himself up like Lady GaGa and slinking into a Children's Charity fund raiser. Kids will accept you; they've been acquainted with gender illusionists since Tinky Winky pranced onto the scene like Lola Falana at a Key West gay bar, since Lady Elaine vamped about on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. And it's not that we object to the fact that you're uglier than a pole cat on a mud fence. Just because you couldn't win the Miss Landmine Pageant even if the judges were blind doesn't mean you're incapable of holding office. Heck, Golda Meir looked as if she'd been hit in the face with a shovel more than once and that broad was serious.

No, our main beef is taste, or your tragic lack thereof. If Mayor Bloomberg marched in the Saint Patty's parade clad in fuscia spandex biker shorts and pasties, it would be inappropriate (though certainly amusing). Likewise, if Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa attended a ribbon-cutting ceremony dressed as Charo, eyebrows would raise. Babette, a bitch cannot expect to dress up like disco gidget at public appearances AND retain the dignity of elected office. You are hereby sentenced to open a charge account at Dress Barn. Pick out a lovely pants suit or three. Some tasteful separates. Invest in some closed-toe flats, stat! (and, not for nuthin, maybe some moisturizer)

Save the hoochie-mama get-up for latin night at karaoke. Capice?

xox
WAM

Stu Rasmussen sez: "I like to dress up like a whore and subscribe to this blog's feed."