Can O' Whup-Ass

God Beat with Jeannie Bladdersham: Lazarus Awakes!

Glory! Greetings and blessings, fellow soldiers of Christ! I fear my extended absence from God Beat has left holes in your lives. These lonely holes of yours have become drafty gaping caverns of despair. But your prodigal sister in Jesus is back, asking you to find it in your cholesterol-choked hearts to invite me once again to dive into your holes and fill them up with the pulsing throbbing warmth of the Holy Spirit. Praise!

Long story short, my beloved Aunt Betsy mistakenly had yours truly committed to an open-ended stay at the Peducah Home for the Odd and Peculiar (or P-HOP), a discount maximum security mental health facility wedged betwixt the Jiffy Lube and the Piggly-Wiggly out on Route 3. Let me assure you I had no business being tossed amongst the fruitcakes and demonically-possessed. It was all a poopy misunderstanding which arose when I took my still-born twin Janet –  floating obediently in her jar of formaldehyde – down to the Peducah edition of the Antiques Road Show.  I was hoping one of those sweet effeminate bachelors could put a price tag on a set of pewter salad tongs I picked up at a Lutheran flea market (I wrongly suspected they date back to prehistoric Mesopotamia). Can you believe they thought I was trying to get Janet appraised? Heavens, no! Let me chase away any doubt; I would never sell my still-born twin Janet, not even for 10 million dollars. Well, yes, I’d sell her for $10 million. I’m not CRAZY, after all. Glory!

As you know, I sing mezzo-soprano with the Peducah Praise Singers (an all-girl gospel choir), now on temporary hiatus following our whirlwind tour of South Sudan, Saudi Arabia and Craters-of-the-Moon Idaho. The tour was mostly successful, although we had to high-tail it out of Saudi Arabia; a sudden sand storm struck as Trudy Plank (coloratura, whore) leapt into her scat solo during “My Fanny is an Exit (Since Jesus Entered My Heart).”  Gale-force winds ripped Trudy’s hijab off her body, leaving her nakeder than Jesus wants to see anybody. Imagine our shock to discover the graphic tattoo of crucified Jesus on her torso (which wouldn’t have been so tacky if her nipples weren’t doing double-duty as the nails in Our Lord’s hands). Anywho, Trudy was promptly gang-raped then stoned to death for being gang-raped. Hallelujah!

In ferret news, you will remember that the latest in my ill-fated line of ferrets (Princess Penelope Prancypuss) was discovered to be not a ferret at all, but a rabid Yemeni mongoose. Before I could sell the wretched imposter on Craigslist, she gave birth to a litter of 50 rabid baby mongooses, all of whom perished horribly because their irresponsible mother made her nest in the garbage disposal. Imagine my shock when I dumped my breakfast bowl’s remaining Apple Jacks and flipped the switch! Such a commotion! I had to replace the drapes over my sink.

But enough fiddle-faddle! Let’s get down to brass tacks already!

This week on God Beat:

• Who’s-his-name and what’s-his-face – otherwise known as Jimmy “JJ” Walker and Kirk Cameron – hopped the same train back from Has-beenville long enough to tell us they believe homosexuals oughtn’t be permitted to register at Pottery Barn. Jimmy Walker, if you recall, last experienced semi-relevance three popes ago while playing Steppin Fetchin on a show about funny negros.  Kirk Cameron’s superstardom hit its apex when he graced page 6 of Tiger Beat back when Cheney had a human heart.  I for one am thrilled to see them again! What’s more, I’ve developed a swelling curiosity as to what Pam Dawber has to say about climate change and whether Mindy Cohn feels spending cuts alone will sufficiently achieve meaningful deficit reduction. Glory!

• Mittens (everyone’s favorite Mormon after all of the Osmonds except for the fat/gay ones), allowed lovely Ann out of her wife-kennel. Suddenly she appeared on teevee to defend her man’s decision not to release documents that reveal he pays Uncle Sam less taxes than a busboy at Ruby Tuesdays. But that’s only because his vast network of sister-wives run shell corporations in the Cayman Islands.  “You people know enough about us!” she hissed through clenched teeth. Agree, Ann. We know plenty about Mittens: he enjoys traumatizing incontinent dogs and he finds it fun to tackle terrified fairies for impromptu haircuts. As for Ann, we know she likes to ride Cadillacs and her horse, and gets her kicks teaching the latter how to prance about like a homo while she rides it through the eye of a needle. Praise!

• Goodness! Colorado (the square state to the left of Kansas, in more ways than one) certainly has been smited by Yahweh these days! First He sent fires (which inadvertently devoured the most right-wing city while leaving Gomorrah Boulder unscathed). Now, during a movie about a man-bat who traipses hither and yon doing battle with evil clowns and penguins (obviously based on the Book of Revelations), a shy young man dressed like a commando mowed down more people than Dick Cheney on a pheasant hunt. Several evangelicals (showing their best Christian mercy) immediately Just-For-Menned their pompadours so they could explain to the media that it’s the homos fault, and graciously informed us which of God’s children shot to death are currently being spit roasted by demons in the bowels of you-know-where (no not Tuscaloosa, sillies!).  

• Speaking  Kansas, you simply MUST load your diabetic families into your Dodge caravans so they can spend an enchanted day at the multi-million dollar Aborted Fetus Museum in Wichita. The Peducah Praise Singers were proud to sing our hit “Ride me Home, Jesus” (number 14 on the Pentecostal Hit Parade) at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. After an hour, I have to admit I got bored and started thinking about my newest entrepreneurial venture: selling Biblical costumes for ferrets  on E-Bay. Jesus forgave me when I explained to him that aborted fetuses, like Chinese folks and Olive Garden restrooms, are entirely identical and interchangeable (although Aborted Fetus #873 reminded me of my still-born twin Janet). Glory!

In conclusion I think we can holler in unison, with every ounce of Christian charity in our bones: “Actually, Dorothy…you ARE still in Kansas, you pill-popping succubus!”

xox
WAM

 

 

South of the border (plus, bonus commentary from Aunt Betsy, the universe's most irresponsible advice columnist)

Hola, trash. You've missed us desperately. In our absence, natch, the world went down the toilet. Debt ceilings and ratings downgrades and stock sell-offs and scary fundamentalist hoote-nannies. The economy is smoking crack with Whitney Houston in some bathroom in Pocatello.

What's America to do?

Might we suggest heading south? Get off your knees, trash. We meant to say if we could all just pile into a jet and dash down to the tropics where the locals are brown and our drinks arrive in coconuts, it might just reawaken the spring in our step. You know, just like in those Corona commercials.

Why? Because, as illuminated through the magic of infographics, the average penis length of an American male is 5.1 inches. Whereas our firey Latin American amigos are packing chalupas averaging 7. It is Ecuador, as a matter of fact, who's spiderman underoos are straining most. Those little dickens weild the largest average shame hoses in the world.

P.S. We'll vouch for that. We've known an Ecuadoran on the right side of the bell curve. Poor thing could barely walk (nor could we, after making his acquaintence). But he could foxtrot like a pro.

But who cares about the heft of one's wee donnie doblin? We're rich, bee-yotch. Right?

Yes, comparatively. In fact, we have our relatively runty pants sausages to thank for our economic bounty.

Whatchoo talkin' bout?

Well, infographics strike again and prove beyond a doubt that the bigger the collective pants viper, the lazier the national economy. Plainly, if you live in a place where the menzes are smuggling anacondas in their froot-of-the-looms, your chief exports are reefer and coconuts. ExxonMobil owns the deed to your five acre coca farm and you live with your 75,000 children in a sewer-front refrigerator box. But if your 2xists are lair to a shy and diminuative earth worm, the world is your oyster and you're flying business class. For now.

See, suddenly the fastest growing economy in The Americas is Peru, and Brazil's economy is bigger than the rest of the continent combined. Brazil, in fact, is growing so fast and is in danger of overheating. And it used to be that overheated Brazilians lead only to triplets, ghonorreah, and naked samba gangs.

So now the world is rapidly waking up to the fact that enormous endowments are a safe haven investment. While our CEOs were obsessing over the size of the yacht moored in Palm Beach, they should have been more concerned with the size of the schooners they dock regularly at the shame cove marina.

Proof? Increasingly stringent immigration laws have crippled the agricultural industry in Georgia and other states.

The moral, of course, is don't hesitate to hire Carlos to trim your hedges, regardless of the authenticity of his papers. Heck, real American businessmen don't care about pesky legalities. For not only is Carlos schlepping a delectably juicy encherito grande, he'll make you rich. He's like a leprechaun that way.

The End.

And now, our esteemed contributor Aunt Betsy (the universe's most irresponsible advice columnist), has a word or two for Jason and Andrew Cobb, the two nice boys from Alberta, Minnesota who strangled their mother to death because she wanted to play Yahtzee. Aunt Betsy, infamous Yahtzee Nazi, felt compelled to respond.

Take it away Bets!!

***

Thanks, WAM.

Well hi-dee-ho-dee-diddle-dee-dee! I find myself reclining on my aqua and chartreuse Broyhill chaise with magic fingers, a half-drunk pitcher of singapore slings on my House Beautiful Deluxe Daniel Boone Wagon Wheel side table.

Truth be told,  Aunt Betsy needed at least half a pitcher of singapore slings for this. I have several things to say to you, young masters Jason and Andrew Cobb.

First, satan looks forward to eff-ing you up the A until glory brings us home. Apologies for stating the obvious.

More to the point, our nation's youth are fat little abominations, playing world of warcraft, sexting congressmen and sassing the crossing guard. Our school system must immediately force all children to play Yahtzee, non-stop, at least every Tuesday and Thursday.

For Yahtzee is a cornucopia of life lessons, such as you best fill the top part of your card first, before you take a Chance. Full House is for homos. Don't roll too many Yahtzees in a row or your Yahtzee league might deem you a witch and beat you to death with a swiffer handle. And perhaps most important, should you find yourself engaged in a regulation sudden-death tie-breaking knife fight, keep your teeth clinched on the bandana and go for the throat. But I digress.

Jason, Andrew, your mother wanted to play Yahtzee so you put a plastic bag over her head, strangled her with a belt and put her in a trash can out in the garage. Heavens to Mergatroid, whatever would you have done had the wretched woman invited you to play Scattergories? Slice open her abdomen and sell her spleen to Korea?

So instead of experiencing the inspiring rush of shaking five dice in a cup and hoping for four of a kind,  you'll be wearing your ankles for earmuffs while Tyrone fills up the bottom half of your card, if you catch my drift. 

Enjoy that, dears.

xox
WAM

Jason Cobb sez: "I'd totally rather subscribe to this blog's feed than play Yahtzee."

Spamtasm: "Nice Olga"

Hello, muskrats. Good summer so far? Wait, we don't really care. It's a hot one today, in that "the-air-feels-like-mushroom-soup" kinda way that's particular to our beloved liberal elite greater New York City.

Anywho, we sat down to write something for the many dozens of rabid COWA fans, and were stuck for a theme. Lo and behold, our "Junk" folder yielded the following missive from one Ms "Nice Olga," an enchanting Russian temptress whose inspiring quest for chicken-fried American matrimony has provided fodder for this week's blog treachery. Ms "Nice Olga" eloquently writes (in tandem with secksy pic, right):

Hello dear!
How are you? I hope that all nice for you. I write to you, because I want to find man from Europe.

My name is Olga and I am 35 years old. I from city Novodvinsk. I’m educated, kind and tolerant. My heart is full of love to nature and music. I like reading, cooking, gardening. I am family-oriented. I have an optimistic outlook, but I am alone. I hope to meet a man who needs my tenderness.

I want to love and to be loved. I don’t smoke. I'm very beautiful and friendly woman and to search for serious attitudes. In July I wish to visit the United States. But I have no friends in the USA.

Also it would be fine, if we could have a meeting in your country. I yet have not decided what country to visit, but it would be fine if you will tell to me more about the country.In what country you now live? Tell to me more about the country?

It will be great if you will answer to me, so we can to have communication together. If you will reply to me I will writing to you more about me and send photo of myself. I want only serious and long relations, I hope you support me in it.

It will be interesting to me to learn that you think of it. I hope to hear from you soon on my mail box: [email protected]

Olga.

So here's how we've responded:

Deer miss Olga,

I just got back from the Greater Tuscaloosa Mall where I picked up some new tires at Sears for my colonial revival double-wide and soon as I got in I fired up my 'puter and saw your email. You sure is a pretty woman, Miss Olga. I am mighty grateful you crawled into that there flower bush to pose for that provockative photo.

My name is Gomer Sleestack. I am gainfully employed as the regional assistant director of Squat & Squeal, the third biggest Port-o-Potty services provider in Southeast Tuscaloosa. And ever since my Momma got hit in the head with a shovel at the grange's hog makeover pageant, I been thinkin I need me a woman.

I been hankerin for the kinda gal who knows how to scare up some dumplins and can also put her ankles behind her head. I'm a romantick guy. Now I knowtiss that you're from a town called "Novodvinsk." Well, that don't sound very Christian. Sounds like you from Russia or Africka. I don't mind much, long as you speak Inglish and can make pancakes and keep yer yap shut.

In return for your wifely duties, I will give you a taste of the American high-life you desperately crave. Every Tuesday (long as the beds is made and the john don't smell), I will treat you to a pulled pork samwich down to Sam & Ella's Grub Shack (they just finished remodelin their Coors garden).

I gots me the dough to keep a lady stocked in nutter butters so she can watch her shows while she vacuums my TV room. The gal that hit my momma in the noggin with a shovel is married to the vice president of public relations of none other than Hormel's Southeast regional pig foot pickling operation and the settlement payed off my pick-up. I'm rollin in more dough than a fat chick at the Dunkin Donuts.

Now I see you are 35 years of age. I reckon you been hittin the snooze button on yer biologickle clock for a few years. All I want is three heteroseckshul kids, two boys and one girl. No more. So after your fertile loins hawk out womb booger number three, we can start doing it up your pooper. As I said, I'm a romantick. I like all the old fashioned spoonin' and neckin. I like to make a lady feel safe and loved. Then I like to make her sit in my bathtub so I can pee on her boobs.

I look forward to hearin from ya, babe. Send me a pic of yer snatch.

Yore future husbind,
Gomer P. Sleestack III

We'll see if we hear back. And we'll keep you posted.

xox
WAM

Nice Olga sez: "Ya, I would make a vat of borscht for a subscription to this blog's feed."

 

How we met Rob: a totally true story

So last night we attended a screening of an odd yet hilarious independent film called "Co-dependent Lesbian Space Alien Seeks Same," starring a college friend. After the credits rolled, the producer bounded onstage with the following announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen, I thought you might like to know that our state legislature just legalized gay marriage." The cheers were deafening. There are good days, aren't there?

There's been a subtle yet unmistakable shift. Today we are less of a them and more of an us. And that's what Gay Pride, with all its disco, leather harnesses and g-strings, has always been about (yet we admit a platoon of dykes on bikes leading battalion of baton-twirling homos prancing about in jock straps is an excellent way to be seen as a "Them" with a capitol "T"). And yet, the straights came through. Even some Republicans. Overwhelmingly, gay family members and friends changed their hearts and minds.

And with that in mind, this is how we met Rob...

Once upon a time we'd throw annual gay pride parties on our massive East Village roof deck. There were balloons, streamers, grilled fruit skewers, reefers, martinis, and (at the party's apex) servings of magical mushroom tea. Folks came in drag, leather, party boy spandex. But it was all very co-ed. Male, female, gay, straight. Fellini on poppers. And on the boombox, Ethel Merman's disco album did battle with ABBA, Madonna and Carmen Miranda (thank you, Bruce).

During one such soiree, two stunningly beautiful heterosexual women (fierce bitches by the name of Claudia and Deborah), both clad in halter tops and daisy dukes, briefly left the festivities to pick up some ice at the corner bodega. While they were there, they thought it would be cute if they also purchased some chocolate covered cherries and several dozen condoms in festive gold coin wrappers.

At this point, they caught the eye of a handsome Jewish straight NYU student who was buying a six pack of Heiniken.

"Hey, What's your name?"
"Um...Rob."
"Hi Um Rob, I'm Claudia. This is Deborah."
"Hi."
"So we're having a party, care to join us?"

Poor thing. Two primo specimens of babe-a-licious boobocity, brandishing a bag of ice, chocolate covered cherries and enough prophylactics for the Russian army. He thought he'd stumbled onto the kind of paradise you only read about in Hustler or the Koran.

We remember when our girls escorted a stunned Rob into the throng of the party and immediately abandoned him to flirt with the homos (a zero stakes game). The homos, in turn, preferred flirting with Rob, the reluctant belle of the ball. We have photographs of that party. There's Rob on a bench, surrounded with homos, his lopsided grin frozen, his eyes betraying a kind of terror.

We must have had a profound effect on him, for he promptly abandoned his studies and fled to Budapest to write about gypsies. We stayed in touch, though. And evench, after he returned stateside, he even moved into our vast, decrepit cold-water loft where he lived for a few years.

He saw us through a brutal break-up with an attorney who turned out to be a married embezzler. We, in turn, commiserated with him through two nasty divorces.

Rob has a bad habit of falling in love with the kind of gal you can live with for several years, but runs screaming for the hills within a year of exchanging vows, suddenly discovering she doesn't "see herself married." And frankly, we're not sure we do either.

Perhaps us homos are like the indians who were so ecstatic at first to receive those pox infested blankets from the white man. Marriage equality is divorce equality, after all. Hooray! And...um...thanks?

We recall when Rob returned from vacationing in Majorca with a contraband bottle of Absinthe in tow. During the trip he'd broken up with a dishwater blonde Polish gal (he tends to like fair-haired Eastern European chicks with thick accents who are perpetually bored and have rude personalities).

We each did a couple shots, getting acquainted with the green fairy. Rob grew increasingly remorseful about his lost Polski baleboste.

And absinthe made the tart grow blonder.

xox
WAM

Claudia 'n' Deborah say: "we DARE you to subscribe to this blog's feed."

A brief note of friendly concern: Dear Callista Gingrich

Excuse us. Ms. Gingrich? May we call you Callista?

How about Cally, then? Or Cally-cally-bo-bally-banana-fana-fo-fally? You have no idea what we're saying, do you?

Tell you what. Let's lose that spectacularly unappealing dude by the onomonopoetically correct name of "Newt" and slink off to a flatteringly-lit cocktail lounge. We can split an Oxy and order a pitcher of Bellinis! Doesn't that sound hi-LAR-ious?? We KNOW!!

So. Callista. Callista-Callista-Callista. We're going to say this the nicest way we know how. Ready?

You look like the unholy spawn of Cindy McCain and the Joker from Batman. Now, don't get upset. You are upset, aren't you? We can't really tell. You can't even blink, poor thing.

You've a helluva  cross to bear, being the one-time mistress and future ex-wife of that malodorous tub of paste. And were we ever to sober up to discover we've been matrimonially shackled to a universally loathed sack of cat barf whose paunch is outsized only by his double chin, who's to say we wouldn't also botox ourselves into a stupor and have our face lifted into a permanent malivolent trophy wife smile? How else could we mask the clinically depressed pill zombie we'd become? No, we're not accusing you of anything. Just a stab in the dark.

But here's the thing Supercallistafragalistaexpialedoshia, need we mention the name Kitty Dukakis?

That poor woman barely made it through a campaign and she was chugging rubbing alcohol and antifreeze. You hardly seem more stable than Miss Kitty.

And should you be named Miss FLOTUS number 45, we shudder to imagine the White House Easter Egg hunt. It would be a blood bath. Crying children, disemboweled bunnies. Are we wrong?

But see, as you know from experience, should you come down with cancer or gout or even a nasty case of hay fever, Newtie-kins is likely to heave you overboard for his mistress du jour. And then he'll prolly pay off the Cathy-lick cardinals to stop schtupping altar boys long enough to annul your marriage so he can keep gnawing on Jesus' body every time communion rolls around. He's done it before.

So we think you're wise to throw a monkey wrench into hubby's lost-cause campaign. Dragging him to Greece, insisting on extra hair-do time.

Kudos, by the way, on your aerodynamically unstable Mary-Tyler-Moore-season-six-helmet-head-dipped-in-peroxide-and-sprayed-to-oblivion 'do. While every morning's expenditure of Aqua-net likely opens up another gaping hole in our o-zone, the end result is a hairdo that can withstand hurricanes, tsunamis and flourescent lighting.

Because if we're being honest with ourselves, the odds of you and hubby Newt moving into the White House are roughly the same as Lady Ga-Ga winning the Nobel for physics.

So even though hubby Newt has loaded you up with half a million in Tiffany's bling, would you not be happier squatting in a menstrual hut with a macrame hobbyist from Vermont? Yes.

Our advice? Take a yoga class, become a vegan, download Silvia Plath to your Kindle, dash off to Cabo, take a ceramics class and have a lesbian affair with a ferret owner named Fran.

We see no other way out of your personal, private heck.

xox
WAM

Callista sez: "Newt's Tiffany's account never got me a subscription to this blog's feed."

 

Gov. Rick Perry unveils long-awaited Republican fiscal strategy: cry and pray!

Rick Perry (Governor of Texas, ABBA fan, gaydar activator) has taken a break lately from his many closed-door meetings with his Secretary of State and his personal chef in order to team up with that notorious homophobes-for-Jesus outfit called the AFA. They want to see if they can't solve the problems of Texas and the U.S. The U.S. of course, is the country Texas keeps trying to secede from but still loves anyway (behavior, which to our mind likens Texas to some battered bowling alley waitress on the Springer show).

See, God's favorite political party has been caterwaulin' about the deficit. So the first thing they did was lower taxes. Wait, what? Seems when you lower taxes, revenues shrink and the deficit GROWS! Oops!!

Hey, let's make America number one again by firing our teachers and taking grandma's medicine away! After all, most decent folks home-skool their kids anyways cause they don't want their precious noggins polluted by all that science flapdoodle. As for grandma, she's an insufferable freeloader who smells like rosewater and pee. Hold on, pardner! The old biddy also votes!! Who, oh who can save us now?? I know! JESUS!!

But let's think about this. Jesus has been acting a tad cranky lately, what with sending V-5 tornadoes to the red states, rudely refusing to rapture the righteous back on May 21.

A brief sidenote on that whole rapture business. We were bitterly disappointed when it didn't happen. Heck, we'd happily endure a magnitude 10 earthquake and a year or two of pestilence if it meant all the folks who fancied themselves rapture fodder were suddenly yanked off the planet. Not only would it have made life on earth infinitely pleasanter on the whole, but our total average weight would have dropped by at least 300 pounds. Speaking of which, perhaps Jesus (despite his Superman strength) was simply unable to budge their fat fundamentalist asses off the ground. Pity, that.

Where were we. Oh yes. Our favorite showtune-humming homo-hating Governor, Rick Perry, has decided that praying to Jesus is the only viable Republican solution to the deficit problem. And if we ask real nice, he might send tornadoes to Greenwich Village and San Francisco, where they belong. But just like the whos in Whoville, we gotta get thousands of us together and pray and weep REAL LOUD so that Horton Jesus will hear us.

So on August 6, Perry will host a spectacle called "The Response," where tens of thousands of evangelicals will get all gussied up in their Sunday stretch pants so they can pray and cry at a stadium in Houston. Because who doesn't love going to Houston in August, especially if it means wedging themselves into an arena crammed to the rafters with fat crying Jesus freaks?

After all, as Governor Perry states on the Response website:

"I sincerely hope you’ll join me in Houston on August 6th and take your place in Reliant Stadium with praying people asking God’s forgiveness, wisdom and provision for our state and nation. There is hope for America. It lies in heaven, and we will find it on our knees."

Attaboy, Rick. Not only have we zero doubt you do your best work on your knees, we're also quite certain that you frequently find what your looking for in that very position.

But we do have our doubts on the efficacy of the scheme. Because every Texan prays and cries nightly. And when the dawn comes, they wake and realize their prayers have fallen on deaf ears: they're still in Texas.

xox
WAM

Governor Perry sez: "I'll get down on my  knees for a subscription to this blog's feed."

 

Sarah Palin would like to talk about American history and other stuff also

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

Hi there. I have decided to take a break from riding on the bitch seat of Harleys and not telling the press where my next press conference is happening so I can talk about my answer to that "gotcha" question a rude Boston reporter asked me about Paul Revere and I want to talk about other stuff also.

You know, us Republicans don't always get every single fact right. So okay I once said we've got to stand by our North Korean allies. Fine, Tim Pawlenty thinks we have soldiers in Iran. So what if Michele Bachmann thinks the Pilgrims landed in New Hampshire? And if Herman Cain doesn't know the difference between the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution, what's the big whoop-de-do? They were both written by the same bewigged homos who pranced about in tights. What does it matter anyway? True Americans don't care about facts. They care about guns and Jesus and keeping every negro in the White House backstairs, where they belong.

So okay, when I was asked about Paul Revere, I said:

"He who warned, uh, the British that they weren’t going to be taking away our arms uh by ringing those bells and making sure as he’s riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free and we were going to be armed."

And so now folks are saying I don't know history good. But that's a fib from the lame-stream media. Because history, as we know, is written by the victors (Obama/Biden), and they would like nothing better than to have you believe their socialist version of the story. But I'm riding a big bus now and it's my turn write history my way and stuff.  And now, when decent Christians put on their teachin' stretch pants to home school their kids about Paul Revere, this is what they're going to learn:

Once upon a time, the British came to America to take our guns and give us abortions and force Obamacare down our throats. So Jesus got a bunch of Tea Partiers together and told them the red coats were planning to make Sam Adams and George Washington get gay married at the statue of liberty. Then Betsy Ross leaned out of a Church tower holding two lanterns and screamed "remember the Alamo!" And that's when Paul Revere got on his horse and started riding up to the red coats and ringing his bell and stuff and then the British got mad and flew kamikaze airplanes into the Pentagon. After that, some Democrats tried to change the story to make it about how Paul Revere was really warning the colonists about a coming squirmish with the redcoats and they would have gotten away with it too if I didn't refutiate it on the YouTube, causing my fans (aka True Americans TM) to go on Wikipedia and change it back the way it should have been. The End.

xox
WAM

 

Aunt Betsy live-blogs the Oscars!

Well hi-dee-ho-dee-dippity-do!! Here I sit, luxuriously ensconced in my nutmeg-and-crimson House Beautiful chaise with magic fingers (stuck lasciviously on "fondle"), with a pitcher of Singapore slings and a bowl of bugles.

Tonight, I shall share my Jesus-inspired insight with regard to that annual Jewish homosexual liberal bachanal that is the Academy Awards.

Shush dears. The show's beginning.

First, who are those darling kids who seem to be running the show? Did they have a foursome with the Weinsteins?

Oh, FYI...I found myself annoyed by that Mr. Tim Gunn during the preshow. I suspect he's a fairy. His eyeballs sodomized that sissy Keith Urban, who had the bad taste to attend the festivities with a transvestite.

And a note to Ms. Jennifer Hudson: while we suspect negress show biz types are pleasanter when they're fat (hi Oprah!), I support your new trim frame far more than that sinful gown supports your chocolate mammaries. Sandra Bullock's the best dressed whore of the bunch.

Quite a casting coups, convincing the grim reaper to present an award. Who knew he was such a bore?

I'm glad they gave the award to the foul-mouthed bimbo (whom I recognize as the waitress at the Greater Headcheese Oklahoma Paradise Bowling Lanes and Bar & Grill), instead of that sweet little girl in her enchanted princess bat mitzvah outfit. We're off to quite a start.

They're giving awards for things no one cares about now. Aunt Betsy's headed to the powder room to drop some change in the wishing well. BRB.

An illegal alien just gave the award for best adapted screenplay. A gentleman named Aaron Sorkin insists on boring Aunt Betsy to tears. Cue the orchestra!! Goodness, dear. It wasn't the Nobel.

And all this time I thought "The King's Speech" was about Elvis and his infamous 1974 address to the Pharmacist convention in Cleveland.

Why on earth do we give awards to movies that aren't in American? Is no one thinking about the deficit?

They gave a statue to a man named Christian who looks like Jesus. Things are looking up. Of course, if the real Jesus went to the Oscars, flames would shoot from his fingertips and lightning bolts would zap from his eyeballs and he'd get all sodom-and-gomorrah on their patooties.

The Social Network: near as I can tell it's about the legendary spread of herpes and crabs and FoxNews.

We've reached the part of the show where we're clapping for people nobody knows, and my head starts to ache. I feel like Gabby Giffords after a supermarket speech.

Achievement in make-up really should have gone to Kirk Douglas. He looked almost life-like!

Pssst! Award show producers? Next year install a trap door. Much more effective than an orchestra cue.

A drunk is pounding on a piano and caterwauling. Are you there, Singapore Sling? It's me, Aunt Betsy.

Had to step away for a bit. Lance and Bruce, the homosexuals next door, are throwing their annual catered Oscar Orgy. They started getting a little loud, arguing over whether Gwynneth could kick Hathaway's ass if they were thrown into a pit with a razorblade in their teeth (hands-down, Gwynneth would emerge victorious). In a spasm of neighborly concern, I yard-a-pulted 70 pounds of termite larvae in the general vicinity of their fussily restored victorian.

One immediately suspects the sort of person who would make a documentary short subject would be an Obama-loving pedophile communist.

My kitty-cat Mr. Silly-pants knocked over my bowl of bugles, so I had to give him the standard five-minutes-in-the-dishwasher punishment. He always emerges so cross, but I swear I can almost see myself in his squeaky-clean fur. Did I miss anything? Didn't think so.

I see dead people. It's the tedious "In Memorium" montage. It reminds me of my Jewish who neighbors held a bizarre funeral ceremony last week for their deceased parakeet they named Streisand. Someone (oops!) let it out of its cage whereupon it got into the Manischewitz and flew into a ceiling fan.

The best director is Tom Hooper. He made that movie about Elvis. My pitcher of is empty.

Why does Gwynneth Paltrow hate my ability to hear?

Is it tomorrow yet?

That Natalie Portman woman looks awfully fat in the tummy. They gave her a statue so she wouldn't feel bad about it.

Why that Colin Firth fellow doesn't look a thing like Elvis!

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Album review: Heidi Klum's "Dead Inside: Beloved Christmas songs translated from English to German and back into English"

Review: It's that time of year again, when salespeople are trampled, Grandma gets groped by security, and our little darlings are traumatized by fire-spewing demon dolls. It's also the season when the Klum-Seals gather around der tannenbaum and Heidi tells her darling brood of fashionable mulatto accessories that "In Christmas, one day you're in und der next day you're out."

It's time to rejoice, all right. Ms. Klum's singing debut is certain to become a holiday favorite. Wrapping her monotonous, mildly tone-deaf voice around many Christmas favorites we thought we knew...that is, until they were translated from English to German and back into English.

PLAYLIST
Polka 'round der Tannenbaum
Dead inside/Still Nacht*
I saw Mutter schtupping dicker red elf Klaus
Ein Kleine Schwartzer Drummer Junge
Freude at zur Welt*
Tragen der Frau in Gay Apparel (Deck the Halls)*
Haben Sie Not Unpleasant Ein Kleine Tiny Christmas
All I want for Weihnachten is my two big white things in front
Die Songspeil About der Glocken (Carol of the Bells)
Ach, Kommt all ye Superstitious

*SAMPLE LYRICS:

Dead Inside (Silent Night)
Dead inside, dead inside
Christ was born und then he died
From der Judenfrau Jesus Ker-plops
Spike der egg nog with peppermint schnapps
Howl on how silent the night was!
Caterwaul silent ein nacht! (cont'd.)

Tragen Frau in Gay Apparel (Deck the Halls)
Tragen Frau en Gay Apparel, auf-auf-auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf-auf
I would rather wear a barrel, auf-auf-auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf-auf
From the out-take footage we know, auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf
Michael Kors once shtupped Santino, auf-auf-auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf-auf (cont'd.)

Freude at zur Welt (Joy to the World)
Freude at zur Welt, sieg heil at Christ
Let ich receive mein bling!
I'd like this necklace iff'n he
Had purchased it at Tiffany
Seal, did you save der receipt?
Seal, did you save der receipt?
Did has-been schwartzer balladeer save the receipt? (cont'd.)

xox
WAM

Seal sez: "My wife says if I don't subscribe to this blog's feed, I'm auf'd"

Madame Secretary Clinton would like to apologize in advance to world leaders for all that stuff she said behind your back just for laughs before it gets wikileaked

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

Dear prime ministers, queens and despots (and I'm not just talking about you, Vladdy! LOL!!),

As you know, some fruity Aussie named Julian Assange runs a cyber fib clearinghouse called Wikileaks, which rudely disseminates classified documents about a bunch of flap-doodle that never happened anyway. And now, I've been informed that Wikilies is fixing to publish hilarious jokes me and my homies at the State Department crack about you when we're kicking back with a case of Lowenbrau and a stack of girlie mags.

So I've decided to take the bull by the balls (shush, Bill) and head this awkward whoop-de-do off at the pass and let you hear it from the horse's mouth (Bill, I said zip it). Let's dive right on in, shall we?

First, to German Chancellor Angela Merkel: girl, you know we're besties. Thank you for the "Christmas at Auschwitz" slow globe. I regret ever texting Ram Emanuel that you look like Fred Mertz in a control top, mincing about in Ethel's clothes. I may have commented on Sarkozy's Facebook wall once or twice about your Bonnie Franklin haircut and those bunion-plagued feet you're always airing out at the G8 summit. And I don't really think your wardrobe looks like Dress Barn had a fire sale.

Next, I'd like to address my dear friend and President of France Nicolas Sarkozy. I wish I could take back that email I sent to Biden calling you an elf-eared absinthe-swilling oompa-loompa with camembert breath. And it may be true that me and your wife Carla once smoked a jay in the Lincoln Bedroom and somehow my wedding ring got caught in her labia piercing. It was no big deal, really. We laughed about it.

And now to you, Hu Jintao. I regret being overheard in the Pentagon men's room giggling into my iPhone about that vast collection of ladyboy dildo porn the CIA found on your personal laptop. Yes, your wife's moo shu dachsund made my poo come out in a spray for two weeks.

There are so many others. Vladmir Putin, wish I could take back the Yahoo IM conversation I had with Robert Gates about how you smell like a dog got into the vodka and puked into a bottle of aqua velva. Karzai, your Afghan Presidency is not like a python babysitting a baby bunny. And I bitterly regret exposing your vast My Little Pony collection to ridicule. King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, sorry I commented on The Huffington Post that we have satellite photos of your subterranean all-boy harem on the outskirts of Medina.

Finally, to Queen Elizabeth. I was tipsy on rum and Dr. Pepper when I blackberried Barney Frank about how we have intel on the contents of the patent leather purse dangling from the crook of the royal elbow: spearmint Tic-tacs, a well-worn copy of The Well of Loneliness and a half-empty bottle of amyl nitrite. I'm sorry for making public your nightly routine of arm wrestling Prince Philip for who gets to be the top.

My bad.

Hugs and tugs,
Hillary :-)

xox
WAM

Madame Secretary Clinton sez: "I hope WikiLeaks doesn't disclose my subscription to this blog's feed."