Can O' Whup-Ass

Kidz Korner with Dannielynn Smith!

Hi. My name is Dannielynn Smith. I am almost two. My mommy named me after my brother who died from a drug overdose. Then my mommy died of a drug overdose. I live with the blond guy who plays a game called "the naked cowboy ass-sex rodeo" with my mommy's attorney. The blond guy says he's my daddy cause he's the one who got my mommy all pregnant when she was passed out from a drug overdose. At least that's what the doctor man said after testing the DNA of all 5,852 men who said they did the hippity dippity with my mommy when she was passed out from a drug overdose.

My daddy is funny. Like when he invited The Insider to follow us to the Bahamas so they could take pictures of me filling my diaper on the patch of grass where my overdosed mommy is taking her dirt nap. He said he did that cause "baby needs a new pair of shoes." But when the shoes came, they were from Ferragamo and they fitted my daddy.

Last week Daddy bought some of my dirt napping mommy's used underpants. He told the peoples with the cameras that he bought them for me. I wish he just got me a dolly. But I have fun using mommy's panties to build a fort in daddy's leather dungeon. I like playing there. Daddy has funny swings and toys shaped like negro pee-pees. He says they are grown up toys. Like his game of Twister that's all sticky and slippery.

Daddy calls me his favorite lil' moneymaker. One time he told me he's got another moneymaker. I thought he meant he had another baby. I asked my daddy where he keeps his other moneymaker, and he told me he's sitting on it. I hope he's not sitting on a baby!

Sometimes I get sad. But that's when I think of all the funny things kidz can do!

• SILLY PILLS MAKE KIDZ DO THE DARNEDEST THINGS: There's a funny kindergarten in Texas where the teachers give the kids "silly pills" (the kind my mommy got all overdosed on) so they could put on some funny plays for naked grown ups. Some of the funny plays included "naughty hokey pokey" and "I can fit that in my oopsie hole."
• MIND YOUR MANNERS OR MOMMY WILL EAT YOU: One day God told a lady that if her naughty sons refused to be good, then maybe they could at least taste good. So she tied them up and cut off their sassiest pieces, and the rest of the family had some yummy fondue! Yay!
• YOU REALLY CAN GET EVERYTHING AT WAL-MART: Once upon a time there was a mommy who got tired of looking at her baby. So she tacked a note to its back and tossed it into a discount bin at America's largest retailer! My daddy says that if the mommy really wanted a better life for her baby she woulda left it at Barney's.
• TART UP YOUR BABY: There's a place called England where they have animals like unicorns and chavs and yobs. A mean old lady has all the money and she uses it to buy scary hats. They also have places where you can have your baby tarted up like a common harlot. Maybe they do that so they can get more for them when they sell them at Herrods.   

Pride Beat: With Bobby Trendy

HOLLYWOOD -- Hellosies! It is I, Bobby Trendy. The queen who was too over-the-top for Anna Nicole (the human gay pride parade float whose ample corpse I still gnaw on for sustenance). When I'm not slithering down the red carpet of every strip-mall grand opening in the valley or flouncing about my Burbank studio apartment in my latest tulle-and-sequin kimono, I think about gay homosexual menzes. And I also think about female gay homosexual menzes (aka lesbosies). Just the other day I was in a meeting with a major Hollywood producer, who for some reason requested that we meet in the vacant lot behind the Jiffy Lube on LaBrea (I was there to pitch some reality show ideas, but as it turned out he did most of the pitching). When the meeting was over, and I was shout-wiping the grass stains from my glitter capris shorts, he handed me a $10 bill and a Tic-Tac and said "Happy Gay Pride."

It reminded me of that time Lance Bass told me I was the "Steppin Fetchit" of the gay community. Who's Steppin Fetchit? Is he like, famous?? So I got to thinking and I've decided that I, Bobby Trendy, will spread gay pride by talking about stuff that's really really gay.

• GAM-GAM'S NOT DOWN WITH MUFF MUNCHING: In the ferocious mecca of Reading PA, a sweet lil' grandma by the name of Joyce Y. Beddell returned from bingo to find her cheeky 16-year-old granddaughter in the throes of lesbianic ecstasy with another neighborhood teen. Gam-gam's screams made the girls stop playing "the double-donged scissor-queefing donkey punch game" after which the old gash nearly beat her grandchild to death with a cane and a belt. Granny Beddell sits in jail as we speak, copping an old-person 'tude all about her right to raise the nasty little bitch as she sees fit. Natch, Theodore Fritzl and Joan Crawford could say the same.
• MY GAY BRAIN: Some scientists menzies in Sweden took a break from eating herring and acting all blond to discover that homo menzes' noggins are similar to the noggins of hetero bitches. And female homo menzes' noggins (aka Lesbosians) are just like those of hetero menzes. While this gives some cred to folks who claim f*giosity is a trait (and not a "choice" as claimed by retarded fatties, aka Baptists), It came as no surprise to me, Bobby Trendy. When my horrified mother squeezed yours truly through her stink hole, I arrived with a pink-sequined placenta in tow (ALWAYS accessorize, bitches), singing selected highlights from "Cabaret." But does this mean that a bitch who's a lesbaru-driving mullet-wearer can have her brainsies transformed into a miata-driving showtune aficionado by offering her a sixpack and a joint? Oh! Let's try! NOT! LOL!!
• BOBBY TRENDY: GAY WEDDING PLANNER!! As much of you bitches know, I...Bobby Trendy...am the gayest person on EARTH who's not married to Katie Holmes. It may have also come to your attention that Cali-pansies are flocking by the oodles to get legally hitched in their break-neck race to the equality of divorce court. Always one to exploit a trend ("trendy" is my middle name) I have decided to offer my services as homo wedding planner. For inst: I'm pitching (LOL!!) my concept to George Takai (aka Star Trek's "Sulu") which involves Romulan go-go boys, Borg cater-waiters, and 800,000 yards of mauve tulle, all capped by a show-stopping interpretive dance by yours truly to the Star Trek theme, the climax of which entails moi inserting an "Enterprise" shaped dildo up my wormhole whilst spinning my sequined pasties in opposite directions.
• CATHY-LICKS HAVE THEIR PANTIES IN A BUNCH: A bunch of cathy-lick bitchips took a short break from sashaying around the Vatican in their FAAAAA-bulous silky caftans to make certain the world is quite sure of their position on homo nuptials: they don't care for them. The bitchips doubt that pansies are capable of unions that are "faithful, exclusive and lasting." After their statement, they swung some burning handbags around before withdrawing to their chambers to minister to supple young seminarians in a lesson they like to call "You Can't Spell 'Mass' without 'Ass': A Probe into Leviticus and Deuteronomy."

Makin' Babies the Clay Way

HOLLYWOOD -- A bizarre, creepy star suddenly appeared in the skies over Los Angeles, and it wasn't Travolta darting about in his private jet. A UFO exploded over Vietnam. A nation went insane overnight, briefly finding Denise Richards interesting. Oprah felt disturbances in her gravitational field. All omens and portents had maliciously aligned; there was no escaping the diabolical fulfillment of beelzebub's darkest plan. Clay Aiken had reproduced.

In the musty cobwebbed lady-cave of his post-menopausal record producer, a misbegotten embryo clings to a uterine stalactite; the most calamitous genetic collision since the conception of Chastity Bono. Although we're aggressively avoiding mental images of how this might have occurred, the totally virile and entirely heterosexual (for reals. shut up.) crooner has taken a break from dampening the plus-sized Hanes of every unfulfilled ferret-obsessed Nascar widow from Sheboygan to Tuscaloosa with his dazzling performance in Spamalot to explain the evil alchemy that went into his ghastly spawning.

And, natch, we've provided his blow-by-blow account of how his lineage has been cruelly extended in the gut of a mannish granny in the form of his very own mini-mo, destined to be named "Claymian."

Enjoy!

Um...hi! I've always admired Daddies. They smoke cigars and have tickly mustaches and have sex with vaginas. They go on camping trips with other daddies where they zip their sleeping bags together and cuddle while they talk about power tools. Who knew that one day I, an inbred reality show runner-up and creepily androgynous eunuch, would be a daddy too! Hip-hip hooraysies! And here's how I done did it!

1. Find an old lady. She should be old enough that the Claymates won't get too jealous, but not so old that her hips will shatter when she squeezes lil' Claymian through her shame hole.
2. Sacrifice a live kitty cat to Beelzebub so that the old lady's petrified ovaries cough back to life long enough to fart out one last egg.
3. Tie the old lady to the sling in your basement. Hoist her varicose veined, cellulite-afflicted legs to the ceiling.
4. Draw a pentagram on the floor in chicken blood.
5. Turn on your computer and log onto Manhunt.com.
6. Unzip Dockers. Liberate underpants serpent.
7. Insert buttplug.
8. Locate the profile for FresnoPissPig, the muscle-bound bi-curious model/actor and watersports top. Browse his pictures.
9. Do that thing that Mom said Grandma can see me do from Heaven and it makes her cry.
10. When underpants serpent gets angry and starts to barf, grab Pebble Flintstone juice glass to catch every drop.
11. Use freshly sterilized turkey baster (aka travel douche kit) to collect underpants serpent barf.
12. Go to basement. Find old lady's shame hole. Insert turkey baster. Squeeze bulb. Cry.
13. Hoist old lady's legs higher until she's upside down. Shake her.
14. Sit in pentagram. Give praise to Lucifer. Play hymns to Beelzebub on the stereo.
15. Two weeks later, make old lady pee on a stick.
16. Text your publicist.

Yo, F*ck-wads! It's Time Again for the @#!&% News Roundup with Sailor-Talkin' Sue!

NEW YORK -- A while back, Tourettes-afflicted anchornegress Sue Simmons, having lobbed the "F" word at her deeply traumatized audience of prim New Yorkers, seemed to have experienced an irreparable career implosion. However, in a daring career move, the once-adored closeted lesbian launched a demographically targeted news broadcast that best suited her talents as a teleprompter reader.

The results were spectacular.

Therefore, due to popular demand, we proudly present another edition of The @#!&% News Roundup with Sailor-Talkin Sue Simmons. No need to thank us:

Good evening, *ss-lickers. I'm Sue m*ther-f*cking Simmons, and this is the g*ddamned news.

• Today, Naomi c*nt-face Campbell was charged at g*ddamned airport court for slapping the m*therf*cking sh*t out of two f*ggoty cops. The f*cking altercation arose in April when some d*ke stewardess told Ms. f*ck-me-in-the-*ss Campbell that her c*cksucking luggage hadn't made it onto the g*ddamned plane. The *ss-felching, fire breathing c*nt threw a f*cking sh*t fit and had her tw*t thrown off the *ss-f*cking aircraft by her b*tch-*ss pubes. The statuesque c*nt-muncher faces a possible six months in m*therf*cking prison, where her new-found mopping skills just might help a tw*t avoid getting fisted up her sh*tty *ss by a lesbo d*ke cellmate.
• The g*ddamned ch*nks in China got sand up their horizontal c*nts because of another horizontal c*nt by the name of Sharon p*ss-up-my-poo-hole Stone. Ms. look-at-my-ancient-tw*t Stone had opined that the *ss-licking earthquake that buried more c*cksucking ch*nk babies than Chairman needle-c*ck Mao, was karmic m*therf*cking payback for smacking around the g*ddamned f*ggot-*ss Tibetan monks like a bunch of c*nt-licking three dollar whores who "no like sucky." The ch*nk-*ss Chinese Government has reacted by banning Ms. saggy-tw*t Stone's films, adding m*therf*cking insult to g*ddamned injury by depriving the *sshole ch*nks the butt-f*cking pleasures of "Basic F*ggoty Instinct 2."
• Today at the d*ck-smoking corporate headquarters of Bear lick-me-where-I-sh*t Stearns, a fat-*ss f*ggoty c*nt by the name of James "oops-I-just-f*cked-15,000-employees-up-the-butt" Cayne, erstwhile chairman and current douchebag, said "I'm sorry." Then he gave the m*therf*cking keys to J f*cking P f*cking Morgan f*cking Chase. Cayne, a tw*t banging troll, has grown to look a lot like Rumple-f*cking-stilskin, except instead of spinning g*ddamned straw into m*therf*cking gold, the withered old c*cksucker discovered a g*ddamned way to reverse the f*cking process.
• All the g*ddamned stars in the m*therf*cking heavens were out in full c*nt-chomping glory at Radio Sh*tty Music Hall the other g*ddamned night for the fart-felching premier of "Sex in the screw-me-where-I-poo City." Cynthia "D*ke-puncher" Nixon, Kim "Cum-Gargler" Cattral, Kristin "Please-punch-me-in-the-face-until-I'm-f*cking-dead" Davis, and Sarah *ssica C*ntica Tw*tica Puker were all on hand to celebrate the *ss-humping feel-good movie of the g*ddamned year, the flick that teaches our little *ss-licking girls how to dress like c*cksucking whores and f*ck every man with a g*ddamned penis crammed in his sh*t stained GI Joe underoos.

We'll be back in a g*ddamned minute after this cl*t-sucking word from FLOMAX. The g*ddamned pill for the m*therf*cking f*ggot who's too g*ddamned old to pee. Keep your sh*tty *sses parked, c*cksuckers.

Kidz Korner with Pax Jolie-Pitt!

Hi. My name is Pax (as in "that lady with the big boobs shops for ethno-tots in smelly countries and pax them in her luggage"). One day I was squatting in a dirt room with 753 other kids in a place called the Nike Factory orphanage and a lady with scary puffy lips and big sunglasses came in. She said "ew gross" and held her nose. She pointed at me and said "he matches my dress." Then she wrote a check and I went to live with her so I could be her pet.

I live with Mommy's other pets in her baby zoo. I like it here. There's a brown girl who acts all bossy and has funny hair. There's a white girl who's sad because mommy hates her. We live in fun cages. Sometimes I see a doggie and I bite it. "Woof-woof-yum!!" I say. But Mommy says we can't eat doggies at her baby zoo. Sometimes a scary girl named Suri comes to play. She wears a skin suit to hide her green scales. She tells funny stories about her daddy and his friend Buttsteak LaRue, who's a cowboy that rides her daddy like a horsie and puts naughty things in his fanny.

My Mommy and my Daddy like to look in their mirrors. They like to stand like statues in the living room. Every day they let us out of our cages to look at them standing like statues. Then they make us vote on who's more "gorgeous." If we don't vote for Mommy she makes us sit on the ouchy stool. We get bored in the baby zoo. Sometimes we're sad. So I decided to find fun stuff for kids to do! Yay!

• MORE-MOMS FUN CAMP! Some kids get to live in a fun camp where they have 84 mommies and one daddy. They call themselves "More-moms." And sometimes the sad girls have to play a game called "if you let grandpa put his shame hose in your oopsie hole you get a lollipop." And sometimes they teach the sad boys how to play "lasso the girls and pretend they're cows." Then they all sit around and drink milk and make macaroni art to send to some scary people called Osmonds. Then they drink more milk and cry.   
• BABY FIGHTS! There's a place called England where people poop on cakes and have black teeth. There's a club called the Chavs, who dress like clowns and act like donkeys. They like to put their babies in a ring and make them fight. They punch and cry and cry and punch so their mommies can get some money to buy more clown clothes. I think they do this so their babies won't grow up to be homo sissies. There's a mean old lady who lives in the biggest house in England. She wishes she made her son be in some baby fights when he was a baby.   
• DADDY'S PEE-PEE GAME: Sometimes daddies drink beers and it makes them get all sad so they go pee-pee on a baby. Then their mommy gets yelly and Daddy has to sleep in a cage like in the baby zoo, except they share their cage with a bad man who puts naughty things in the daddy's fanny and it makes daddy sadder cause it feels like he's sitting on an ouchy stool.
• WHO IS THAT SCARY SKINNY LADY AND WHAT DID SHE DO WITH MY FAT UGLY MOMMY? One time when Mommy and Daddy were standing like statues and making us play "vote on who's more gorgeous," we all voted for Daddy. That's cause Mommy was bloated and had a zit on her chin. And face it, my Daddy's a hunka-licious slab of mansteak. Mommy got mad and told us that some kids have fat ugly mommies with small boobs and big noses. She told us to think about that while we sat on the ouchy stool. But sometimes fat ugly mommies pay a doctor to cut off their big noses and stab their boobs until they're big enough for boys to like them. Then they give a fun book to their kids so they won't be scared of their new pretty mommy who can't stop smiling even when she's punishing them by making them sit on the ouchy stool.
• BIBLE SCHOOL CUT-N-PASTE CRAFT DAY! There's a nice man in Florida who lives in his mommy's basement and teaches boys and girls about Jesus in Bible school. They play lots of fun games. His favorite game is called "Let's take pictures of the kids and paste their faces on pictures of sad naked ladies in magazines!" But now the naked sad ladies look happy because their faces look like happy kids! And we learn that Jesus makes sad ladies happy! But now the nice man is sad because he's sitting in a cage.

Celebrity Def Poetry Jam!

HOLLYWOOD -- Sometimes famous people have feelings. And when they do, you can bet that they feel them deeper than you feel yours. Why? Shut up, stupid; it's cause they're famous. Artistes are just more sensitive than you. Your problems are retarded, so put a cork in the bitching.

So it should come as no surprise that when celebrities bare their souls through the art of poetry, the results are earth-shattering. Last night, in a coffee shop filled with the haze of clove cigarettes, several famouser-than-thou types threw it down and slammed, Russel Simmons-style. And below are three of our favorites:

	THE BIRD WOT I AM By Amy Winehouse I’m a bird wot like a bloke To hold the door and score some coke A bloke who buys a twat a rose Then shoots some horse between her toes He can be a chav or yob He don’t need to have no job Just be wif me at home and harf Hold a bird’s hair when she barf He don’t gots to be no chef All he gots to cook is mef And work my bits good in the sack Be smokin hot and smokin crack Tattoo my likeness on his taint A bird like me, my tastes is quaint
HEY! ROBOTS! By Peter Falk Lock your doors! Sedate your cat! Wear your tinfoil helmet hat! Eat some pudding! Wet your bed! So says the robot in my head He tells me when to eat some cheese When to poop and when to sneeze As long as he’s my friend, I’m sane He’s the robot in my brain He told me martians worship cars And Bonnie Franklin lives on Mars He makes me save my used Depends He’s my robot, we’re best friends So if you’re old and feeling blue If your toaster talks to you Snap your cap, go off your meds You all need robots in your heads!
	I’M ACTUALLY LIKE TOTALLY SMART AND STUFF By Pamela Anderson Think of me and you think tits Rejuvenated filthy bits A muff prolifically spelunked But you don’t know the thoughts I’ve thunked I think of stuff like outer space And how I’d like a thong of lace I think about the polar ice And how to rid my crotch of lice I think of stuff besides my boobs Like how Crest fills their toothpaste tubes And why the flowers live in dirt I think so much it starts to hurt And when that last thought can’t be reached I go and have my sphincter bleached Though In school I wasn’t teached enough I’m actually totally smart and stuff

Totally Exclusive: Naomi Campbell's Anger Management Affirmations!!

LONDON -- Even tempered supermodel and iPhone markswoman Naomi Campbell has been freshly bailed from the Heathrow Police precinct for acting a tad spitty and smacky with a cop after being rudely ejected from a plane whose flight staff misinterpreted her 3:30 tantrum as a sign she was unfit to fly. The svelte negress, having surpassed her "sell-by" date sometime in the Thatcher era, was apparently a bit miffed upon being informed that the airliner was unable to become airborne with her 80,000 pound luggage set in tow. She was handcuffed and dragged back through the gate, hissing and flailing about, when she decided to go all Zsa-Zsa on an officer of the law.

Naomi is an occasional contributer to this classy site, offering her insightful mopping tips and clever musings on the art of incapacitating domestics by bouncing a well-aimed portable electronic device off their petulant heads, and even interrogating daft beaner and dictatorship hobbyist, Hugo Chavez.

Now, in her most personal and intimate contribution yet, the excitable catwalk prowler has consented to sharing the affirmations she religiously chants whenever it pleases her to do so, in order to keep the cage door locked on that exotic yet ferocious beast called anger: 

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, derive absolutely no pleasure from the mental image of my personal assistant tumbling down a flight of stairs.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, see no similarities between the sound of my heartbeat and the hoofbeats of a fast approaching grim reaper.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, do not hear the raspy voice of Beelzebub in my brain, telling me to claw into the torso of the next person who starts a sentence with "Excuse me, Ms. Campbell, but I'm afraid I have no choice but" and devour their steaming entrails while cackling like a hyena.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, do not secretly believe that banking a blackberry off the cranium of a subordinate with an audible "bonk" is worth 1,000 points.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, have a soul; there is no bottomless chasm in the core of my being that devours all hope and light.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, harbor no fantasies of throwing Tyra Banks into a pit and fattening her up so I can make a skin-tight cat-woman jumpsuit from her youthful mocha-hued epidermis.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, do not suspect there's a colony of albino blood-sucking devil-bats living in my brain who could take wing at any moment and spread carnage and mayhem from here to Tuscaloosa.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, am not of the opinion that the sweetest sound known to humans is the crunchy shattering of teeth when my knuckles meet the jaw of a sassy sales clerk.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, am beautiful on the inside, and therefore do not believe there's an obese causasian spouse-abusing Nascar Dad trapped in my body.

I, NAOMI CAMPBELL, am not a hermaphrodite.

Kidz Korner with Suri Cruise!

Hi. My name is Suri (as in "sure he's the father?") Cruise (as in "Daddy's not here, Suri. He's Cruising Santa Monica Boulevard"). Sometimes it's hard to be a kid. Like when Daddy sends Mommy to the Scientology place so lizard aliens can put babies in her tummy. Then Daddy invites pool boy to his bedroom to play a game called "The Hippy Slippy Sausage Dance." They say it's a secret and if I tell Mommy he'll sell me to a fat witch called Curse-y Allie who will put me in an oven and eat me like hansel and gretel. Oh, and sometimes they make me have play time with a nasty baby called Shiloh. Shiloh is sad because her mommy doesn't like her. But Shiloh has a funny zoo in her basement. The animals look like negro dollies. They are Shiloh's pets. Sometimes they cry. And sometimes their Mommy takes them for a walk if they match her dress.

So I decided to look for fun things kids can do when their Daddy is playing naked rodeo with a cowboy named Buttsteak LaRue, or if Mommy's gone shopping for new babies in Malawi. And I found oodles and oodles of fun games and toys!

• HIDE THE NOGGIN: There's a place called Scotland where Daddies wear dresses and really really really like riding bikes. Sometimes they like to rip out a sheep's tummy and cut its heart into itsy bitsy pieces and put them in its stomach and boil its face off. Then they cook it into yummy food! It's like Little Bo Peep! Daddy says it tastes like something called placenta that falls on the floor when babies slide down Mommy's icky-hole. And sometimes the kids play a fun game called "hide the noggin." That's when you take a person's noggin and put it in a bag and hide it. Then a kid finds it and wins! Yay!
• SILLY KILLY PUPPET SHOWS: My Mommy says there's a place called Palace-time.  It's a place where Daddies wear dresses and put funny table cloths on their noggins. And kids get to wear ker-pow clothes under their coats that go KER-POW! After that, they go to a place with lots of toys. And they also have Silly Killy Puppet Shows on TV! One show had a kid-puppet play stabby fun knife game with man-puppet called Mean Mister Bush! Oh and one time they play "let's cut off noggin of mickey mouse" game. That's silly!! I wish Sesame Street was killier. Cookie Monster could shank Elmo. Elmo has it coming.
• MISS BIMBO: There's a place called England where grown-ups bet on baby-fights and put poo on their cakes. But don't be sad, they have a really fun game! It's called Miss Bimbo. It teaches little girls everything they need to know. Like if you throw up after eating your froot loops and get a fun bouncy toy called a "boob job", maybe a rich boy will like you. But only if you put out.
• ZIPPY ZAPPY FUN SCHOOL: Sometimes a kid acts like a retard, so his mommy and daddy take him to a doctor who says the kid has a disease called Odd-ism. Then the kid gets packed off to a funny school where they get hooked up to wires and the teachers shock them when they act too odd. Yippee!
• BIBLE MAN: Most boys like to play in the mud and shoot bb guns at kitty cats. But some boys like to wear purple scarves and lip-sync to Beyonce and play with Barbie dolls. And sometimes when a Mommy or Daddy sees their boy playing with a Barbie doll they think their boy has naughty thoughts about fannies and is going to hell. That's why there's a new toy called Bible Man! He has a Sword of Spirit and a Belt of Truth! And he's really muscle-y with bluge-y arms and a basket of serpents in his purple underoos! If anything can de-sissify your fairy-boy son, Bible Man can!!

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

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

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

Prez Campaign Shocker: Project Runway Judges Berate the Final Three!!

PARSONS -- In a truly bizarre twist that no one saw coming, the three remaining contenders for the White House found themselves standing on reality television's most famous catwalk. Project Runway judges Heidi Klum, Michael Kors and Nina Garcia grilled Senators Clinton, McCain and Obama in the unorthodox debate, while Tim Gunn flounced about acting as mentor/moderator.

And, natch, our covert band of spies have gotten its filthy hands on a partial transcript:

HEIDI KLUM: Only one of you will make it to Olympus Inauguration Week. As you know, in politics, one day you're in und der next you are out.
HILLARY CLINTON: Thanks, Heidi. I would just like to start by saying --
HEIDI KLUM: Achtung! Silence!
HILLARY CLINTON: Sorry.
HEIDI KLUM: Let us begin by introducing our judges. First we have top American designer Michael Kors.
MICHAEL KORS: Hi guys.
CLINTON/McCAIN/OBAMA: Hi.
HEIDI KLUM: Next, we have Fashion Editor for Elle Magazine, Nina Garcia.
NINA GARCIA: Hola.
McCAIN: La cucaracha, señorita.
HEIDI KLUM: Schließen Sie Ihren Mund! Achtung!
JOHN McCAIN: Sorry.
TIM GUNN: Don't bore the voters! Knock their socks off! Make it work!
HEIDI KLUM: Gehen Sie zurück zu Ihrem Käfig, Sie homosexueller Pudel! Achtung!
TIM GUNN: Sorry.
HEIDI KLUM: I would like to start vit der John McCain. Senator McCain you are der candidate vit der boner for Iraq, und he hopes to be eine kliene George Bush. Tell us about your look.
JOHN McCAIN: Um...I'm in a navy blue Brooks Brothers suit with a red tie. I'm also proud to wear a flag lapel pin, unlike a certain uppity negro who's named after a dictator and dresses like a terrorist.
MICHAEL KORS: I don't know. It's not very flattering. Your whole platform makes you look hippy.
NINA GARCIA: We know you like to fear monger and appeal to America's xenophobia, but we need to see more from you. Didn't we see the same design from Bush? It didn't look good on him, either. It's too matchy-matchy.
HEIDI KLUM: I wouldn't wear that. You look like you belong in der casket at someone's great grandfather's funeral. Ha-HA!
JOHN McCAIN: I would like to respond to that...
HEIDI KLUM: Schließen Sie Ihr strudel Loch, Sie alter Sack der Paste! Achtung! Auf!
JOHN McCAIN: Sorry.
HEIDI KLUM: Und now we talk vit Senator Obama. Tell us about your gown.
BARACK OBAMA: I believe that America is ready for change, and that's why I'm wearing a traditional Somalian High Priest Ooga-Booga dress.
HEIDI KLUM: Auf!
MICHAEL KORS: I don't know. You look like one of those savages on Skull Island that King Kong steps on when Faye Wray wriggles free of his giant hairy palms. But could a woman wear it to lunch?
NINA GARCIA: I find it cliché, and it looks pinned together. Can we see what's underneath your cliché?
BARACK OBAMA: Just ten inches of ebony bratwurst.
HEIDI KLUM: Auf!
BARACK OBAMA: Heidi, I got your presidential "seal" right here, if you catch my drift.
HEIDI KLUM: Auf! Auf!!
HILLARY CLINTON: I have a vagina.
HEIDI KLUM: Achtung! Next we would like to hear from der Hillary. Aside from your hairy Scheide, what can you tell us about your look?
HILLARY CLINTON: Yes, I have a vagina. And to off-set my vagina-having, my whole concept was to dress like a Presbytarian Lesbo from Boise who shops at Sears.
MICHAEL KORS: I don't know. Your hips make those slacks look hippy.
NINA GARCIA: You look like a gym teacher for retarded third graders.
HEIDI KLUM: I admire your hanging an entire platform from your vagina like Frau Merkel. But from your slacks I can see you dress left.
HILLARY CLINTON: That's Bill's. I hold onto it for safe keeping.
HEIDI KLUM: Auf!
HILLARY CLINTON: He can't keep it in his pants, so I keep it in mine.
HEIDI KLUM: Und now we announce der winner of this challenge. Congratulations...John.
JOHN McCAIN: Holy crap.
HEIDI KLUM: As the winner, your look will seen on stodgy stuffed shirts until the last of the "good ole boy" dinosaurs sink into the tarpits. You can leave the runway.
JOHN McCAIN: Okay. (exits)
HEIDI KLUM: Ha-HA!! We're going to take eine kliene break. Achtung! When we return one of you vill be in, und der other vill be out. Auf-auf!!

END OF TRANSCRIPT