Can O' Whup-Ass

God Beat With Jeannie Bladdersham: Man-Pants

Glory! Happy end-of-summer, God-Beaters! I don't know about you, but I'm pooped! The Peducah Praise Singers (the all-girl gospel choir with which I sing second mezzo-soprano), just completed a marathon, two-day concert at the spectacular "Healthcare is for Homos" Labor Day Picnic and Bible raffle in the outskirts of gorgeous Tuscaloosa. Everything went smoothly, except for that awkward moment when Fanny-Sue Butz started speaking in tongues during the second encore of our newest single "Jesus Is a Teabagger." Fanny-Sue's eyes rolled back in her head and she started flopping about on the band stand like a catfish as the Holy Spirit supposedly spoke through her. I say "supposedly," because I instantly recognized her gibberish as the theme song to Petticoat Junction in pig latin. I know from experience that Fanny-Sue Butz is an obnoxious attention-whore a lovely woman who enjoys the spotlight. Who can forget when we went to see "The King and I" at the Clap n' Chow Dinner Theatre and they stared singing "Shall We Dance?" We were all slightly taken aback when Fanny-Sue climbed up on stage and tried to cut in. In her defense, she had downed thirteen sloe gin fizzes. On the bright side, the Peducah Praise Singer's single "Christ Loves a Fetus" has shot up to the number eight spot on the Pentecostal Hit List! Praise!

In ferret news, you'll remember that my latest critter Baroness Betty Bounce-a-lot tragically expired in a bathtub electrocution mishap while in the care of my beloved Aunt Betsy (an advice columnist in Headcheese Oklahoma). That makes three of my ferrets to have been sent home to Jesus over the last year (Lady Hildegarde Hoparound was decapitated by a leaf blower and Lord Skippy Scamperpants caught fire and hid under the gas tank of Trudy Plank's Buick Skylark, causing a spectacular explosion). So I decided that The Lord's plans for Jeannie Bladdersham do not include ferret ownership. However, if you recall, Millicent Stump (our choir's coloratura) was conscripted by Somali Pirates during our command performance at Mogadishu's dazzling Allah Akbar Soccer Field and Wife-Stoning Arena. And as it turns out, Millicent's ferret Princess Penelope Prancy-puss needed a new home. She's a joy, but I had to put her in her quiet time cage for shredding my "Fetuses are People Too" throw pillow.

But let's dispense with that flapdoodle and get to the God News! Glory!!

• When godly South Carolina governor Mark Sanford took a wrong turn on the Appalachian Trail and ended up in the arms of a raven haired Argentinian succubus, there were those who believed he was going about honoring the sanctity of his marriage the hard way. This caused tasseled loafer wearing Lieutenant Governor Andre Bauer to call for his resignation. Since then, professional gaydar operator/blogger-for-Satan Mike Rogers has rudely suggested that what Mr. Bauer really wants is to hop astride the governorship like a sweaty stallion so he can turn the governor's mansion into a den of mansex, disco music, and Project Runway parties. So now Mr. Bauer (the most sensitive-looking homo-condemner since Ted Haggard) has launched a whirlwind "Don't Call Me A Pansy Or I'll Scratch Your Eyes Out" publicity tour and press junket to accuse Governor Sanford of masterminding those dastardly fibs. Because as we learned from the Republicans when Clinton was being impeached for mistaking a zaftig Jewess' shame hole for a humidor, Jesus cries when our politicians fib about carnal oopsies. 
• In Sudan, a lovely nation where folks ride camels through villages so they can get stabby and rape-y with folks who rudely insist on breathing, Lubna Hussein was recently sprung from jail after having been arrested and sentenced to 40 lashes for wearing pants. Because in the hell-bound "religion" of Ismuslimism, it's a sin for a gal to sashay hither and yon wearing something that can't be tossed over her head for convenient raping. Of course, gals who get raped also typically get 40 lashes for being in the company of strange men, but that's neither here nor there. If you're a Sudanese female, you must wear a dress. Just like the men.
• Greg and JaLea Swezey, members of the Church of the First Born, are avid practitioners of faith healing. So when their 17-year-old son Zachery fell ill of a tummy ache, they prayed. Then Zachery got worse and they prayed some more. Suddenly, something occurred to Greg and JaLea (who really ought to change her name to something Jesus recognizes as remotely Christian so he doesn't ignore her in the future). Their son was acting all blue and deadish. Zachery actually had a burst appendix. Natch, this has led to Lucifer-worshiping "Doctor" types to condemn faith healers. But as we all learned from Peter Pan, if you don't clap hard enough, Tinkerbell dies.    
• Today, the President of the United States/servant of Beelzebub Barack Hussein Jihad Taliban Ass-sex Stalin Obama made our teachers dismiss their students from their studies so he could tell them not to let anything distract them from their studies. Of course, most godly parents excused their lil' angels from attending, as the text of his speech clearly contains subliminal indoctrinations into sordid concepts like anal penetration and socialized medicine. Although this thinly-veiled "fist bump" exposed millions of youngsters to horrific concepts like personal responsibility and hard work, one hardly expects to hear the word "fist" and "our children" in the same sentence. Not at school anyway. That sort of thing belongs in our churches. Glory!

Greg and JaLea Swezy say: "If we pray hard enough, maybe everyone will subscribe to this blog's feed."

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." 

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!"

Maggie Gallagher's Open Letter to "Z" und "Vielpunkt," Die Sündhaften Weibischen Pinguine (TRANSLATION: Those Sinful, Nelly Penguins)

A few weeks ago, employees at the North German Bremerhaven Zoo yodeled "hello" to a new arrival; two homosexual male penguins called "Z" and "Vielpunkt" hatched a chick. Despite previous efforts by zoo personnel to convince them to do the hippity-dippity with girl penguins, Z and Vielpunkt remain devoted to each other. So not long ago, after two traditionally-married penguins expressed their commitment to family values by shoving an unwanted egg from their nest, it was given to the Z-Vielpunkts, who doted over the egg and show early evidence of being protective, nurturing parents.

This, of course, has Maggie Gallagher (president of the National Organization for Marriage) seeing red. Ignoring the fact that most penguins can't read, she nevertheless penned an eloquent letter to the birds to explain why their unholy union makes her queasy. We've generously provided a copy below.

Dear Z und Vielpunkt:

It has come to my attention that you are currently violating Leviticus by barfing masticated fish down the throat of an innocent penguinette. I write to let you know that in doing so, not only are you destroying the sanctity of marriage, but you might as well be puking into the mouth of Baby Jesus.

Moreover, it's rude of you (as creatures of the natural world), to commit crimes against nature. It forces us rapture-bound heterosexual Christians to envision you mincing about on an iceberg, all limp-flippered and faggy, engaging in penguin ass-sex and penguin bukkake and penguin rusty trombones. If God intended penguins to be gay, he would have given you fists instead of flippers.

What kind of upbringing are you providing for your spectacularly unfortunate baby?? True, your God-forsaken progeny was lovingly shoved out of a traditional nest and left to die, just as thousands of nancy-boys are tossed from righteous Baptist homes for listening to Cher and wearing purple scarves. But if nature had been allowed to take its course, your baby would be frolicking up in penguin heaven. As it is now, you've selfishly condemned your chick to roast in the reptilian bosom of beelzebub through all eternity. Happy now?

Perhaps you're unaware that oodles of experts (Carrie Prejean, Stephen Baldwin) have determined that those of you who prance about the Antarctic as if it was a foam dance at the Palm Springs White Party are, by your very existence, threatening life on this planet as we know it. But need I remind you that you're at a ZOO? Heavens to Betsy! How do you expect parents to explain to their children why those two boy penguins are watching Ugly Betty and teaching evolution to their child? Why I remember when my parents took me to the monkey house. I ended up throwing my poop well into my early twenties!

For God's sake, think of the children!!

Yours in Christ,

Maggie Gallagher

***

SHOUT-OUT TO HU JINTAO: Happy Tiananmen 20!!

Maggie sez: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is like having traditional parents barf fish down your throat; it's simply YUMMY!"

Foxy News Channel: Kim Jong Illin'

Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Sup punks? Woo! It be three f*ckin monfs since Foxy lay some newz shizzle on yo azz! Firs, a ho had to par-TAY cause it be a whole year since Foxy git her azz sprung from Rikers. Feel dat, suckaz. It seem like only yessadee a sistah get her azz bustid for bouncin her blackberry off da noggin of some sassy ho. So last monf Foxy git on her cell an' call up the bitches who still in da joint. I say wassup to Big Betty, she da correckshinz officer who bus' a sistaz noggin cuz her boy smuggle in some treez up his poo hole. Then I holla at dat fat bitch wif da lazy eye from Cellblock D who gots razor blades in her weave. Foxy used to fist dat ho's stank-azz muff ev'ry toozday fo a pack o' bajinya slims, yo. Now dat bitch gots another ho punchin her queefbox. She finkin Foxy replacable? F*ck dat. Foxy fro dat sh*t. Respeck. 

On da self improobmint tip, a ho finish dat triflin' book call "Anne-bitch o' Green-azz Gables." It be all 'bout some ginger orphan bitch who get her azz sold off to Nervous-Kosher, which be a country in Alaksa where they put all da jewfolk. It be kosher, but they all nervous an sh*t. Now Foxy be checkin out a book call "Little-azz Crib on da M*therf*ckin Prarie," which seem to be all 'bout some gay-azz cracka family who all homeless and shizzle so they go on a campin trip to Kansas or sumpin. Foxy hopin it git good, like maybe some injun punk take a tamahawk to Half-pint and show dat uppity ho wassup.

On this espizode of da Foxy News Channel, a ho be in da boogie-down Pyongyang to do da innavoo wif some punk-azz bitch call Kimz Dongz Li'l. Check it, mo-fos.

FOXY BROWN: Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Feel dis, punks. Foxy chillaxin in some stank azz hood call Pyongyang, spittin rhymez wif Kimz Dongz Li'l. Respeck.
KIM JONG IL: Welcome for coming, neglo boobie girlie.
FB: Chile, whatchoo got on? Wassup wif those Jackie-O shades and that country-azz Little Richard weave?
KJI: I am being what Prince is to calling a sexy f*cking your m*ther.
FB: Foxy thought she gonna rap wif Li'l Kim. I be finkin she change her name to Kimz Dongz Li'l. I ain't suprized dat ho gotz a li'l dong. Whoop!
KJI: I am not to being Little Kim!
FB: True dat, foo. But you both smell like dog food, yo.
KJI: I am to being Big Kim!
FB: Punk, don't front a bitch. Take off those tired platforms and you smaller than a oompa-loompa.
KJI: You are to having happy fun bah-donkey-kong fanny.
FB: Chill, mo-fo. A ho tryin to lay some queshinz on yo azz.
KJI: Dokie-okie, then you are to laying those shizzle-stuffs on a brother person.
FB: How come Korean manicurisist hos f*ck up a sistah's tips? Last time Foxy get her nails did she gots to bus' some Kung Fu shiznit on they azz.
KJI: You no make poopy talk about sexy happy Korean girlie peoples!
FB: It jus' a queshin, bitch. Don't pitch a fit, yo. Nex queshin: how come you gots those whatchoo call new-color bombs but yo pitiful peeps be starvin so bad thay gots to eat pooch-burgers?
KJI: You to stop saying frowny fibby stuffs! Korean peoples are not to making starvy time! I make stompy dance and send pow-bombs to make poopy sad America esprode!
FB: Queen, please. You build your planes out of cardboard and yo stank-azz army carry heat made by Hasbro. Our posse like to slap da pu-pu outa your family's seoul.
KJI: You not to sassing me, boobie girlie! I am to being Dear Leader! I make so-so angry mad time!
FB: Sit yo azz down, mo-fo. A lady was fixin to give you a case of Campbell's Cream of Chihuahua soup.
KJI: Oh. Dokie-okie. Are you also to letting Kim Jong Il to putting finger in your stinky place?
FB: Bitch keep dat li'l dong-missile in your pants silo! This innavoo be triflin! Foxy outa here!
KJI: Welcome for going, sexy Brown boobie-girlie!

Kim Jong Il sez: "If I not to getting subscliption to this brog's feed, I to send pow-bombs to stinky USA place!"

They're All Going to Laugh at You: The Carrie White Guide to Unfortunate Prom Fashions

Our favorite telekinetic prom queen/blood soaked mass murderess, Carrie White, has emerged from her grave to shop around a whimsical how-to book. Released in time for prom season, we are thrilled to provide an excerpt below.

Hi! My name is Carrie White. If you're like me, the word "prom" conjures visions of tuxedo-clad jocks barfing out of the moon roofs of rented limos, and be-gowned cheerleaders having their ankles pushed behind their ears in the back of Ford Tauruses. Other sentimental images: mayhem, electrocutions, karo syrup with red food coloring. It's a momentous night in a gal's life, and it's important to get everything just right. Don't believe me? Ask the Bates High School class of 1976, may they rest in peace.

I remember when Tommy Ross asked me to the prom. I thought I'd swoon! And when my sweet mother (may she rest in peace) offered her customary sage advice, "they're all going to laugh at you," I knew it was destined to be an unforgettable affair. With that in mind, what follows are examples of ways in which unfortunate fashion choices can make an otherwise joyous event go awry (though not as awry as a prom can go, given the right cocktail of pig blood, demon-possessed fire hoses and bisected gym teachers).

When a guy and a gal get ready for the big night, it's important to be coordinated. For instance, I knew Tommy Ross (may he rest in peace) was going to wear a dreamy powder blue tux, and that's why I sewed my own dress out of pink satin, ignoring my dear mother's thoughtful observation that it lasciviously displayed my budding sin pillows.

However, if it's really important to you and your beau to be perfectly matched, it's a mistake to fashion our outfits from the paper in which the local butcher wrapped your lamb shank.

It makes you look as if those mean pranksters Chris and Billy (may they rest in peace) are up to their old shenanigans, but instead of dumping pork blood on your noggins they opted for a far more hilarious bucket of cow poop. A little constructive criticism? You look douche-y and retarded.

Next, as every gal knows it's nice to have a hobby. However, if your hobby is knitting ball gowns with your feet, I suggest avoiding the pink, maroon, violet, fuscia, orange and blood red color combination. Yet I do love how pleased you seem to be with the results. You certainly are a talented knitter.

Furthermore, I admire how, faced with a dateless prom, you knitted yourself a life-sized tuxedoed sock monkey to escort you to the festivities. Next, I might suggest knitting yourself a sense of taste and crocheting some self esteem. 

Moving on, when a gal sits down at her singer sewing machine to decide what kinda matching outfits she's going to make for herself and Dennis Rodman's effeminate autistic nephew, it's best not to use the drapes from Fook Mi's Chinese Take Out. Especially if your outfits look like pairs skating costumes for the Ghetto Ice Capades.

Because when the Prom Queen gets a bucket of KFC dumped on her noggin and she starts to go mental, the evening will end up best for you if you're not already trapped in a net.

There's something about this next prom gown. I can't put my finger in it. I mean "on" it. What could it be? Certainly it's not because it looks like an enormous sin cave. I'm sure it won't put any randy thoughts into Tommy Ross' curly blond noggin when you press your gargantuan satin hoo-hoo against his excitable adolescent underpants serpent as you spin giddily amongst the tin foil stars.

The only upside to your obscene tribute to Georgia O'Keefe is when prom is over, after your date barfs up his last ten shots of Jagermeister and coaxes you into the back seat of his daddy's Hummer, he might mistake your dress for home plate, resulting in a trip to the dry cleaners instead of the abortionist. That's the sort of smarts a gal needs, if she doesn't want to show up at next year's prom looking like this:

While it must be quite convenient for a gal to carry her prom date in her womb, we suspect this tasteful young woman forgot that her beau needs to be dressed too. 

But why so glum? Cheer up, girlfriend! You're drinking for two tonight! And the naughty boys who came stag will have very little doubt in their minds whether you're willing to ride their lil' ponies in the back of a mustang. 

However, a word of warning to the Chris Hargensens and Billy Nolans who might be lurking back stage waiting to dump a bucket of babyback ribs on her Tina Turner Thunderdome weave. Remember how crabby I got? And that was after only one visit from Aunt Flo. Yakeisha here has a lot more hormones pumping through her veins. And once you pull the chord, she's likely to do to your gymnasium what the Ayatollah wants to do to Tel Aviv.

Party hardy! Wooo!

Love,
Carrie White

P.S. When we saw this trailer on YouTube, we thought our gay lil' head would explode. "Be Italian" indeed. This is homo catnip.

Carrie sez: "My gym teacher (may she rest in peace) told me to subscribe to this blog's feed."

HRM Queen Elizabeth II Wishes to Address the Rude Pair Who Shagged Each Other Rotten on the Front Lawn of Windsor Castle

*** FROM THE ROYAL DESK OF H.R.M. QUEEN ELIZABETH II ***

It has come to One's attention that the unruly pair who were nabbed whilst engaging in a distastefully public hippity-dippity session on Our Royal Lawn has been identified as Joy Taylor and Phil Cardon.

Imagine Our shock when the Royal Corgis started barking and We dashed to the window with Our Royal Binoculars, only to be confronted by the ghastly sight of you, Mr. Cardon, heaving and grunting as your pimple-afflicted buttocks quivered and bobbed in the sun whilst you piston-pumped Ms. Taylor as if she were a bronco in the pasty twit rodeo. We can assure you we were not the least bit impressed when you pushed Ms. Taylor's ankles behind her ears and re-enacted both pages of the British Kama Sutra (and, oddly, page 67 of this month's Popular Mechanics), as a crowd of befuddled Japanese tourists snapped photos of your rude display. And when the Royal Guard approached and demanded that you immediately cease jabbing your unimpressive snag into Ms. Taylor's indiscriminate meat pie, the grass stains on your knees and Ms. Taylor's back spoke volumes about your unfortunate lack of breeding.

One understands you've both been cautioned for outraging public decency. Were it up to Us, you'd also be charged with poor rhythm, flawed technique, premature ejaculation and a clumsy dismount, the penalty of which is having your severed heads mounted on a pike outside the Tower of London.

One feels compelled to inform you that you shan't be welcome at Windsor Castle going forward. Humping, fisting, donkey-punching, bukkake, rusty tromboning and all other violations of Leviticus are not permitted on Our Royal Lawn. Such lascivious activities are firmly restricted to private quarters, back stairs with a coquettish maid or robust manservant, or in the a horse stall with a surly stable boy. But the presence of a mattress (preferably queen-sized) is a sign of superior etiquette.

Finally, One seems to detect a distressing trend. First, Emma Modrate gave her bloke's skin flute a mouth hug in front of a pub. Not to be outdone, Ben Whelan and Rebekah James porked each other stupid in a public phone box. Finally, Susan Boyle waddled into prime time and sang a show-tune. If these brazen displays of bad manners and public vulgarity continue unabated, we are likely to snap our crown and get all medieval on you. We are a Windsor, after all; Windsors been getting medieval on unruly subjects since medieval times. We invented getting medieval and We have an irresistible itch to to bust out the thumb screws and iron maidens and put them to their long overdue good use.

Earnestly,

HRM Queen Elizabeth II

Liz sez: "One would trade a Royal Corgi to a Korean dog sausage factory for a subscription to this blog's feed."

Can o' Goop: Gwyneth Paltrow's Guest Column

We at COWA don't always have time to pen our brilliant posts, and frequently outsource to an ever-growing pool of talent (Aunt Betsy, Jeannie Bladdersham, Foxy Brown and Sailor-Talkin Sue). And now, we are proud to add the lovely Ms. Gwyneth Paltrow (actress, fashionista, uppity shiksa) to their illustrious ranks. Her lifestyle website GOOP has been dazzling the blogosphere with its unique brand of snotty condescension for months now, and lucky us, Ms. Paltrow has graciously agreed to spread her goop all over us. Take it away, Gwynnie!

Thanks, WAM.  You know, when I'm not dashing off to do Pilates with Madonna or plucking Apple up from celebrity gymboree, I like to surround myself with gorgeous things and think about people who are  less fortunate. Not a day goes by when I don't stumble across the same icky homeless lady passed out in a puddle of her own filth in front of my fabulous London townhome. And she's really gross.

But when you think about it, the homeless are kind of like people. They say "ouch" when you kick them and cry when you have your personal assistant turn the hose on them. And anyone who knows me knows I'm nothing if not a people person. I like people. I just prefer people who aren't so gross.

The other day, while enjoying a kelp scrub at spa with Vicky Becks, I had a totally great idea! How cool would it be if we made homeless people less gross and stuff? Today's guest column is about how to de-grossify that derelict whose misfortunes rudely cramp your style by disrupting the stream of vapid happy thoughts you were thinking.

1. Urine is a natural anti-biotic: My personal homeless person (I call her Shabby Shelly) has icky scabs on her thighs. So I frequently have Apple and Moses pee on her. She doesn't seem to mind and the kids enjoy doing it. It's important to teach our young proper respect for the less fortunate.
2. Good clothes make all the difference: Shabby Shelly's look is overlayered and dated (grunge is SO 90's). So the other day when she was in a gin-soaked stupor, I had personal assistant strip her naked, burn her clothes and dress her up in some old cast-offs from my wardrobe. It did my heart good to watch her through my parlor blinds as she regained consciousness. She didn't know what to make of her ferragamo stilettos and sequined Alexander McQueen cocktail mini! She was a new woman. And although she seemed a tad chilly (London in mid-March can be brisk), every girl knows she has to put up with some discomfort when she's sprinting from the limo to the theatre on premier night!
3. We are what we eat: So true! And with that in mind, Shabby Shelly's a discarded half-eaten Whopper with Cheese. I frequently have cook whip up a batch of tofu paste on a bed of organic sprouts and leave it on the curb next to her. So far, Shabby Shelly hasn't developed a taste for it; she keeps feeding it to the pet rat who lives in her vagina. Vegan microbiotic cuisine is an acquired taste, after all.
4. Love makes the world go 'round: Who doesn't need a shoulder to cry on? At the end of the day, it's nice to come home to a significant other. I believe everyone has a soul-mate out there somewhere. Mine happens to be a dreamy blue-eyed millionaire musician. After searching for AGES I finally matched Shabby Shelly to her future life partner, a schizophrenic ex-con triple amputee midget alcoholic I found scooting about on a skateboard harrassing commuters in the tube. His name is Stumpy McGill and they're perfect together. So far, Shabby Shelly's wisely playing hard-to-get.   
5. Wait, what? I've ceased being interested in whatever I was talking about. I'm off to do lunch with Sting and Kate Moss. Be gorgeous!

 

Gwyneth sez: "I'd rather subscribe to this blog's feed than listen to my husbands crappy music"

A Memo to the Cranky Jews of Israel from the Secretary of State Designate, Hillary Rodham Clinton

Dear Cranky Jews:

As you may know, I, Hillary Rodham Clinton, have been nominated to be Secretary of State. You may also be aware (if you look closely) that I, Hillary Rodham Clinton, am a female. I have a vagina. And as a vagina-owning female I like to talk and talk and converse and dialogue and talk. I also like to listen to other people talk about stuff I've talked about so we can open a dialogue and talk some more. But enough talk.

I, Hillary Rodham Clinton, understand that a couple of hirsute jawas from Gaza have been firing pop bottle rockets at every Schlomo, Menachem and Irving in those darling settlements you've built over the bulldozed remains of Palestinian homes. And in response, you've fired eighty thousand missiles at every terrorist training camp in the strip (aka pre-schools and hospitals). I think we need to dialogue about that.

After my confirmation, I look forward to that conversation. Hey, that rhymed! LOL!

But before we can talk about conversing about that dialogue, we need to talk about a few things:

1. You've no doubt become accustomed to Condo-leaser Rice shim-shamming hither and yon, flashing her Alfred E. Newman grin and kvetching like an uppity negress. Let me assure you, that I, Hillary Rodham Clinton, am a totally different breed of lesbian. I'm post-menopausal and caucasian. That's another kettle of gefilte fish entirely. There's no telling how I'll react to a given situation. I might burst into tears or give you a swift kick in your matzo balls. I'd play me very carefully. 
2. Everyone knows men play with rockets when they're insecure about the size of their wee-wees. The fact that you've responded to a half dozen Palestinian firecrackers with a barrage of long, hard, shiny missiles only serves to perpetuate the stereotype that Jews have notoriously miniscule skin-scuds. Or maybe you're just upset that once again, us Christians get to rock around the Christmas tree and go a-wassailing while slurping egg-nog and caterwauling about how silent the night is, while you folks unwrap socks and play with your pitiful little dreidels.
3. You'd be well-advised to remember that a few years ago my own husband had a nasty habit of hiding his pants-missile in the kosher mouth-silo of a rotund Jewess. I intend to make the entire state of Israel pay for that.
4. Since Christmas, seven Israelis and 350 Palestinians celebrated the birth of Jesus by being blown to smithereens. If my math is right (and frankly I don't care if it isn't), that means that one Jew is equal to fifty Palestinian sand jawas. But you should know that I have a Jewish friend in the export business who assures me I can get you wholesale. You should also know that 4,150 American grunts have so far been sent to Jesus while attending the Baghdad Shrapnel Orchestra. During that same period, 98,400 Iraqi citizens have been rudely jerked into paradise. That means one American equals 23.7 Iraqis. And if we assume that Iraqis and Palestinians are like apples and apples (and I do), that means one Israeli equals more than two Americans. Obviously, you're over-priced. Given today's global economic crises, Jews can look forward to being steeply discounted, marked down by at least 50% in our post-holiday clearance sale.
5. Finally, I think it only fair to warn you that although I've recently appeared on CNN with an enthusiastic grin pasted on my face, I'm still so angry that the Obamas are re-upholstering the Lincoln bedroom in mudcloth (instead of being retro-fitted for the "husband cage" I'd envisioned), I'm likely to take off my pumps and slap you so hard the fiddler falls off your roof.

That's it for now. I have to go to Lane Bryant to be fitted for my inaugural runners-up gown, and later I'm taking Chelsea to have her hooves scraped.

Mazel Tov,
Hillary

P.S. Happy Jew Year! LOL!

Hamas sez: Subscribe to the Whup-ass feed! It's da bomb!

A Boxing Day Message From HRH Queen Elizabeth II

BUCKINGHAM PALACE
***For Immediate Release***

Good day. As you may know, the snaggle-toothed subjects of our royal realm are wont to prolong the agony of Christmas by adding "Boxing Day" to the long list of anti-climactic year-end events to dread. To celebrate that day when Saint Paul encouraged a mob of Jews to throw rocks at Saint Stephen (an act of rivalry unparalleled until Tanya Harding bade her trailer-mate to take a whack at Nancy Kerrigan's bony kneecap), we like to go shopping. Originally, our subjects would box up their least favorite Christmas gift and pass it off to a less fortunate person. Eventually, however, Our Kingdom's destitute discovered they have little use for Isotoners and Chia Pets. The fact that virtually everyone in the UK is destitute (save Our Royal Highness, natch), adds fat to the fire. 

Yesterday, We broadcast Our customary Christmas message. This year, as We didn't have sufficient time to get everything off Our Royal Bosom, We have decided a Boxing Day message is on order. We understand that in the Colonies, the quaint citizens have an irritating habit of enclosing interminable form letters in their Christmas cards, informing their uninterested friends and relatives of every tedious event of the previous year. With that in mind:

What a year it's been at the Windsor's! The eldest issue of Our Royal Uterus (Charles) continues to amuse. He has recently learned his ABCs and takes great pleasure in singing the alphabet song to visiting dignitaries. We approve, as it's a vast improvement over his undignified (and unsanitary) habit of finger-popping the Leviticus holes of world leaders' spouses. Our mannish daughter-in-law continues to be a source of endless delight. This year we entered her into the Ascot, which she won by a nose. Philip was on-hand with a loaded rifle, as always, in case the Duchess broke a leg and had to be put down. Our grandchildren (Willie, Harry, Eugenie and the fat one) provide unquantifyable joy. Taking helicopters for joyrides, masquerading as Nazis, traipsing about nude in public whilst casting their filthy bits to the wind. Ah, youth! 

This Christmas has not been without a dash of sadness, however. Our Mum's still taking her Royal dirt nap. How We miss her habit of tanking up on sherry and staggering out to the grounds with a box of Pampers to assist in the changing of the guards. Our butler has been arrested for buggering schoolboys. Fergie's still an enormous tub of guts. 

On the bright side, that malformed gorgon Cherie Blair no longer pops by unexpectedly, frightening the Corgis and molesting the help. Our Royal McDonald's is doing a brisk business. We quite approve of its recently-installed Royal Carriage Lane for Our exclusive use. We cannot tell you how often we've had an unforeseen late night Big Mac attack, so it's come in quite handy. We are also deeply appreciative that we no longer have to "holler" into the mouth of a clown to get a Filet-o-Fish. And of course, Diana's still dead. So there's that at least.

On a final note, We totally PWN'd that insufferable bore Sarah Palin the other night when we phoned her and asked if she had Prince Albert in a Can. LOL!

HRM

Queen Elizabeth sez: "We shan't give a flying f*ck for anyone who doesn't subscribe to this blog's feed."