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.

Today in Pastey Twits: Prince Charles n' Camilla Go Ethnic!

KINGSTON -- Last week, the disappointing issue of Her Majesty's royal uterus took a break from finger-popping VIPs when he whisked his horse-hipped mannish wife off to a tour of Bob Marley's house in Jamaica. After sharing a generously rolled spliff with the rastafarians, the royals jammed in a reggae drum circle, their puss-colored complexions in stark contrast to their surrounding dredlocked companions. A covert spy was on hand to record the following exchange:

PRINCE CHARLES (to CAMILLA): I say, this is some chronic doobage!
RASTA 1 (to RASTA 2): Him be batty-man. Boom bye bye.
CAMILLA (to CHARLES): How deliciously pagan!
RASTA 2 (to RASTA 1): We canna be poppin da fairyboy, mon. Him gunna be da queen a da Englishland.
PRINCE CHARLES: That ganja sure was primo, as you smelly negros like to say.
CAMILLA: Indeed, Charles. I feel the drumbeats vibrating in my finger oven, if you know what I mean.
RASTA 1: I gunna be poppin da batty-man in da dress, mon. Him be da 'bomination, da maker dunna luv him no ugly batty-boy inna girlie dress.
PRINCE CHARLES: My dear, we are of the same mind. These savage rhythms have awaked the royal trouser beast.
RASTA 2: Dat be no batty-boy, mon. Her be da batty-boy's woman.
CAMILLA: Uncage that beast, sir! Send it spelunking up my barren lady-cave!
RASTA 1: Him dinna be no woman! Dat batty-boy be packin da bananas in da hammock!
PRINCE CHARLES: I shall take you right here, you saucy wench. My be-pimpled posterior glistening in clammy sweat as it awkwardly quivers and thrusts to the drumbeat in as close a semblance to rhythm as a Windsor can emmulate.
RASTA 2: Her be lookin like da Don Imus go shoppin inna da Dress Barn, dat be da trut. But her be da lady-girl, mon.
CAMILLA: What is it about ethnic co-mingling that turns you into a gutteral, brainless, lust-crazed monkey?
RASTA 1: Him be batty-boy. Him be havin da adam's apple.
PRINCE CHARLES: When in Rome, pet. Have you forgotten Jewish Christmas?
RASTA 2: I tellin you mon. She looka like she bring-a da tartar sauce but she really be bring-a da fish.
CAMILLA: You mean that cute cha-nookah event with the beanies and the candelabra? That was divine. We got frisky that evening and you dripped hot wax on my breasts from the minorah and made me call you Shlomo Windsorstein as you chided me for shopping retail. What an animal you are.
RASTA 1: Well her be an butt-ugly woman.
PRINCE CHARLES: RAWR!!!
RASTA 2: Yeah, mon. She be ugly. But me like to be tappin dat sh*t anyways.
RASTA 1: Tie up da skinny one, mon. I get da bag for hiding da ugly woman head.

North Korea Make Lucky Fun Official Welcome to Poopy American Orchestra Peoples!!

Pyongyang -- Early today, the New York Philharmonic Orchestra landed in Pyongyang North Korea, marking the first time American musicians have played in this insular kingdom since Eisenhower's boys played their farewell performance of the Shrapnel Symphony in D.

As the musicians emerged from the plane, woodwinds in their hot little clutches, scores of North Korean "minders" met them, their faces lit up with the kind of dazzling smile only the threat of a one-way ticket to a gulag can inspire.

A dozen North Korean school children stood by, holding bouquets of roses, standing upright in their crisp uniforms, each handpicked for this occasion for their cuteness, dimples, and willingness to sell their grandmother up the river for the sake of Dear Leader.

Following an ear-splitting fanfare blasting through a circa 1948 loudspeaker, the tallest child marched up to Conductor Lorin Maazel, and issued the following welcome statement, knowing full well that DPRK guards stood by ready to drag her behind the terminal and bust a cap in her noggin if she stammered, forgot her lines, or failed to sufficiently demonstrate her adoration for Kim Jong Il:

"We make happy to saying welcome to glorious nation of Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea! Dear Leader is wanting to extend smiley-lucky florals to sad poopy imperial oboists and frowny unlucky violin peoples! Today is big historical, and you to lay official florals at foot of statue of Dear Leader! Yay! Then to happy fun tour of Yankee Soldier bloody skeleton museum! We the happy lucky fun peoples of DPRK not to have starvy freezy fun-famine! We not to eating bark noodles or dog patties! We have iPod!!! When we to conclude our happy hello we make gift of super fun blindfolds for ride in funny bumpy bus! We to feed you yummy happy Korean foodstuffs of rice with rice on top! But before we to embark on funny smiley bus, we happy childrens are to sing laughy fun traditional songy song that Dear Leader write just for you!"

CHILDREN'S CHOIR
(signing to the tune of "Happy Talk" from South Pacific)
Kim Jong Il write funny happy song
It's about how you lost the war
You used to eating poop
But we'll serve doggy soup (woof-woof!)
You the ones we build the nukies for!
You play evil song
We pretend we like
Then you watch our army make parade
You admit you wrong
We make fun of Ike
Then we make the rice for iPod trade
Kim Jong Il write lucky happy song
It's about how you stupid yanks
We dance Korean jigs
For you imperial pigs
We're nukies now and we have you to thanks
We play funny jokes
Pee-pee in your Cokes
Then we tour museum of yankee bones
You pretend not see
Our starvy freezy folks
When you go we give you back your phones
Kim Jong Il write laughy happy song
It's the best song you'll ever know
Too bad you lost the war
And don't let that screen door
Hit you on your fanny when you go

Beijing to Spielberg: "Hey Poopy-Face! You Not to Letting Fanny be Hitted by Screen Door When You to Exit! Ha-ha!!" PLUS: Oz Sez "Oops"

BEIJING -- Steven Spielberg, director of mega-hits"1941" and "Always," has withdrawn from his role as artistic adviser to the Beijing Olympics, mostly because that rude shiksa Mia Farrow liked to blab about how, considering China's bank-rolling the Sudanese killbots in Darfur, his involvement made him like filmmaker Leni Reifenstahl, who helped glorify Hitler with her film about the 1932 Berlin Olympics. Snap!! As one can imagine, the politburo in Beijing has issued a statement:

Dear most honorable Jew-boy smelly-pants: We are to make unhappy stompy foot because of you to quit as "Jew in Charge to Making Beijing Orympics Duper-Super Happy-tacular." Is because frowny ugly Mia Fallow to make you crybaby? Ha! Mia Fallow is mouthy-blab who spit baby-devil from icky-hole! And then she to selling baby-devil-Previn to Woody Arren!! Mr. Woody Arren is being Jew-boy too, and he also make funny silly movies about space peoples! Space peoples in Climes and Misdemeanors better than space peoples in Crose Encounters anyways!! So maybe we to ask him to make explode-y fun Orympics for us now! How you like that, poopy-face? Why come you to have bony pants for smelly negros in Darfur, anyway? If you to see smelly Darfur peoples on your property, you to make bodyguard to make killy gun pow-pow!! How you are to liking those apples, Jewboy Poopy-pants??

***

Sydney -- Elsewhere in non-Western hemispheres there's another country where folks talk in hilarious accents. But there, the powers that be are striking a more congenial tone. Australia took a break from battling toads and rasslin crocs to issue a formal apology to the woe-begotten race of indigenous savages, the Aboriginals. It seems that, aside from the typical run-of-the-mill cruelty visited on various natives by Christian whitefolk throughout history, the Aussies (until the '70s) got a little "kidnappy" with about 100,000 pigment-enhanced boomerang hurlers in order to assimilate them; an effort whose results were something less than spectacular. For years, the Australian government debated whether an apology should be issued and what exactly should be said. After many delays, their tireless efforts have finally borne fruit. Today, thousands of affected people whose families were decimated (earning them the deeply sad nickname "the Stolen Generations") gathered outside Parliament to hear newly-elected PM Kevin Rudd deliver a heartfelt "sorry" for which they've been waiting all their lives. Mr. Rudd's words (below) at long last addressed the officially-sanctioned misery inflicted on generations of an entire race, thereby healing all wounds and setting everything right:

PM Rudd: Yeah. Right. Sorry. Cheers, mate.*

* Actually, we think Rudd's speech was rather remarkable. It serves as an example of how a powerful democracy that tosses around words like "freedom" and "human rights" like frisbees can come to terms with an ugly history, admit wrongdoing and begin to make amends without appearing weak or losing face; an example a certain Western super-power might do well to follow.

Dispatch From Beijing: Duper-Super Lucky Fun Progress Report For Make Glorious Orympics!!

Super happy hellos! It make big lucky pleasure to report on duper-super progress for make extra glorious orympics! As China New Year become year of the mouse, all mouses are be Chinese! Hello, Mickey Mao!! Ha ha!! We making fun joke! But seliousry, we make checkrist below of happy good things we do for making to preparations so laughing happy Summer Games are extra lucky and smiley-fun!!

• When frowny sad workers get into belligerent accidents at stadium sites and act all lazy-dead, we pour concrete over them so no one see! Ha-ha!!
• Beijing air still look like chow mein and smell like panda ass. It also make face melt and ovaries fall out. But we make plan so laughing happy peoples with athsma to live in hide-y cages so they don't make insolent falling-over-dead dance in front of poopy foreign media! Yay! We also to make happy smiley kiddie slave labor fun factories to make duper-super Nike gasmasks! Swoosh!!
• Evil sad dissidents who are to say rude stuffs about China's happy laughing poritical plisoners is getting extra fun bamboo-shims-under-toenail jabby jab, we send to lucky good re-education camps for to learn funny happy cattle-prod dance!! Wheee!
• We lock up evil baby in Bo Bo Freedom City! For we a jorry good fellow!!
• We make new orympic sport! We pay for lucky happy Janjaweed to take camel rides in Darfur and play funny game we call "machete polo" with smelly bad negro peoples! Yipee!
• Yelly peoples with stupid poopy relatives stuck in deep coaly fun mines will shut their loud yaps when smiley army mens to give funny loud conk on noggins! Happy face!!
• Silly fun Panda Poop souvenirs be selling like dogburgers!! Arf!
• We make upsetty frowny face at evil bad Dalai Lama to make smelly tour of peace! We make bad icky stink!! :-(
• We offer Falun Gong kidneys at plices so row, you are thinking we insane!! Ha-ha!!
• We make make hard training for Chinese gymnasts so if they slip on balance beam and land on icky vaginas, or if they to get dishonorable blonze medal, we sell their sad frowny families to Sudan!! Ha!

Here, crybaby gymnastic girly learn that she can eat her dinner only when her stupid head touch her fanny.

This is lucky fun punishment for rudeness of being born not as a boy.

:-)

Eavesdropper: Bush n' Abdullah, Sittin' in a Tree...

RIYADH -- Halfway through his "I want peace in the Middle-East and that's why I bomb it" tour, President Bush found time to steal a few precious moments with his honey-pie. As soon as Bush set his infidel feet on Saudi soil, these two lovebirds couldn't keep their hands off each other. Always kissing and holding hands and skipping through the garden, we half-expected them to burst into a touching rendition of "Happy Talk" from South Pacific.

Fortch, our ruthless band of ninja eavesdroppers were able to pick up on one of their more intimate moments. After carving their initials into the trunk of a rape victim convicted of adultery, the two strolled amongst the hibiscus and palm trees, unaware that their every sigh was being overheard.

KING ABDULLAH: Penny for your thoughts.
PRESIDENT BUSH: I was thinkin about when I'm pretendin to be a cowboy in Texas, I can't go skippin hand-in-hand with a man in a dress. Not in public anyways. Folks wouldn't understand it.
KA: In America is not okay for the manly men to hold hands and do the skippy skip?
PB: Nosiree bob. A fella does that in Crawford, well he's the kind of fella whose noggin you folks like to hack off with a saber.
KA: That is barbaric, Mr. President! Here, men can do the skippy skip together. Men hold hands, kiss, suckle on each other's hairy man-teats, even play a game we call "let's drill for oil in your fart hole." As long as we do it like manly men, and not like a couple of sissies.
PB: Man, this Saudi Arabistan sure is a goofy town. Pickles was here a while back to talk to some gals about boob rot and she said all the chicks she met were dressed like jawas and ninja nuns.
KA: When you talk my heart sings a song to Allah about your pretty mouth.
PB: Well, shoot...pucker up buckaroo. I'm fixin to lasso your tonsils with my tongue.
KA: Is that a shish-kebab in your pocket?
PB: That there's my heat-seeking skin missile, Abdulster. And I'm a-fixin to launch a payload of man-yogurt from my aquaman underoos!
KA: You make me want to ride you bareback like a bronco in the American butt-rodeo.
PB: Well golly, Abdulster. Hike up that perty dress, face Mecca and bend over!

Sally MacFinn, the Slutty-Ass Schwinn

GIRVAN, SCOTLAND -- It seemed like yet another glorious day in Scotland. Menfolk were prancing about in plaid skirts playing the pipes and tossing cabers. Bonnie babes were busy dancing jigs and cramming a sheep's lungs heart an liver into its stomach so they could boil up a tasty batch of haggis. Factories were cranking out truckloads of whiskey and clear tape. And two unsuspecting cleaning lassies were tidying the rooms of the Aberly House Hostel. When they happened upon a locked door at the room hired by one Robert Stewart, they knocked. They knocked again. Then they let themselves in with their master key. The shameful spectacle they were about to witness shocked the brogue right oot of them.

Mr. Stewart, it seems, was caught doing unnatural things to a bicycle. Tires akimbo, her handlebars pushed behind her seat, Sally MacFinn the Slutty-Ass Schwinn had awakened unquenchable lust in her owner and was surrendering her inner-tube in a shameful manner. Yet it's the poor man she led astray, the man who climbed astride her and pumped her pedals but good every time she wanted to be rode into town, it is Mr. Stewart who has paid the price. He has been convicted of "sexually aggravated breach of the peace" and has had his name consigned to a three-year stay on the sex offenders list.

Now, forced to alert his neighbors that as a bike-sexual he is not to be trusted in the company of schwinns, raleighs, huffy's and (heaven forbid) big wheels, the empty husk that was once a man rues the day his head was turned by that saucy bitch on wheels with worn treads and a comfy seat. Yet his dreams are often visited by visions of that tenderly squeezable rubber bulb of Sally's honky-honky handlebar horn. As for the man-skirt wearing, bag-piping, caber-tossing Scots, the ugly incident recalled that unfortunate episode in 2002 when Robert Watt of Edinburgh did unnatural things with a seductive traffic cone of loose morals and easy virtue.

Sally MacFinn, now living in seclusion as a pre-op tricycle, couldn't be reached for comment.

Madge's Whirlwind Kabbalah Tour "To-Do" List

JERUSALEM -- Negro toddler-napper and erstwhile water bottle fellatrix Madonna Ciccone has touched down in the Holy Land. She and her poly-sired brood were joined by Demi Moore and her wrinkle-chasing son Ashton Kutcher for a whirlwind visit involving throwing her babies in a river and, if time allows, an afternoon jaunt to Golgotha for a refreshing self-crucifixion. As one might readily assume, our rudely intrusive network of spies have recovered her Land o' Milk n' Honey to-do list for your mortification and amusement.

1. Visit Gaza. Distract the woman with the cutest baby. Take baby. Text Oprah.
2. Stock up on Kabbalah water douche.
3. Practice sabbath prayers.
4. Day trip to Bethlehem. Find abandoned stable. Take Guy inside, do it "like a virgin."
5. Go to Wailing Wall. Ask Yahweh to forgive me for "Swept Away"
6. Drop Rocco, Lourdes, Ashton and negro baby at day care center, get Brazilians with Demi at Shlomo's Burning Bush Waxing Salon.
7. Visit Dome of the Rock to scout locations for upcoming video "Lick My Muff Juice"
8. Swing by ruins of ancient city of Sodom. Reminisce.
9. Stock up on Kosher Valtrex. Related: put Kabbalah hex on Britney.
10. Go to Wailing Wall: ask Yahweh to forgive me for "The Next Best Thing"
11. Shop for Rosh Hashana thongs.
12. Find Kabbalah mud. Sculpt mini-golem as playmate for new negro baby/pet.
13. Visit Masada to scout locations for upcoming video "Take it Up Your Poophole"
14. Take Demi to Wailing Wall. Talk her into asking Yahweh's forgiveness for "Striptease"
15. Jot down a few notes for upcoming pitch to Universal for Evita sequel "Oy! Golda!"
16. Shop for Star of David nipple ring.
17. Visit Mount Sinai to scout locations for upcoming video "Please Pee on My Face"
18. Go to Dead Sea with Demi. Ask locals if they've seen our careers.
19. Pick up Rocco, Lourdes, Ashton and the negro from Day Care.
20. Confirm El Al flight 666 back to Heathrow.

SKY-WHORES!

SAN DIEGO, CA -- When Kyla Ebbert, a bodaciously-boobed Hooters waitress, boarded a Southwest Airlines flight to Tuscon, she was informed by a customer service representative named Keith that her miniskirt/tanktop/sweater ensemble was offending children and adults with "heightened sensitivities." She was asked to change clothes. Ebbert (shown at right wearing the offending ensemble) refused, saying she was only going to Tuscon for a few hours and hadn't brought any luggage. Keith told her to conceal her rack and yank her skirt down to prevent any accidental airborne glimpse of her shame zone. This story delights us, for the following reasons:

• Everyone knows that stewardesses and trolly dollies are paragons of modesty and sexual virtue, and airlines place no value on their sex appeal. This explains all the fat dumpy broads with moustaches in the aisles slinging Fresca hither and yon and dumping plastic trays of microwaved ickiness in our crotch.
• We'd like to meet Keith, the customer service representative. Do shame pillows frighten the poor delicate poof? Did he want to scratch Booby Rackstein's eyes out in a jealous rage for awakening Captain McHumpy's trouser worm?
• We wish we were on the scene and provided Ms. Ebbert with a burka (to, you know, calm the delicate nerves of those pitiful "adults with heightened sensitivities")
• While we're on the subject, who are these "adults with heightened sensitivities?" If sharing a fuselage with a bitch in a tank top is enough to push you over the edge, we'd highly recommend never leaving your house.
• In the history of the world, the sight of a scantily clad adult has never (that's right, we said it, NEVER) caused the slightest injury or offense to a child. However, maladjusted adults over-reacting to the sight of the human body has most definitely scarred more than a few impressionable young minds.
• We have decided we're going to develop our own heightened sensitivities. Henceforth, we shall complain to the airline at the sight yarmulkes, "WWJD?" t-shirts, representatives from the itty-bitty-titty-committee, elderly Asian broads (face it, they can be creepy), overtly heterosexual behavior, man-made fabrics, midgets and fatties. We're sure that'll go over well. But aren't my heightened sensitivities as valid as anyone else's?

In the end, we're rather sure that some insufferable tub of paste complained to a member of the airline's staff who promptly over-reacted. This is a tedious trend; remember George Tsikhiseli and Stephen Varnier being threatened to stop holding hands on an American Airlines flight or the captain would divert the plane?

We want to meet the trolly dolly who'd answer such a ludicrous complaint with "bitch, you need to sit there, zip your pie hole and suffer...or your extreme retardedness is going to offend my heightened sensitivity."

That's the airline we'll fly on.

Dispatch From Black Rock: Highlights from Burning Man!

BLACK ROCK CITY, NV -- Every year, tens of thousands of smelly hippies with dirty feet and fanny packs crammed with peyote and LSD descend on the playa of the Black Rock Desert for a week of body painting, yoga, drum circles and naked hula-hooping. Welcome to Burning Man. By the time the enormous effigy is set alight at the festival's climax, billions of brain cells have died and just as many crab lice have found new homes in the musky crotches of thousands of faux-dredlocked Starbucks employees.

This year's event (attended by 46,000 artists/beat poets/trust fund bohemians who once read a Carlos Castaneda book), has been particularly eventful. First, a San Franciscan ne'er-do-well by the name of Paul Addis rudely set fire to The Man four days prematurely, causing "wicked downer vibes" and "karmic upheaval on the astral plane" according to participant Summer Catharsis, a half-Cherokee bisexual grandmother who manages an "I Can't Believe it's Tofu Paste" franchise in Sedona, Arizona. Ms. Catharsis is also a part time artiste whose macrame sculpture of a vulva is prominently featured on the main drag of the temporary hippy-opolis.

Another pall was cast over the organic merriment when one artist's rendition of his rarely-done "Hang Myself in a Tent 'til I'm Dead" conceptual performance piece was greeted at first with total indifference. However, once it was discovered that the artist took the title quite literally, it was widely regarded as "a major buzzkill" and "a brilliant commentary on our transient existence but totally creepy and gross" according to art school freshman and Domino's delivery specialist Rain Abramowitz of Taluca Lake.

So far this year, the most intriguing sights/attractions have been:

• The Menstruating Lesbian Street Theatre's production of Lysistrata using only semaphore and limericks written in Esperanto and shouted through megaphones
• A two-story tall sculpture of the Ra the sun-god constructed entirely of toothpaste and boxes of Cap'n Crunch
• Ennui Froglegs, the juggling mime, and his ten-hour organic performance piece "Three Invisible Balls"
• The Naked Fat Guy All-Lute Orchestra's tribute to Ravi Shankar
• The bong parade
• The Om-in, a massive yoga-thon for the differently-bodied, featuring the Sign Language Choir's radical deconstruction of Helen Reddy's greatest hits

ENJOY YOUR LABOR DAY BITCHES! COWA WILL BE BACK ON TUES.

XOX
WAM