Can O' Whup-Ass

Eavesdropper: Pickles in Afghanistan

KABUL -- Yesterday, Laura "Pickles" Bush went to Afghanistan. Upon arrival at an outpost run by New Zealand's military, she was greeted by an alarming spectacle known as the native NZ "welcome" dance. Luckily, standing just out of frame, one of our ruthless covert operatives wore a wire under his burka and was able to record the following exchange for your general amusement. Again, you're welcome.

LAURA BUSH: Who's this naked negro man?
NZ SOLDIER: He's a Maori soldier, he's going to perform the traditional Maori welcome dance.
LB: He's real?
NZS: Yes, ma'am.
LB: Sometimes after my third xanatini I see naked negro men dancing in the Rose Garden.
NZS: He's not a negro, he's Maori.
LB: That's what they all say! And Tiger Woods is Japanese! Ha!
NZS: Yes, ma'am.
LB: He's funny! He's got a ferret in his pants!
AFGHANI WOMAN: No, praise Allah! That's his savage yogurt-spitting pants viper! LALALALALALALALALALA!!!
LB: Shhh! I have a headache!
AW: Sorry...
LB: Oh! Does he know "Swanee River?"
NZS: No, ma'am.
LB: How about "Them Ol' Cotton Fields Back Home?"
NZS: No.
LB: "Jimmy Crack Corn?"
NZS: No.
LB: "Mammy?"
NZS: No, ma'am. Sorry.
LB: Well what kind of negro is he?
NZS: He's Maori.
LB: His jumpy jumpy dance is making me giddy. Is he magic?
AW: No, but he can make his angry underoo serpent disappear, praise Allah! LALALALALALALALALA!!!
LB: I don't like that yelly lady. Shoot her.
NZS: I can't, ma'am.
LB: How long do I have to pretend to enjoy this? I'm tired. I need a ciggy. Last night after my seventh rum and Dr. Pepper I chased a unicorn through a poppy field!
NZS: Just a few more minutes, ma'am.
LB: I passed out and slept in this Dress Barn Chairman Mao pants suit and now it's all wrinkly. I need a nap.
NZS: It's almost over.
LB: You have a funny accent. Are you from space?
NZS: No, ma'am.

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Sharon Stone

Um...Share?

Wow. Okay. Hi.

Let's flag down a waiter and freshen our cinnamonapplefrappetinis, how does that sound?

So here's the deal. We know this photograph is a few months old, and is therefore as stale as "Basic Instinct 2." But it took that long for us to wrap our sensitive mind around this horrifying image. Now, ever the brave soldier, we're ready to confront our nightmare; in fact, for the first time EVER, we've broken our long standing policy of keeping everything an artsy-fartsy black-and-white so that we might communicate the full extent of fashion horror you've unleashed. Yet there you are, in full debutante slouch, Arte Johnson's "Laugh-In" wig perched on your head and an impish expression on your face. As if to say "I DARE you to say it."

Sharon. Sharon, Sharon, Sharon. We've had similar discussions. Did we learn nothing from your Make-a-Wish camel-toe inducing cat woman jumpsuit? Why are you feeding our unhealthy obsession with celebrity crotchular regions? Are you toying with us? Don't get us wrong, we still think you're a righteous old broad. Anyone who can enrage the entire nation of China AND raise $10 million for AIDS in the SAME NIGHT is okay in our book. And we reiterate: we rather suspect you're a hilarious drunk. 

But let us pause to ask the obv: whence the alarming menstrual hurricane ravaging your oft-displayed lady-hole? For the love of God, woman! Invest in a tube a vagisil; it's not expensive!

You look like (pick one):

1. You made the unfortunate choice of hiring Donda West's plastic surgeon to oversee your vaginal rejuve job
2. After a brief holiday on the Island of Doctor Moreau, a baboon butt has inconveniently materialized in place of your shame hole
3. A publicity still from a Lifetime movie called "Not Without My Fetus: Portrait of a Socialite Do-It-Yourself Abortionist"
4. Ms. July in the "Yeast Infection Babes of 2008" promotional calendar
5. In a desperate attempt to cool off, you overzealously inched your clitoris fatefully close to a high-powered oscillating fan
6. A wormhole has mysteriously appeared in your labia, offering all who venture near a chance to be transported to the Crab Nebula
7. You lost a food fight at Tom and Katie's place on placenta au gratin night
8. You're showcasing the winning design from that episode of Project Runway where the contestants had to produce a wearable evening gown from a whale sphincter
9. Bloody hell.

XOX
WAM

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Agent Scully

Um...Dana?

We KNOW.

We're just as shocked as you are.

Listen, let's get you covered up and do a shot or five of Jager. How's that sound?

Okay, so here's the deal. We know you think "The Truth is Out There." And while that may very well be true, it can also be said that "The Mystery is In There" if you catch our drift.

Now, you might understandably accuse us of being obsessed with celebrity shame zones. Guilty as charged. But we remain convinced our vigilance is a public service. Case in point: if we hadn't thoughtfully schooled Adrian Grenier on the hazards of going commando in spandex, he might re-offend, prancing about in public looking as if he's smuggling a litter of kitty cats into "Pippin" rehearsals.

But the bizarre phenomenon going down in your crotchular region simultaneously defies rational thought, laws of physics, and common decency. Perhaps Fox Mulder needs to go a-spelunking up your vajayjay (you know he wants to) to discover why your dress, our attention, light, and indeed all four Einsteinian dimensions seem to be disappearing into your hair pie.

You look like (pick one):

1. In a rare mutation of the dreaded "camel toe" (see: Stone, Sharon), you have manifested the world's first documented case of camel sphincter
2. In an unforeseen spasm of bohemian iconoclasm you almost pierced your clitoris, but opted at the last minute to wear a clip-on; and the tasteful bauble now dangling from your hoo-hoo has become entangled in your toga.
3. A still from that lost episode of "The X Files" wherein the alien baby you're baking in your lady oven has fashioned a super collider out of your fallopian tubes and a black hole has appeared in your uterus
4. You've just remembered where you parked that chewed piece of Juicy Fruit
5. In a desperate attempt to "feel fresh" you dumped a box of lemonheads up your tw*t
6. Your labia would very much appreciate it if you'd stop hogging the sheets, thank you very much
7. Bloody hell.

XOXOX
WAM

Hey, M*******ckers! It's the @#!&% News Roundup with Sailor-Talkin Sue!

NEW YORK -- When Tourettes-afflicted news reader Sue Simmons recently dropped the F-bomb during a live broadcast, she unwittingly stumbled upon a heretofore untapped niche: potty mouth journalism. Although she has since performed her "oops, I'm sorry" tapdance, plans are currently underway for the veteran anchor negress to host her own, highly-targeted newscast: The @#!&% News Roundup.

As one might guess, our network of morally-bereft spies was able to smuggle the teleprompter copy for your general amusement. You're welcome.

Good evening, m*therf*ckers. I'm Sue Simmons. Here's the g*dd*mned news:

• A fat-*ss f*ckwad in Florida by the sh*tty name of Bob Hezzelwood was given a g*d d*mned ticket for wearing a c*cksucking speedo on the f*cking beach. Although a cow-f*cking *ss-licking judge threw the c*nt banging case out, Mr. Hezzelwood has filed an *ss-humping tw*t-licking lawsuit against the butt-f*cker who arrested him, violating his g*d-d*mned right to make other beach goers puke their m*therf*cking guts out at the sight of his nasty-*ss c*ck crammed into his f*ggoty banana hammock.
• In the f*ggot-*ss nation of Great f*cking Britain, an *ss-licking retard by the b*tch-*ss name of Dougal Thorn has been arrested on c*ck-sucking charges of animal f*cking cruelty. It seems the bloody-*ss d*ck smoker got p*ssed off at his c*nt-spelunking d*ke neighbor's kitty cat. So he punched the g*d-d*mned sh*t-eating homo kitty cat in the m*ther-f*cking head and tossed it in the c*cksucking river. He got his tw*t in a knot cause the *ss-hole cat "looked pleased" when it knocked over a c*nt-fisting vase. His neighbor, a m*ther-f*cking whore named Sarah Booker, should stop her g*d-d*mned b*tching and clear the sand from her c*nt, as it's been a tw*t-banging coon's age since she had her m*therf*cking p*ssy punched.
• The g*d-d*mned *ss-hole Tony Nominations have been announced. Leading the m*therf*cking pack is "In the Heights," a c*cksucking musical about a bunch of *ss-f*cking sp*cs singing and dancing like a bunch of g*d-d*mned f*ggots. "The Little f*cking Mermaid," Disney's g*d-d*mned musical about a b*tch-*ss girl doesn't have a tw*t cause she's m*therf*cking fish, was largely snubbed. Patty d*ck-sucking Lupone was nominated for best c*nt-licking actress for her work in the f*ck-me-in-the-*ss revival of "Gypsy". Nominees for best *ss-licking revival included "South f*cking Pacific," "Sunday in the g*d-d*mned Park with f*ggot-*ss George" and "Mac-f*cking-Beth."

We pause now for a f*cking word from our *ss-licking g*d-d*mned sponsors. So keep your c*nty-*ss butts planted in your c*cksucking f*ggoty couch, and we'll be right the f*ck back, m*therf*ckers.

Totally Exclusive!! A Peek Inside the "Jenna's Gettin' Hitched Barn Dance and Hootnanny"

CRAWFORD -- It was the most splendorous social event the Lone Star State had seen in years (no, not the sinkhole). The toughest ticket since the ATF-sponsored Branch Davidian weenie roast, Jenna Bush's Knot Tyin' Jamboree occurred under heavy security, with only the highest-ranking family members, friends and ex-Enron executives in attendance.

But of course one of our shameless moles was able to infiltrate the goings-on, disguised as an undocumented Mexarican cater-waiter. And he was able to report back on the biggest gathering of douchebag yahoos since the FoxNews company picnic. And here's a few magical moments he overheard and transcribed for your exclusive consideration:

THE VOWS:

JENNA: Henry, I'm totally like into being your squeeze and stuff. I remember when I was a little girl and my daddy took me on his knee. After coppin a feel, he said I'm prolly gonna get hitched before what's-her-name. My twin. Her name's on the tip of my tongue. That girl over there with the ugly face. The card-holding member of the Itty-Bitty-Titty-Committee. Oh yeah, Barbara. I totally forgot what I was sayin. I'm majorly psyched that from now on when I give your pants-meat a mouth hug in the back of a limo, the baby Jesus won't get his swaddling clothes all bunched up in his buttcrack. Last night my Mom knocked on my bedroom door. I was tokin' on some chronic doobage so I put it out and gargled with jean nate. She staggered in and sat on my bed, spilling her xanatini and totally ashing on my comforter. And she said that now that I'm hitched I gotta bend to your whim. Well, um, I'm not sure what a whim is but if it's anything like your sperm-barfing underoo viper, I'll like totally bend to it whenever. Unless I'm on my period or feeling farty.

HENRY: Jenna, you look hot. In that dress I can totally see your bodacious boobage. I've had a boner for you ever since I saw you passed out in your puke at that nightclub, those secret service dudes tryin to wake you up and stuff. Your skirt was up over your head and I could see your twat. Then the secret service dudes pulled your skirt back down and I almost creamed my Gap khakis. You totally look like your Daddy if he was like a tranny. I knew from that moment I wanted you for my wife so's we both could be like, rolling in dough. I'll even put up with your nasty grandma's crapola, just so long's I can do lines of booger sugar off your boobs and shove your ankles behind your ears at least four times a week and do to you what your daddy done to the country. Heh-heh...C*NT-tree. I said "c*nt." That's totally hilarious, dude.

OVERHEARD CONVERSATION: BUSH FAMILY WEDDING PORTRAIT

JENNA: Daddy, quit touchin my butt.
LAURA: Who are you?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
LAURA: Likely story. Where's security?
GEORGE: Where's my momma?
BARBARA: Gam-gam's yelling at the Mexicans.
GEORGE: I was a-scared she'd get in one of her moods when Daddy started cryin like a girl and she slapped his glasses across the lawn into a cow pie. Say, who's that skinny gal?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
JENNA: Hey, whore. You can arch your back like a Hustler centerfold all you want, your boobs still look like dried cherry tomatoes.
BARBARA: Shut up, tw*t...your dress looks like wadded up charmin and you smell like you've been frenching Barney.
JENNA: Mom, make the ugly one shut her yap.
LAURA: It was a lovely ceremony. I 'specially liked the acrobatic leprechauns.
GEORGE: How many Xanax you take, Pickles?
LAURA: That's Rainbows to know, and bunny rabbits to find out.
BARBARA: I wish that guy would take the damn picture.
GEORGE: Relax, what's-yer-face. Brownie's doin' a heck of a job.
LAURA: Who's this lady and why is she pressing her mcboobs into my shoulder?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
JENNA: You look like Olive Oyl with scoliosis.
LAURA: Nice to meet you, Miss Oyl. Could you take your thumb outa my buttcrack?
GEORGE: My bad.
LAURA: Cookie monster!

Coming this Fall: "Swee-tards" (Bonus: COWA Pitches New Reality Series!)

Whilst combing the interweb for something fresh to ridicule, we happened upon an item on TMZ. Apparently someone is developing a reality/dating show for mentally disabled folks, and posted an ad on craigslist for contestants. This makes perfect sense to us, because anyone who would respond to such an ad would qualify by default.

Okay. Even a person who—say, wears a helmet to bed—needs love. We were not unmoved by Shaun Cassidy's groundbreaking performance in "Like Normal People," wherein two people with the mental capacity of a sack of hammers meet and fall in love (remade decades later as "Sleepless in Seattle"). And while one might make the case that shows like "The Bachelor," "Flavor of Love," and "I Love New York" have saturated the "let's watch retards court each other" niche, we still can't help but feel there's something icky and exploitive about this. But of course, we'd TOTALLY watch it.

Below, we've provided not only an exclusive look at the projected winning couple (attained by our resourceful and amoral operatives), but have decided to pitch our own reality shows whose collective aim is to obliterate the remaining scraps of good taste from the American cultural landscape. Enjoy!

"SWEE-TARDS" PROJECTED WINNERS

NAME: Bipsy McGaw AGE: 72-and-a-half TURN ONS: Fingerpaints, Bugs Bunny, Fisting TURN OFFS: the boogeyman STATEMENT: One time I went down the slide at the park but I peed my pants so I got stuck. Then I played a game with the other kids called “I bet I can throw a rock at your face.” Cookie Monster!!

NAME: Doody Bandersnatch AGE: poop TURN ONS: poop TURN OFFS: poop STATEMENT: Cookie Monster!!

WAM'S REALITY SHOW PITCH-O-RAMA:

• "BASEMENT BITCHES" WITH JOSEPH FRITZL: Hosted by the gentleman who locked his daughter in the cellar for a decade or three, this show is "Big Brother" meets "Temptation Island" meets "Hogan's Heroes." Object: first one to tunnel out before giving birth to Fritzl's child wins a $5,000 shopping spree at Bed, Bath & Beyond.
• "I DIDN'T ORDER THAT" WITH RONALDO: Brazilian soccer star (or "football" star for you tedious Europeans) Ronaldo is stranded on a desert island with a dozen beauties, half of which are female while the other half has a platano tucked away in their bikinis. Each episode promises an eye-popping surprise in a daring new reality show that is part "Bachelor" and part "Snakes on a Plane."
• "WRINKLE FARM" WITH SHARON STONE: In a whacky cross between "Kid Nation" and "Cocoon," two dozen burdensome oldsters are trucked out to a delapidated ghost town in death valley and promptly abandoned. Hidden cameras are placed everywhere, and an increasingly inebriated Sharon Stone provides hilarious commentary.
• "HOMO/NOT A HOMO" WITH DINA MATOS-MCGREEVEY: Graduates of Exodus International Ministries' homo-be-gone reparative program are paired with desparate childless women of a certain age. A fascinating hybrid of "The Amazing Race" and "Brokeback Mountain," each couple dashes from circuit party to disco, broadway musical to sample sale in a mad-cap scavenger hunt. The first couple to conceive a child together wins a luxury cruise down de Nile river. Hosted by professionally outraged beard, Dina Matos-McGreevey.

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

Now We're Cookin! Scaring Up Grub With Sticky-Fingers Cindy

WASHINGTON -- If there's anything that Cindy McCain likes to do, it's steal stuff. The spray-tanned Stepford Wife of super-ethical candidate John "Keating 5" McCain has a colorful rap sheet; she used the five-finger discount to procure a trunk load of "dolls" (specifically vicodin and percoset) from a charity. Once, she saw another woman's husband in the window, and simply could resist trying him on. And now, a double-whammy; she's swiped a page from Jessica Seinfeld's playbook by ripping off other people's recipes and claiming them as her own. Natch, the blame has fallen on a wayward "intern" (isn't it always an intern's fault?). While one might ask why these things weren't fact checked before being posted on McCain's website, we might also point out that one of the recipes also appeared in the New York Sun back in January.

But why make a brou-ha-ha over such silly fiddle-faddle? Always eager to help the unfairly maligned set the record straight, we coaxed the beer heiress out of her prescription-induced haze long enough to provide her actual favorite recipes, not previously published by the Food Network, Rachel Ray or on a box of Honey Bunches of Oats:

PERCOSET HAPPY BUNS
1 cup Special K
1/2 cup Egg Beaters
1/2 cup Sweet-n-Low
1 handful of Gummy-Bears
1 baker's dozen 50mg Percoset
1 dozen Trojan condoms with reservoir tips
Instructions:
Place Special K in a baggie, take off your Ferragamo pump and beat the baggie until the contents are reduced to dust (or until the empty feeling in your soul is numb). Blend in bowl with Sweet-n-Low, Gummy Bears and Egg Beaters. Grind 1 doz. Percoset with mortar and pestle, and wash the remaining Percoset down with a spritzer. Place mixture from bowl in condoms, tie off ends. Snip off reservoir with pruning shears, microwave on high for three minutes. Remove buns from condoms, sprinkle with Percoset dust. Serves 6. Enjoy!

VICODIN YUM-PIE
1 package diet Jello tapioca mix
1/2 dozen Tootsie Rolls, unwrapped
1/2 cup "This Can't Be Vegemite" sandwich spread
1/2 cup rendered bison fat
1/2 cup Beefeaters Gin, chilled
1 cup Frankenberry cereal
1 baker's dozen 50mg Vicodin
Instructions:
Crust: Place Frankenberries in a baggie and pulverize it to dust with either a Holy Bible or The Army Field Manual. Mix in a bowl with bison fat (rendered previous day, left out to congeal overnight). Spread in a 9-inch pie plate.
Filling: in a blender, puree "This Can't Be Vegemite" and diet tapioca mix. With mortar and pestle, grind 12 Vicodin to powder (wash the remaining Vicodin down with a spritzer). Mix Vicodin powder with gin, draw mixture into a syringe. Inject unwrapped Tootsie Rolls with gin/vicodin mixture. Pour TCBV/Tapioca mix into pie pan. Arrange infused Tootsie Rolls on pie in a happy face (or a frowny face, depending on hubby's poll numbers). Bake in oven pre-heated at 375 for 45 minutes (or until the vicodin kicks in and your fingers feel like licorice). Let cool. Serves 4. Hooray!!

OXYCONTIN "MOUNT RUSHMORE REDUX" ASPIC
10 lbs. sculptor's wax
10 lbs. plaster of paris
1 cup gelatin
1 cup bloody mary mix
2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
1/2 cup minced dates
1/2 cup Crisco shortening
1/4 cup chopped Twizzlers
1 baker's dozen Oxycontin
Instructions:
With sculptor's wax, sculpt a likeness of Mount Rushmore, with negro-lover Thomas Jefferson's face replaced by the craggy-saggy mug of my darling ancient husband. Submerge upside-down in a bucket of plaster of paris. Let sit until plaster hardens. Remove from bucket and melt the wax out with a blow torch. Saute minced dates in Crisco, stirring in bloody mary mix, Worcestershire sauce and chopped Twizzlers. Remove from heat. Stir in gelatin. Pour mixture into plaster mold, refrigerate. While it's chilling, grind 12 oxycontins with a mortar and pestle. Wash down remaining oxy with a spritzer. Take a nap. Upon awakening, remove mold from refrigerator and chisel away plaster with an ice pick. Pat clean with damp cloth. Place Mount Rushmore on a platter. Sprinkle oxycontin on top to simulate a light dusting of snow. Garnish with sprig of parsley. Serves 8. Slurp!!

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Olivia Newton-John

Um...Olivia?

We hesitate to approach you in your current fragile state, as you seem a teensy bit discombobulated.

We understand. Traipsing about on the Great Wall of China, one can be suddenly overtaken by the heady aroma of pollution mixed with labrador chow mein. So let's have a seat, sprinkle a little Carpet Fresh in our immediate environs, enjoy a Diet Peach Snapple and have ourselves a chit-chat, what do ya say?

We totally dug it when, as Sandy Dumbrowski, you taught little girls everywhere that if they want John Travolta to like them they need to tart themselves up, pick up smoking and act like a slut. And we felt your pain when you roller-boogied right past the end of your career in your portrayal of a radioactive disco muse. When you desperately clung to your relevance by opting for a butch hairdo, going bi and "getting animal," we died inside. And when your boy toy faked his death so he could escape your clutches and move to Tijuana, well...that had to suck. In spite of it all, however, we're hopelessly devoted to toi.

You see, there was a time when we were in a hurry as you are. We were...like you. But we've got something to tell you, that we never thought we would. And we believe you really ought to know. We're not trying to make you feel uncomfortable. We're not trying to make you anything at all. But this feeling doesn't come along every day...and we shan't f*ck up the chance when we've got the chance to say: bitch, you're a hot steaming pile of "oops."

You look like (pick one):

1. A beached flounder
2. Loretta Swit performing her dazzling one-woman show "Oh, Leona! (the Helmsley Monologues)"
3. You've unwittingly entered a spiritual vortex and have spontaneously begun channeling the spirit of a transsexual bullfrog
4. In an unforeseen spasm of cultural empathy, you're giving an impromptu performance of the Traditional Chinese Opera "On the Hoof: the Dog Meat Musical"
5. Your agent just phoned you and said "two words: Xanadu Two! Hey, we'll call it Xana-Deux!!")
6. Bloody hell.

OXOXO
WAM

Charlton Heston's Hands: Cold, Dead

HOLLYWOOD -- Charlton Heston, gun enthusiast and ham star of the biblical sci-fi epic "Moses of the Apes," was yanked into Hades by the icy hand of the reaper at the spry young age of 183.

As coroners work round the clock to pry the gun from his cold, dead hands, let us pause to reflect on the career of one of cinema's most wooden actors and saunter down memory lane as we eulogize the famously homophobic star (whose most famous roles include a shirtless sweaty slave and a homosexual ceiling painter) by giving plot summaries of his most breath-taking cinematic achievements:

AIRPORT '75: When a cesna pilot rudely takes a mid-flight dirt-nap, he collides with the cockpit of a 747. This leaves trolley-dolly Karen Black (still possessed by the voodoo doll from "Trilogy of Terror") to land the plane. Meanwhile, Helen Reddy (in nun drag, armed with a guitar), terrorizes the fuselage as she tortures a post-Exorcist/pre-Rollerboogie Linda Blair by singing at her. Heston instructs Karen Black how to dodge mountains as he dangles himself on a tether and enters the cockpit hole as a gasping Karen Black squeals with delight (the most blatantly Freudian cinematic moment since a train raced through a tunnel at the climax of North by Northwest).

SOYLENT GREEN/OMEGA MAN/PLANET OF THE APES: In a dystopic future, a bewildered Heston finds himself (eating crackers/fending off albino mutants/enslaved by monkeys). He gets yelly. He grits his teeth. He hatches a plan to (decifer the cracker's recipe/create an albino-be-gone serum/avoid castration). His plan is thwarted when (Edward G. Robinson ends his career in suicide/his girlfriend dumps him in favor of the mutants/he's put on trial for over-acting and tongue-kissing a chimp). In the film's final, harrowing scene he (finds out soylent green is people/loses a round of "catch the spear"/visits the statue of liberty and inks a deal for 500 sequels).

THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH/THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD: Heston phones in a thrilling performance in this bloated flick about (a circus/Christianity). In it, he plays a man who (catches Betty Hutton by her thighs as she hurtles through the air/gets his noggin chopped off). In the breathtaking finale (Jesus gets shot out of a cannon/58 clowns emerge from a volkswagen and are promptly crucified in the center ring).

BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE: Heston stars as himself in this rousing thriller about an ancient gun-crazy has-been whose senile racist rants are encouraged by a manipulative, obese egomaniac.