Can O' Whup-Ass

The Queen's Formal Instructions to the Staff of Her Majesty's Recently-Acquired McDonald's

LONDON -- The crown rests uneasily on Her Majesty's gray noggin. What with her grandchildren prancing about naked and masquerading as Nazis, her developmentally retarded son and his horse-like bride, one presumes she's constantly on the verge of snapping her cap.

As if hell-bent to provide evidence to support this theory, HRM recently purchased a McDonald's with the Crown's Purse; an alarming turn of events, which has led to rampant speculation regarding Her Royal Sanity. While we empathize that HRM's daily habit of wearing a different aerodynamically unstable hat of exponentially increasing hideousness would be enough to make a lesser broad pick up a sniper rifle and climb the Tower of London, the fact that she prefers the company of her royal corgis to her spectacularly retarded brood is cold comfort indeed.

Our underground band of ruthless operatives, as if to underscore the Queen's deteriorating grasp on reality, has recovered a top secret list of instructions (penned in the shaky hand of HRM herself) to the gang of shiftless chavs who run the freshly-christened Windsor McDonald's. Natch, we've provided the instructions below, for your general amusement:

AN ITEMIZED LIST OF INSTRUCTIONS REQUIRED BY US, THE QUEEN, SHOULD WE EXPERIENCE AN UNPREMEDITATED LATE NIGHT BIG MAC ATTACK:

1. The Queen should not desire to be super-sized, ever. Nor should HRM suffer being asked.
2. The Queen does not wish to "holler" into the mouth of a clown. Management will hastily find a more dignified alternative.
3. The Queen reserves the privilege of rejecting as unsuitable any toy she receives in her Happy Meal.
4. The Queen, being The Queen, is hereby not required to make a purchase in order to be granted access to the lavatory.
5. Should it come to The Queen's attention that an anti-monarchist chav has imprudently added their spittle to Her Fillet-o-Fish, said chav shall be swiftly and ruthlessly executed.
6. The Queen does not care for those molten lava hot pockets loosely named "apple pie."
7. The Queen hereby requires the Windsor McDonald's to develop McYorkshire McPudding, Happy Haggis, McBoiled McCabbage and Beef Wellington McMorsels.
8. The Queen considers it beneath the Crown to ever ingest (much less digest) anything called a McNugget.
9. To save all parties involved any potential mortification, The Queen does not want "fries with that shake."
10. The Queen requires all employees of the Windsor McDonald's to curtsy whenever passing HRM's chip fryer.
11. The Queen distrusts the mascot, one Mr. Ronald McDonald. HRM's secret service has orders to dispatch of the disquieting individual should he approach the royal procession.
12. The Queen is not the least bit interested in swallowing "special sauce" of any kind, ever. Just ask Phillip.

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.

President Bush Speaks Out On Scott "Doo-doo-head" McClellan's Rude Book o' Fibs

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

My fellow Americans. As God's favorite nation sits a-teeterin' on that abyss thingy, what with twisters tossin mobile homes round like those numbered ping pong balls on the mega-million power ball drawing, and stuff happening like those folks in Iranistan gettin all nuk-ya-ler; not to mention the dollar tankin faster than Pickles after her fifth xanatini and the killy explode-y stuff goin on in Sadder City as part of "Operation Enduring Oops," in our continuating effort to snatch defeat from the jaws of ickiness. Today, just two days after acting sad about Jim-Bob Lunchmeat takin a dirt nap at Arlington after soakin up shrapnel in the dazzling outskirts of Tikrit, and just a week after givin away the pretty twin at our down-home "hump 'er legal now, Goober" barn dance and weenie roast, I just wanted to concentratify on makin sure ol' John "Keating 5" McCain gets electificated come November. Infortunately, I gotta talk to you press folks to rebut (heh-heh...I said "butt") Saggytits McClellan's fibby book of rude fibs. And stuff.

First, Scotty's the kinda fat-ass short-fingered momma's boy me and my frat brothers used to give a purple nurple to after he lost the pledge week soggy biscuit contest. Then we'd all snort some booger sugar off some wasted sorority bitch's boob before having a hilarious lights-out game of grab ass. But enough reminiscifying. I had Pickles read me his book thingy (until she started seeing unicorns and passed out in a puddle of her nicotine stained drool) and he done written stuff that makes a fella wonder what crawled up in his vagina and croaked.

"I'll be long gone before some smart person ever figures out what happened inside this Oval Office."
--George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., May 12, 2008

Like for instance he says things like me, the decider, decided to "turn away from candor and honesty when those qualities were most needed." Well excuse me, Little Miss Uppity McLardass. As president it's my job to presidenticate. I'm the boss, buckaroo. That means I don't gotta listen to stuff that makes me think stuff. Nor am I oblimated to listen to stuff I don't understand good. He also says mean stuff about Congo-Lesbo Rice and Karl "Turd blossom" Rove and how we made up some propergander about Sadam and Osama givin each other crabs while riding each other like camels on a pile of yeller cake. But worst of all, he says that I fed him fibs to tell the press about how Scooter and Turdy had a circle jerk with Novak and that skirt from the Times to expose some snotty spy broad with legs up to her tits. Well, duh! If a feller don't know he's fibbin, then he just guessifying. Like that one time I guessified New Orleans negroes could swim.

Well I got a message for you, Scotty O'Mantits McFag: you weren't no prize yourself. Every time you gave one of them briefings you sweated and stammered like Foley at a Boy Scout Jamboree. If my administrication was all about wrappin poo up in shiny paper and convincing the stupid publick it's Russell-Stovers, you sure never got the hang of it. Sit on that and spin, butt-wipe.

Thank you, and may God blessify America.

"There is no doubt in my mind when history was written, the final page will say: Victory was achieved by the United States of America for the good of the world."
--George W. Bush, addressing U.S. troops at Camp Arifjan in Kuwait, Jan. 12, 2008 (WAM: He really does want to be the last president)

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.

The Foxy News Channel: It's da Ass-Kickin Oprah n' Tomcrooz Puppet Show, Bitches!

Somebody gimme a HO-oh! This be Foxy B, mo-fos. And I gots me some rhymes to spit, yo. Firs, y'all gots to chill bout that bench warrant the Judge bitch put on Foxy's ass yessaday. Lawyer bitch clear dat shit up, you feel a sistah? Sh*t. Use to be a time a ho could frow a phone at a sassy bitch's noggin without all this flibberty-floo. Foxy already done put eight m*therf*ckin monfs in da joint, yo. I did dat *ss-lickin anger mamagemint skoo. I also done edjamacated my ass, readin books an sh*t. Firs, Foxy read that shizzle bout those gay-ass crackers Dick and Jane and they f*ggoty dog Spot. Dat Spot can run, that's fo sho. Then Foxy read this whack-ass book bout a punk-ass Runaway Bunny. Bunny bitch be frontin his mama 'bout hittin da streets but mama bunny don't play dat sh*t. Blow a sistah's mind.

So this be the fird edishin of the Foxy News Channel, bitches. A sistah be finkin bout what she gonna do. Then Foxy get it in her noggin that she gonna do some inna-tainment nooz. Feel dat. Today, a sistah spittin rhymes all bout dat fat Oprah bitch and her innavoo wit dat whack-ass Tomcrooz f*ggit. But dat gay-ass whup-ass cracker who run this *ss-lickin blog don't give a sistah no kinda budjit so I don't gots no video, punks. So Foxy fixin to act out da Oprah/Tom Crooz innavoo wit sock puppets. Check it.

	OPRAH-BITCH This be da Oprah-bitch sock puppet. Oprah gots da bling, yo. Dat ho bring dat shit. She remind a sistah of that bitch from Cell block B who be makin Foxy work her stank-ass muff for a pack of bajinya slims. Oprah be serious. Dat fat sistah gots a razor blade in her weave. Don’t cross dat Oprah-bitch or she like to cut a ho. Respeck.
TOMCROOZ This be da Tomcrooz sock puppet, bitches. Foxy make this gay-ass puppet out of a ladies pair of ankle-socks, like doze lesbo tennis bitches gots. Tomcrooz be one off-da-hook cracker, mo-fos. He ain’t right in his noggin. Foxy can spot a crazy-ass cracka-man. One time Foxy be watchin da TV and his creepy-ass face come on, a bitch drop her bowl of Cap’n Crunch. Dat’s for shizzle.

So now Foxy fixin to shove her hands up these gay-ass sock puppets so a sistah can ack out some m*therf*ckin highlights from dat off-da-hook innavoo they done did at Tomcrooz crib up in the Rocky f*ckin Mountinz (a sistah best not f*ck up her tips dat she just got did, dat's fo sho). Check dat.

OPRAH SOCK PUPPET: Sit yo cracka ass down, mo-fo.
TOMCROOZ SOCK PUPPET: I be chillin like Bob Dylan, bitch. Check it.
OSP: Check yo self, punk. A sistah gots a score to settle. Whoop!
TSP: Den you gots to lay dat sh*t on a brovah.
OSP: Why you gots to looz you m*therf*ckin mind lass time? A brovah jump on a sistah's sofa? What kinda country-ass white trash you be, dawg?
TSP: I be da kinda kat dat be feelin dat shizzle. Dat be how I roll. Don't dis a bro.
OSP: A sistah let it slide dis time. But nex time a brovah visit a sistah's crib, you best keep those stank-ass Reeboks off a bitch's divan. Nex queshin. Let's spit rhymes bout yo creepy-ass lizard baby.
TSP: Dat's hard, Oprah-bitch. Suri ain't no lizard baby. Sh*t.
OSP: Don't front a bitch, mo-fo. Dat baby's got fake-ass plastic skin. Her hair be a weave. She an alien-lizard, punk.
TSP: You talkin smack bout a brovah's girl, ho. She a real-ass baby. Dat's not a weave.
OSP: N***a please. You fink a sistah can't spot a weave? Why you gots to keep dat chillunz in a cage?
TSP: Y'all gots to lay off my baby girl. Tomcrooz will smack a ho.
OSP: Fine, punk. But she half-sleestak if you ax me. Nex queshin. Do it be true you like takin tube steak up yo stank-ass poo hole?
TSP: Oprah-bitch, Tomcrooz fixin to slap the black out yo family. A brovah done bang Cher, Nico Kidmin, Hedda Locklear and Pallepalie f*ckin Cruz! I tap da shit out they ass, ho. Feel dat.
OSP: Oprah gots her some gaydar, cracka. You gots some sugar in yo ass, yo. You on da DL and you gots to fess dat sh*t up right now. Respeck.
TSP: Step correck, ho. I cut some bacon off yo fat back. Dat sh*t be rizzle fo shizzle.
OSP: Suit yo-self, punk-ass cracka. Nex queshin. Why you gots to believe in gay-ass alien ghosts dat live in a m*therf*ckin volcano? Dat sh*t's triflin. Don't you love you no Jesus? Da lord Jesus Chrise love you, chile. Who be dat Xenu f*ggit, anyways?
TSP: Step correck, ho. You on fin ice, yo.
OSP: We gots to pause now fo stashin idenfaca-whatzit. We be back, dawgs. Keep yo fat asses where they be. Respeck.

Dat be all, bitches. Foxy done with this sh*t. Peace out, mo-fos.

China to Make Duper-Super Happy Talk With Frowny-Sad Dalai Lama Peoples!

Si Ton Dong, CHINA -- Herro, and a duper-super Monday day to China-loving world peoples! Yesterday the happy good non-corrupt government official persons to make chatty time with belligerent representatives of frowny poop-eating Dalai Lama.

This is to showing how China likes to pretend it have super-big boner for peace!

Berow, we are provide the minutes from chatty-meet.

Now ugly sad western media peoples to shut yaps. We extra human lights is now. Fun!

You come orympics now, okay?

MINUTES FROM MEETING TO MAKE HAPPY TALK WITH DALAI LAMA PEOPLES

• Non-corrupt Chinese official (Sum Dum Pu) say hello and make bow. Dalai Lama peoples say hello and make bow. Sum Dum Pu make bow back. Dalai Lama peoples make bow back again. Sum Dum Pu make bow and say for Dalai Lama peoples to sit. Dalai Lama peoples make bow and say for Sum Dum Pu to sit. Sum Dum Pu make bow and say "after you." Dalai Lama peoples make bow and say "you first." Chinese guard person make pointy-gun at Dalai Lama peoples. Dalai Lama peoples sit. Ha! That be two point for us, sucker!
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu make tiny talk for to asking "how is your visit to lucky fun China?" Dalai Lama peoples are to saying "is lucky-good but air is brown and smell like yak butt."
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make generous offer of pop-soda to Dalai Lama peoples. Before we give Coke, we play joke by go pee-pee in it. Funny laugh!
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu is to making waggy-finger frowny-face to say "Why Dalai Lama wear lady-dress? Why he to play Yahtzee with Nancy Pelosi? Why he get unlucky award from homosex Frenchy peoples?"
• Dalai Lama peoples to say shouty smelly Tibet peoples only to wanting peace. Then Dalai Lama peoples is ask if we to have some poop for them to eating it.
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make waggy-finger angry face to tell Dalai Lama peoples for to stop saying China is making Tibetans do the silly funny cattle prod dance. Frowny Dalai Lama peoples to saying "why come happy laughing Chinese police peoples to making Tibet peoples doing silly funny cattle prod dance?" Sum Dum Pu make foot-stompy shouty sound that "Chinese Police peoples not make bald lady-dress Tibet peoples to doing silly funny cattle prod dance! Now you to closing your fat pie hole or we make YOU do silly funny cattle prod dance!"
• Dalai Lama peoples are smoking that and putting it in their pipe.
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to transform subject and ask Dalai Lama peoples if wanting to make dirty-sex with naughty fun booby-girlies. Dalai Lama peoples are to saying "no,thanks." Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make motion declaring Dalai Lama peoples to be lady-boy homo peoples. Laughy joke!
• Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu to make fist bang-bang on tabletop and yelly sound: "China is duper-super Orympics! China peoples are to having yummy fun doggy-woof chow mein! We are to liking Miss Oryvia Fig-Newton-John-Travolta! Who Tibet peoples got? Hamster-in-fanny Richard Gere? Yelly Bjork lady who wear the birdy flu dress? Ha!"
• Dalai Lama peoples are liking them apples.
• Frowny-bad Dalai Lama peoples to say China not to having human lights. Non-corrupt Sum Dum Pu make stompy-foot fisty-pound shouty-face: "China have human lights! You to stop say stuffs that China no have human lights! If you no stop to say China have no human lights, you go to jaily time with no trial!" I am to estimate we told him!
• Non-corrupt Chinese official person Sum Dum Pu make standing up, offer happy lucky gift-stuffs to poopy Dalai Lama peoples: lucky toothpaste, smiley face fun-toys, and silly fun panda poop orympic souvenirs!
• We go see happy fun show with dancy fat girlies in penguin suits! Yay!
  
  

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