Can O' Whup-Ass

A Letter to Tanya C. Butz, Outraged Virginia Woman

Dear Outraged Virginia Woman,

First, since your name is missing from every account we could find, we've decided your name is Tanya C. Butz.

According to the story, early one morning you were walking your sensitive son to school when you decided to cut through your neighbor's yard. Naturally curious as to what was going on inside his home, you spied Mr. Eric Williamson standing all nekkid and stuff in his kitchen. Then, to be sure you saw what you saw, you crept around to another window and sure enough, there this pervert stood, making coffee in his kitchen, shame hose and filthy bits on full display.

Naturally, you called the cops and Mr. Williamson is now charged with indecent exposure. And we have a few things to say about that.

It seems a gal can't take her young son tiptoeing through the bushes of a neighbor's yard these days without having her eyeballs raped in the butt by all manner of lascivious nakedness. Back in the day, good Christians could go a-peepin' and be greeted only by images of God-fearing folks who had the good taste to remain fully-clothed in the privacy of their own homes. Ms. Butz, we congratulate you not only for keeping your sights trained on Mr. Williamson's swarthy exposed personage, but for circling his house to get a better view, thereby giving your impressionable son a good lesson in spying on our heathen neighbors.

And now, we'd like to address the distastefully exposed Eric Williamson. As scripture tells us, when God made man (and subsequently yanked a rib from his chest to fashion his serpent-fraternizing, fruit-coveting baby maker), He was immediately disgusted by His creation. And that's why Jesus invented the polyester house robe.

You claim when you arose from slumber and ambled to the kitchen to brew some coffee, that it was dark outside and you had no idea a God-fearing neighbor might be skulking about your property. Spare us, sir, your pitiful excuses. For the gentleman who engages in naked coffee-brewing is precisely the sort to download she-male bukkake porn, sacrifice goats at the altar of Beelzebub and sass his mother.

Furthermore, Mr. Williamson, Jesus gets fidgety and nervous when our sin viper isn't safely tucked away within our aquaman underoos. He only allows us to drop our drawers when making uckie-poo or rinsing our oopsie zone (and only when it's absolutely necessary, for although cleanliness is next to Godliness, excessive lathering of one's flesh flute is next to something else entirely).   

So next time you spring from your sweaty mattress after a night of wet-dreaming about pooping on our Christian sensibilities, you'd do well to remember the audience of outraged townsfolk camping outside on your lawn. Put the jewels back in the vault and look into pajamas. Man-pajamas, pervert. Your next door neighbor and her son hardly expect to see you in a see-through Victoria's Secret teddy next time they traipse through your flower bed, peering anxiously through your kitchen window.

xox
WAM

Eric Williamson sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed so I could read it nekkid."

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

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

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

Dearest Mr. and Mrs. Simon Simkins:

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

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

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

Sincerely,
WAM

***

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

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

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

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

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."

A Letter to Mr. William Kaluf, Snappy Dresser

Dear Mr. Kaluf,

We read with interest the item on Action 3 News regarding your recent interaction with law enforcement personnel.

As the story goes, you decided to enjoy a lovely spring day in the dazzling metropolis of Lincoln Nebraska. So you got all gussied up in pink fishnet stockings and a bra. Then you went for a lovely stroll through the hilariously named Wilderness Park with your toddler son in tow, during which you sat on a park bench and started reading some porno. Apparently, some nosy passers-by found this rather disturbing. They phoned the police.

When the police arrived you picked up your son, dashed to your car and went for a high speed drive with the police in madcap pursuit. They finally caught up with you and discovered your ride was a virtual porn-mobile, stuffed to the gills with naughty videos and magazines. This led to the cops thoughtfully extending an involuntary "come as you are" invitation to the local precinct and returning your lil' tot to his annoyed mommy.

So, Billy (may we call you Billy?). Spring is busting out all over, ain't it? It always revives the spark in our loins. And while most dudes might react to spring fever by whacking off and/or watching some baseball, it seems there are a few like yourself who dress up like a Tuscaloosa pole dancer named Tammi and go tiptoe-ing through the tulips.

We applaud your sincere effort to bring a little desperately-needed spice to Nebraska. What's more, we appreciate your desire to be Auntie Mame to your toddler son, exposing him to eccentric fashion and obscene literature. You've also generously provided the lucky tyke with an amusing anecdote to suppress so that it can resurface during hypnosis during his ninth year of psychotherapy.

However, we feel compelled to suggest that the next time you feel an irresistible urge to take a walk on the wild side, it's a good idea to live in a city that has one. Because while the sight of a tarted up daddy reading porno to his son in the park might cause the citizens of Lincoln no small alarm, the same sight in New York would likely cause its citizens to think it must be Tuesday.

xox
WAM 

All the sexy bitches subscribe to this blog's feed.

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Florence Henderson

Um...Florence? Flo? Mrs. Brady?

Hi. Over here.

Carol! (snapping fingers in her face).

You seem a little distracted. What do you say we barricade ourselves in the green room and whip up a pitcher of Brandy Alexanders? Sound fun? We thought so too. But let's wash our hands first, groovy?

Okay, this must be said: happy friggin birthday. You are 75 years old as of Valentine's Day. You are almost twice as old as Courtney Love and you look like her lesbian kid sister. We grew up admiring the progression of your aerodynamically unstable hairdos on The Brady Bunch and were constantly hypnotized by the LSD-inspired prints on your flared pantsuits and mom-minis. As Carol Brady you were a relatively strict matriarch; one recalls how you practically ripped Cindy a new one for being a tattle-tale (we always secretly wished you'd yank a ringlet from her scalp for excessive lisping). But we always suspected you were something of a super-freak, a suspicion confirmed by subsequent tell-alls penned by various washed-up Brady kids. Apparently, the Brady house was an incest-tastic den of depravity, and Greg frequently shampooed your shag carpeting between takes (which explains why Carol insisted that Greg have his own bedroom, and sheds light on Greg's psychotic Johnny Bravo episode).

Speaking of episodes: remember when Peter tossed a basketball at Bobby and it sailed right past him and smashed that hideous vase? What did we learn (other than Carol's taste in vases was flat-out atrocious)? The moral was "Mom always said, don't play ball in the house." Which brings us to this photograph.

You filthy old broad (that's a compliment). We commend you for boldly displacing our unhealthy obsession with celebu-crotch. And by the smoldering look you're exchanging with that tall twink of water, Carol Brady is fully prepared to waive the rules and let a certain naughty boy bounce his balls in her house. And why not? Grandma/teen hippity-dippity has been all the rage since Demi started picking up Ashton after cub scouts.

We know that it's much more than a hunch. This chicken has a certain Wessonality.

In fact, looking at this picture, we ponder the following:

1. Is your post-menopausal Wessonality still Wesson-y enough? Perhaps you might need to add a certain KY-ality into the mix.
2. If we were into F-ing GMs, you'd most definitely be a GMILF. 
3. Exactly how did Jan Brady grow up to look like she's your mother? Do you bathe in the blood of virgins? 
4. Speaking of which, if indeed Carol Brady was wont to get a little "molest-y" it explains why Marcia had lesbo-sex with Jan and got fat, Peter turned into a reality-show disaster, Cindy went on to do barf-a-riffic radio interviews and Bobby found a career as a mugshot model and DWI hobbyist. 
5. It must be said that the Brady Hour Variety Show was the most retarded television show ever. Seriously. It made CopRock look like Masterpiece Theater.
6. Our inner child is hoping Carol Brady is simply giving a PTA lecture on "good touch vs. bad touch" and you are demonstrating the latter, which inevitably leads to the "touchee" pointing at the crotch of an anatomically correct teddy bear in the brightly-painted office of a child psychologist.
7. The last time we saw an old broad fondling a man's meat in such a lascivious manner, Alice was at Sam's butcher shop whispering something disgusting about warming his kielbasa in her lady-oven.
8. Pssst! He is wearing tight pants and his ball cap is jauntily reversed in regulation blow-job position. Need we spell it out for you? He's a homo, Florence. 

xox
WAM

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Troy Hammerthall: Virtual Butt Bandit

Derby, UK -- Sometimes the virtual world collides with flesh-time in the oddest ways. Submitted for your approval: meet John and Lisa Best. Two months ago, John discovered "Second Life," a virtual role-playing universe in which the flatulent, obese and generally repulsive can reinvent themselves as sexually desirable, socially adept avatars. Since then, Ms. Best took note of the fact that husband John no longer seemed all too interested in riding the Lisa-bull around the mattress of their marital rodeo. And one night not so long ago, she stumbled upon a possible clue as to why.

In the wee small hours, Lisa awakened to see John (in bed, beside her), pajamas 'round his ankles, tappety-tap-tapping away at his laptop whilst logged onto SL. His avatar, homo-erotically named Troy Hammerthall, was apparently engaged in the sort of Leviticus-defying ass-wrangling that makes the Pope nervous and causes Republican senators to tap-dance in public toilet stalls. 

After eye-balling John's icky on-line behavior for a few minutes, Lisa sat up and demanded an explanation. John slammed his laptop shut (hopefully not on his engorged joystick) and insisted it was all for giggles and grins, not to be taken seriously.

The next day, Lisa embarked on a snoop mission by opening John's laptop and poking about. She soon discovered that Troy Hammerthall had a black belt in poking about in a most unseemly manner. There were screen shots of Mr. Hammerthall sashaying about at the rudely named Bondage Ranch, whip in-hand, participating in acts so vile they promptly drove Ms. Best to demand a divorce. This, in spite of John's dubious (and spectacularly Freudian) assertion that he hasn't "a gay bone in his body" (a situation one strongly suspects he wishes to correct).

As  you might imagine, we have some things to say about this.

First, to Ms. Best: Although filing for divorce was probably wise, forgive us for suggesting that when your husband started taking his laptop to bed, that really should have sent up a few distress flares. And despite the fact that you look like a jaundiced manatee who's been hit by a shovel more than once, hubby John is unlikely to be belle of the ball at the next White Party foam dance. Neither of you are pin-up material. Perhaps the smarter move would have been to invent an avatar of your own. We might suggest an obscenely hung leather daddy named Mister Fister. That way, you could at least get your cyber-freak on. We can visualize romantic evenings, side-by-side in bed, frantically typing with one hand as you...actually we don't want to visualize that at all. Ew. Never mind.

And now, to Mr. Best:While we are loathe to plaster labels on folks, this really must be said. You need to make the following purchases, post-haste: a tribal tattoo for your ass, a subscription to Vogue, a butt plug, a shih-tzu and a Miata. Because bitch, you're gayer than Ted Haggard on Tony night.

That is all.

xox
WAM

Troy Hammerthall sez: "Everyone at the Bondage Ranch subscribes to this blog's feed"

Clownsex Enthusiasts Rejoice: The 2009 Naked Clown Calendar is Here at Last!!

SAN FRANCISCO -- The subject of clown porn, while near and dear to our heart, is nevertheless difficult to raise in mixed company. It's hardly ever appropriately interjected into a conversation about the weather or the Yankees, and clown-on-clown hippity-dippity is typically a room-clearing non-sequitur. However, on this glorious Friday, when the nation is all a-twitter because of tonight's presidential debate, clown porn seems suddenly apropos.

It seems that a bunch of kids who stuck knives in their parents' hearts when they announced their intent to attend clown college have decided to twist the handle by appearing in a naked clown calendar. Like those virile hunks of Latter Day Butt-steak before them, the intent is to comment on, and demystify, the general feelings of terror that grip our hearts when we see a Mormon or a clown (or a Mormon clown) approaching.

Below, we've thoughtfully provided a preview, introducing you to three grade-A specimens of sumptuous clown-meat:

Meet Pickle-Pants: When he's not terrifying toddlers at circuses and birthday parties, Pickle-Pants enjoys knocking clown shoes with buxom clowntresses behind the trained seal cage. His favorite sexual proclivity is tying his trouser-balloon into the shape of a dachshund. Pickles' turn-ons include walks on the beach, fine wines, scintillating conversation, and squirting his seltzer in some clown bitch's face. Turn-offs include uppity trapeze artists who think they own the g*ddamned universe, mimes (like clowns but smelly and French), and fat kids.

Meet Bobo and Porkbelly: The most sensual female clown porn duo since Mary Kate and Ashley, Bobo and Porkbelly are pioneers in the art of lesbian clown acrobatics. When they're not loitering nude in public parks and striking primal fear in the hearts of passersby with their creepy deathmetal medleys, they can be found back at the big top, rehearsing a new twist on a time-honored schtick: they spread their legs and see how many cars they can fit inside a clown. So far Bobo can fit three mini-coopers and a smart car, while Porkbelly is up to nearly twice that. Turn-ons include candle light suppers, the novels of Ayn Rand, the music of the Indigo Girls, and boobs that make honking noises when squeezed. Turn-offs include prudes that think menstrual blood isn't hilarious, golden confetti showers and fat kids.

Meet Butzo: Butzo is a typical, happy-go-lucky clown. He enjoys slipping on banana peels, taking a pie in the face, and visiting children in their dreams so he can suck their souls dry through his retractable razor-sharp clown fangs. His long time companion is the bearded lady at the Coney Island sideshow, who in reality is a long-haul trucker named Max. He carries a midget in his rectum who frequently pops out to do card tricks and hand out exploding cigars. Turn-ons include Mozart, a nicely aged brandy and anally fixated oompa-loompas. Turn offs include clownophobes, drunken carny bukkake parties and fat kids.

Subscribe to this blog's feed, or these clowns will haunt your nightmares.

   

Hump Day Perv-a-Palooza: Auto-eroticism

Human sexuality is a mysterious, powerful force. A quick browse through Craig's List yields a virtual cornucopia of bents and fetishes. We frequently wonder what makes a person wake up one day and decide to advertise for someone to poop on them. Do they meet for coffee first? Is diet discussed?

From the moment we learned why our mother gasped every time Lassie cleared the fence, we've been constantly amazed by the ever-unfolding panorama of sexual oddities, tucked inside of the last one like x-rated Russian dolls.

In this space, we often ponder such things. Most recently, there was the decidedly odd case of Diane Whalen, the Tulsa grandmother who so enjoyed getting her funk on with the family pooch, she starred in scores of amateur films on the subject.

But it's the sex-with-inanimate objects thing we find most vexing. No, we are not referring to that nice preacher man from Wisconsin who was recently filmed by a nursing home staff repeatedly humping his comatose wife (although we love his statement that God approved of his coitus vegetatus marital relations and he was merely trying to bone her back to consciousness). Instead, we refer to those who prefer the company of manufactured goods.

Who doesn't recall our startling expose of that slutty bicycle in Scotland who led a man astray until he was eventually apprehended by the authorities for indulging in man-on-schwinn hippity-dippity? There was the strange case of the gentleman who repeatedly violated the virtue of his picnic table, much to the dismay of his neighbors. Recently a man in Hong Kong got his shame hose stuck in a seductive park bench during an ill-advised tryst, necessitating an awkward rescue involving paramedics and a blow torch. What do you want to bet that little slut (who had intimate knowledge of a wider array of strange fannies than Clay Aiken) didn't even call him the next day? Then there was the chap whose head was turned by a saucy traffic cone, not to mention the Polish construction worker caught uniquely enjoying the deep-pile suction setting of a vacuum cleaner.

And now, apparently, passersby where greeted by the alarming sight of an inebriated man having his way with a Toyota SUV. They were so shocked and disgusted that they stopped to film the encounter. Did he seduce the vehicle with super premium unleaded? Vacuum her upholstery? What prompted this man to put his tiger in the tank of a late-model gas guzzler? Whatever the reason, he is the internet's superstar du jour. When he sobers up, he'll likely regret the encounter. Who's going to let him ride shotgun now? He might find it difficult to hail a taxi. Will dealerships file pre-emptive restraining orders? Whatever cruel fate awaits this misguided soul, we strongly hope his love affair with the automobile is limited to the parked variety. Talk about "wham bam thank you ma'am."

We prudishly long for the old days, when sex symbols were objectified rather than objects sexified.

Vroom-vroom, indeed.

WAM sez: "Subscribe to the COWA feed. It's not just for perverts anymore!" 

Sausage, Sausage, Sausage!!!

Laws are like sausages. It's better not to see them being made.
—Otto von Bismark

We hear you, dear devoted readers. Nary a day goes by when our email isn't flooded by the single desperate request: "Please, Whup-Ass Master, please blog about sausage."

You're welcome.

• PUT DEPP'S SAUSAGE IN YOUR MOUTH: Johnny Depp is so dreamy! If you're like us, he's really all you ever think about. And now, every time we feel the urge to enjoy a sizzling savory meat product, we can stuff our throats with what-else-but genuine Johnny Depp sausage. We're already salivating at the thought of stretching our mouth around that hot tube of meat swelling against its casings, and biting into it so the juice squirts out and dribbles down our chin. Thanks, Disney!
• WHEN SAUSAGE ATTACKS: Back in June, an incident of extreme Oedipal overtones unfolded when a Florida man named Gregory Praeger was having an argument with his insufferable mother. The altercation reached its unforeseen climax when Mr. Praeger suddenly conked his Mommy on the noggin with a Polish sausage. Mr. Praeger was arrested and presumably rehabilitated. However, over the weekend the dazzling hamlet of Fresno awoke to discover in its terror a copy-cat sausage assaulter was apparently on the loose. On Saturday, one Antonio Vasquez Jr. (in the midst of burglarizing a house) decided to strip down to his boxers and smear "Pappy's Seasoning" (a meat rub) all over the sleeping body of one of his victims, after which he slapped the other victim about the face and head with an eight inch sausage. When the two men awoke (one questions their reposal proximity), they apparently objected to being sausage-slapped and prepped for grilling, because Mr. Vasquez promptly fled, leaving his pants and wallet behind; thus enabling the fearlessly heroic Fresno police to nab the ruthless animal.
• STUFF YOUR WIFE INTO SAUSAGE: In 1897, Adolph Luetgert (widely admired Chicago sausage tycoon), was having marital problems with his uppity wife Louisa. So one day when she marched into the sausage factory to give her sausage man some lip, Mr. Leutgert snapped his cap and shortly thereafter unveiled Louisawurst to the great appreciation of second-city sausage afficionados. Unfortch, when Louisa's wedding ring was discovered in a sausage vat, Mr. Leutgert found himself being stuffed daily with an entirely different kind of sausage in Joliet prison.
• STUFF SOME SAUSAGE INTO YOUR MAN: Bachelor parties can be dull affairs. Hire the wrong entertainment and one can find oneself in the midst of a dreary sausage party. Luckily, at the bachelor party of an un-named groom in glorious Melbourne Australia, a demure stripper by the name of Linda Maree Naggs was procured to enliven the festivities. And that's precisely what she did. After the groom declined to sample Ms. Naggs' treats, his best man (egged on by 30 male attendees) agreed to perform with the blushing coquette. Before he knew it, he was being held down as Naggs strapped on a sausage-shaped appendage and did the poor bloke up his oopsie-hole, dingo-style. Ms. Naggs is currently on trial for raping the best man and causing minor rectal damage. One can only imagine, as he waddled up to the dais with his freshly enlarged poo-hole and raised a glass at his best friend's wedding, exactly what sort of wedding night advice he offered in what was surely the most interesting toast ever proposed.   

A subscription to this blog's feed is like a juicy bratwurst; you never know what's inside but it always goes down well with beer.

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Totally Exclusive: Fox Mulder's Daily Sex Rehab Affirmations!

HOLLYWOOD -- David Duchovny, whose lengthy resume includes The X-Files and The X-Files, recently checked into rehab to address his addiction to sex, according to a statement released through his publicist. We wish the man well, and have to admire him for announcing over a megaphone that he can't keep it in his pants. It was a brave move, as he had to know that Jay Leno will crack endless hilarious jokes at his expense, keeping his audience in stitches until they switch off the flashing "laugh" sign. And of course, there's the inevitable onslaught of cruel barbs from the blogosphere. But it's best just to allow the man his privacy while he confronts his demons (and fights the urge to f*ck them).

Unbeknownst to us, however, our ruthless band of covert ninja operatives has somehow gotten their grubby mitts on a list of affirmations Mr. Duchovny now chants on a daily basis in order to tame his incorrigible shame hose. You're welcome in advance.

DAVID DUCHOVNY'S DAILY AFFIRMATIONS

I, David Duchovny, do not believe an alien lives in my underoos and he's intent on conquering the earth by planting lizard babies in every uterus from here to Tuscaloosa.

I, David Duchovny, no longer fantasize about riding Molly Ringwald around her bedroom like a bull at the he-man monkey-sex rodeo.

I, David Duchovny, will immediately cancel my platinum-level memberships on donkeypunchingstewardesses.com, downsyndromedaisychain.com, felchingfarmfamilies.com, doggiestyledentalhygienists.com, bigboobedbaptistbitches.com and nunswithbuns.vatican.org.

I, David Duchovny, regret salaciously propositioning the late Shari Lewis by asking if lamb chop wanted to shake hands with my pants-pinocchio.

I, David Duchovny, do not have wet dreams about helping a girl scout troop earn their rimming badges while I devour a box of thin mints.

I, David Duchovny, feel bad about telling Mackenzie Phillips that my trouser spew contains heroin.

I, David Duchovny, resolve that the next time I see that curvaceous counter girl at starbucks (the one with the lip ring and the "Emo 4-Ever" neck tattoo) ladle steamed milk froth into my decaf frappa-latte, I'll immediately picture Rush Limbaugh in a thong.

I, David Duchovny, for the foreseeable future, promise to wear a Tabasco-soaked oven mitt on my right hand.

HAVE A GREAT LABOR DAY WEEKEND, BITCHES!

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