Can O' Whup-Ass

A Letter to Tanya C. Butz, Outraged Virginia Woman

Dear Outraged Virginia Woman,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xox
WAM

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

Olly-Olly-Oxenfree!!

When we sat down today to blog (an verb which sounds like it should involve a magazine and a roll of charmin), we couldn't decide which ass to whup. There's so many to choose from.

There's the classy gal who got drunk and allowed her boyfriend to film her engaging in a little pooch-on-bitch hippity-dippity (note to self: booze, a video camera, and dog-sex are the main incredients for "shame pie"). Later, when her boyfriend threatened to make the video public, she pimped her unwilling underaged daughter to him. One wonders what the woman expects to receive this Mother's Day.

Then there was the case of Ms. Linda Brown, the Ohio woman who woke one day and decided to be a lottery winner. So she rented a stretch limo and headed straight for the mall, where she promised everyone in a particular store she'd foot the bill for their purchases. She learned a valuable life lesson that day: if one wishes to live the life of a lotto winner it's generally a good idea to be one. Because when it was discovered she didn't have two nickles to rub together, the tastefull populace rioted and looted the store so they could get the free stuff they were promised. Stay classy, Ohio.

But no. No, today we've decided to train our cross-hairs on the Heenes. For the better part of Thursday afternoon, Rick Sanchez of CNN could barely contain his glee as the nation (read: cable news) trained its jaundiced eye on what looked to be an air-bourne batch of Jiffy Pop soaring down the front range of Colorado. We all know the story by now: it was believed that a 7-year-old boy named Falcon (why must we name our children after nouns?) had climbed aboard an experimental helium balloon and was performing an unrehearsed solo production of "Around the World in 80 Days." When the thing landed, as suspicious locals poked at it with pitchforks, it was quickly determined that Falcon remained a flightless bird. He'd been hiding in the attic all along.

The first thing to note is the palpable disappointment on the part of the vapid talking heads. Sure, they SAID they were relieved but you KNOW they wished the kid had in fact taken that horrifying journey to 14,000 feet and returned to earth frozen stiff and frightened to death. They could have milked that shizzle for serious ratings. 

Second, if the latest rumours are indeed true, and the Heene's actually cooked up the scenario in order to score a reality television gig, one can't help but admire their chutzpah and creativity. Granted, they had the bad taste to appear not once but twice on a ghastly spectacle called "Wife Swap" (a word of advice to Mrs. Heene: perhaps the fact that your family is so eager to trade you like a pack of bubble gum cards could be mined for a hint or two). But if Kim Kardashian can become a celebrity because of a sex tape depicting Ray J's shame hose disappearing up her oopsie hole, the Heenes may enter the temple of "Hey Everyone! Look at ME!" It's not that exclusive a club. They let anyone in these days (hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck!).

We frankly don't care. We can proudly say we don't even know what Kate Gosselin's voice sounds like and we want to keep it that way. 

But also, vis-à-vis "balloon boy," we smelled a hoax the minute young Falcon skipped up to reporters. Why? Let's step into the way-back machine, shall we?

One day when we were four years old, Mumsy took us along grocery shopping. Anyone who's ever seen a woman in a grocery store with an under-five knows she was flirting with disaster. Sure enough, as soon as Mumsy turned her back, we'd picked up a pricing gun and marked up an entire aisle of canned goods to $100. When store management complained (unappreciative of their exponentially-increased profit margin), Mumsy hissed at us through her teeth that we were to exit the Food King that instant and wait in our gorgeous faux-wood paneled Chevrolet station wagon so she could finish shopping before spanking our fanny. We obeyed. But instead of waiting in the back seat like a normal child, we thought it might be cute to crawl into the spare tire compartment, where we promptly fell asleep.

We awoke four hours later when the town sheriff discovered us. Teams of cadaver-sniffing dogs had been searching nearby Bear Creek for our bloated corpse. Mother wasn't happy.

We considered it an apt lesson for a woman who sent her four-year-old, unmonitored, to wait in the car. Heavens to betsy, why didn't just she tape a sign to our shirt saying "kidnap me, I'm into butt-sex"? The lesson was lost on her, and spankings ensued for the next two days. She spanked us right there. Then Dad came home and spanked us with a belt. Then Mumsy got to thinking about it the next day, got angry all over again and spanked us some more. Parents are hardly ever happy to discover that a major search and rescue operation was undertaken because of a child's game of hide and seek. 

So when be-dimpled moppet Falcon Heene pranced out of the attic and was greeted with hugs, instead of serving some serious hard time on the "naughty stool" at the very least, we cried "shenanigans."

Hoax? Absolutely. And now the Heenes are facing a butt-load of potential felonious charges.

We can see it now: "Jail Family: The Maximum Security Heenes," premiering this spring on Fox.

xox
WAM

Falcon Heene sez: "My dad said if I play along with his hoax I could subscribe to this blog's feed."

Spamtasm: Whupassa Stuart Masterson Responds to Pastor Paul Ojegbekilo

Like you, dear readers, from time to time WAM's gorgeous spam-box is stuffed to the gills with kindly letters from totally well-meaning Nigerians who are simply DYING to help us deposit a gazillion dollars in our checking account (if we'd just be a dove and provide them with our banking information and social security number). Known as the 419 or "Spanish Prisoner" scam, it's really the oldest trick out there (not counting Madonna). We're not the first to have fun at their expense (Ebola Monkey did it first and best), nor will we be the last.

But our most recent Nigerian business opportunity was so unique we couldn't resist resurrecting one Ms. Whupassa Stuart Masterson to respond to his heart-wrenching and florid query.

You may read the original spam here, in PDF (alas, it's too long to repeat in this post). The short version goes something like this: The Reverend Ojegbekilo of the dazzling Okuhuke Community Church would like us to know that God is busily blessing Nigeria. But while the good reverend is saving simply oodles of negros from the oily bosom of lucifer, for some reason, most of his converts are too old to read normal bibles. Would we care to help him purchase 20 large print King James versions? Oh, and please help his negro orphans. Got it? 

Take it away, Whupassa! 

Dear Reverend Kabuki Bukkake,

Gosh, I was so thrilled to get your email! It's such a coincidence! I just got back from church. Today, Pastor Mike Huckabee (of the Greater Tuscaloosa Pentecostal Church of Signs Appearing) told us that Jesus wants us to spread the gospel to everyone, even negros and rag-heads. Then he handed out the snakes.

I would love to help you buy Bibles for your old people! My mom, bless her heart, is an old person. Last spring she crashed her Dodge Dart into a cow and ever since she thinks she's Eydie Gormé. So now I keep her chained to the couch.

Anywho, I've got lots of money to send. Back in 1993 I got my eye poked out by an excitable IHOP waitress (who had very strong feelings about not putting ketchup on waffles). So I sued and got $50,000! Unfortunately, half of it's tied up right now because a nice man from your country named Buttfungi Cowabunga wrote to me last month because he's trying to get $10 million out of your country (something to do with a dead oil guy), and all he needed was $25,000 and my account information! So soon I'm going to have even more money to send you! Praise Jesus! In the meantime, I'd be happy to send some casseroles. I could send my famous Lime Jello Marshmallow Cottage Cheese Surprise! Or how about my world renowned Weenies-Velveeta-and-Doritos Yum Pie? I made both for our Annual Fourth of July White Power Picnic and they were both great big fat hits!

But I have some questions. First, what kind of Bibles are you giving to your old folks? I don't want to pay for any homo version. If King James was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me! Also, how come you don't want Bibles on tape? I have a Bible on tape read by Sarah Palin and it's just super!

Nigeria sounds beautiful. Is it in France? Do you like french fries? I do, especially with maple syrup (but don't tell that to a certain cranky IHOP waitress who shall remain nameless).

Yours in Christ,
Whupassa Stuart Masterson

We sure hope Reverend Ojegbekilo responds. This could be fun.

Pastor Paul Ojegbekilo sez: "Please send money to Nigeria so our orphans can subscribe to this blog's feed."

Introducing: The Confess-o-Matic!!

Confessing is in. It's the thing to do (rehab is SO 2007!). These days it seems you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some celebrity, politician, or chat show host in the midst of a very public mea culpa, dazed spouse at their side, disclosing sordid details about their private lives (which is precisely why we gave up dead cat-swinging for Lent).

It was fun at first; Jimmy Swaggart's tearful I-paid-a-$50-hooker-to-pee-on-me-in-a-Motel-6 "I've sinned against you" speech was hilarious. Likewise, Jim McGreevey's I'm-being-blackmailed-by-a-Jewish-boytoy-and-now-it's-time-to-come-out-to-my-stunned-wife "I'm a gay American" press conference really should be set to music and recorded by Clay Aiken.

But now it's quickly becoming tedious. David Letterman, Mackenzie Phillips, John Ensign, Mark Sanford, Sam Adams, Elliot Spitzer...the list grows daily. Everyone's jumping on the bandwagon without giving the slightest thought as to where the bandwagon's headed. Nor do they seem the least bit concerned about that last shred of good taste being crushed under the bandwagon's cruel wheels. It's like Crocs. 

Cathy-licks, who have never been accused of good taste (see: The Blessed Virgin's frequent appearance in chalupas, the pope, et al.), at least confine their confessions to where they belong; in a dark closet, whispered to a cross-dressing pedophile. We're begging future confessors to reconsider the press conference. We'd really rather not be subjected to the inevitable, constant loop on CNN.

Instead, why not simply fill out our New Confess-o-Matic™ form below and fax it to Wolf Blitzer? The world will thank you.

THE CAN O' WHUP-ASS CONFESS-O-MATIC™

I, (your name here), after a great deal of:

1. prayer,
2. crying,
3. advice from my attorney,
4. gonorrhea,
5. subpoenas,

Have decided that the time has come to disclose:

1. The woman trapped inside my body.
2. The eggplant wedged inside my rectum.
3. My torrid affair with sensitive yet virile Brazilian florist named Cadela Feroz.
4. The subterranean lair I've constructed under my house, where I keep a growing brood of albino incest babies who feed on worms and were born without eyes.
5. My Celine Dion record collection.

The burden of keeping this horrible secret for so long has led to a shame-spiral, culminating in an unfortunate incident where I:

1. Eloped with a cocker spaniel.
2. Banged a retarded broad.
3. Ran naked through the Piggly Wiggly singing "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" from "Hello, Dolly!"
4. Subscribed to Esquire.
5. Got wasted and repeatedly screamed "F*GGOTS!" during my keynote address at a GLAAD-sponsored convention of Liza Minnelli impersonators.

I would like to apologize to my long-suffering:

1. Wife
2. Fans and/or constituents
3. Breasts
4. Pet leprechaun
5. Stable of randy rent boys

For causing so much:

1. Pain.
2. Embarrassment.
3. Bowel obstruction.
4. Sperm stains.
5. Fibro Myalgia.

I hope everyone will find it in their heart to:

1. Forgive me.
2. Re-elect me.
3. Put my publicist on speed-dial.
4. Overlook my hobby of giving hand-jobs to passed out alcoholics under the viaduct.
5. Give me one last rusty trombone in the men's room, for old-time's sake.

In the meantime, during this time of healing, I ask that you respect my family's privacy so that we can:

1. Prepare for our appearance on Oprah.
2. Ink a book deal.
3. Bicker and hurl expensive breakables at each other.
4. Consume the last of the human flesh still cluttering our freezer.
5. Have one last S&M felching orgy before setting things right with The Lord. 

Thank you, and:

1. May God bless America.
2. Does anyone have any crank?
3. Signed copies of my memoir are available in the lobby for $35. 
4. Remember to follow me on Twitter.
5. Seriously. Does anyone have any crank? Just a little bit? 

xox
WAM

David Letterman sez: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is 1 through 8 on my personal top ten list."

Mamma Will Provide (PLUS: Post-its of Friendly Concern!)

When we arrived in NYC in 1987 to pursue our ill-advised dream of becoming a renowned classical actor, we experienced a period of extreme poverty (who saw THAT coming??). We were reduced to jumping turnstiles, and our daily sustenance consisted of a banana in the morning and either a slice of pizza or a box of kraft macaroni and cheese in the evening. One afternoon we were loitering in Tantalus Deli on East 55th, trying to decide what delectable morsel to purchase with our last remaining 68 cents. Suddenly, we spied a hundred dollar bill on the floor in the beer aisle. That night we had the most delicious pastrami on rye ever.

Likewise, having suckled at the bitter teat of Unemployment Insurance for a year, the milk recently ran dry. The very day the payments ceased, we found ourselves hired by a prominent financial news agency, and now hold full press credentials ("smell YOU Nancy Drew!" we hear you utter under your putrid mentos-and-decaf breath).

But listen, bitches; Mamma will provide. In the darkest moment, something in the universe clicks; the planets align. We blink, and suddenly we're enjoying a delicious pastrami on rye. Burp!

Now that we're once again a respectable (shut up) working member of society, we've found little time to spare. And this, our baby, has suffered. Yet COWA remains our secret crush. Posts will come with more frequency in the future, and we shall ruthlessly whup the asses of those who deserve it until our computer crashes, our hands cramp, or Yahweh yanks us home to Jesus whilst smiting the internet because of Ashton Kucher's sophomoric twittering. We're back.

With that in mind, there have been numerous items of late with blatant "whup my ass" signs taped to their fannies. We've been chomping at the bit to open a can. What follows is the Reader's Digest version of what we've been simply DYING to say:

Dear Mackenzie Phillips:

When obnoxious divorcee Anne Romano relocated her two girls (Valerie Bertinelli—future hair band frau, current fat person—and thou) to the urban shangri-la of Indianapolis, who expected her oldest daughter to be arrested at airports with a kilo of horse wedged up her oopsie hole? Worse still, Schneider hardly foresaw the day when Julie Romano would hit the talk show circuit yammering endlessly about her icky 10-year affair with her father. I'll say it to your face Mack. It's tacky.

What gal hasn't accidentally done the the hippity-dippity with pops for ten years, ultimately aborting his misbegotten inbred womb-booger because hubby wouldn't approve? We're so glad you've decided to launch your extra-classy "I boned pops and all I got was an aborted fetus and a book deal" publicity tour and press junket. We knew you were bad news when you ruined Harrison Ford's evening in "American Graffiti." Do us a favor, take a job as a second shift Stuckey's hostess and slither away into obscurity. Thanks.

xox
WAM

***

Dear Prisscilla Mechell,

Our first impulse is to beg you to run a spell-check on your unfortunate first name.

Beyond that, as we know, a woman just isn't a woman unless a fetus is kicking her abdomen from within her fruitful womb. So when your ample tummy rudely ejected your woebegone uterus spew, you sensibly decided not to tell anyone. Instead, you faked the remainder of your pregnancy and kidnapped a neighbor's infant. Then, to remake the poor thing in your ghastly image, you shaved its noggin and tarted it up under layers of Mary Kay cosmetics. Upon reconsidering the wisdom of those actions, you deposited the wailing diaper-filler in a convenient dumpster, where it was later found by the authorities gurgling under half-eaten chalupas and curbed dog poop. 

We see absolutely nothing wrong with your actions. What does a modern gal want with someone else's tarted up baby? To hell with it. Let's go shopping!

xox
WAM

P.S. To Prisscilla's miscarried fetus: we congratulate you on your foresight with respect to your erstwhile mother-to-be's parenting skills. Better luck next time.

***

Dear Mayor Eric J. Brewer,

Okay, so being Mayor of East Cleveland is pretty much like being crowned King of poop. Sure, it's nice to be King of anything, but East Cleveland? What's second prize?

Howev, if one is running for public office, it's a good idea not to prance about in women's lingerie, snapping nasty pics of ourselves looking like a chorus girl in the all-crack-whore production of Chicago (a production we'd quite enjoy, come to think of it).

Bitch, it's like this; one does not pose for pictures in corsets and panty hose like an unholy hybrid of Betty Page and Flip Wilson if one yearns for a gig in the political sphere. For not only are you a freakin mess (we beg you to investigate proper skin care, pubic mowing, lipo, hot oil treatments and drastic rhinoplasty), you are now known as Ms. Mayor Nasty Pants. Can you really govern dazzling East Cleveland when everyone and their Facebook friends know you're wearing Victoria's Secret's entire "tranny-mess" line underneath your JC Penney double breasted seersucker? We suggest a new career. Perhaps you could give hand-jobs at truck stops or join the gals on The View, or something.

xox
WAM 

***

Dear Ms. Davina Warren:

First, let us dance on the precipice of political incorrectness by saying that the black bitches have ALL the hair. We have seen weaves that gave us vertigo and/or motion sickness. We have seen bitches who are so braided and bobby-pinned their architecturally unstable hair looks like exploding turkeys emerging from chocolate wedding cakes.

So we quite enjoyed the story about how you grabbed hold of a bitch's weave and held it for ransom whilst wielding scissors. And now you find yourself charged with aggravated assault and false imprisonment. 

Chanda. Chanda-Chanda-Chanda. As anyone from Tootie on "Facts of Life" to Beyonce (and her team of nervous wig-wranglers) will attest, one simply does not take a bitch's weave hostage and expect to live to see Tyler Perry's next cinematic masterpiece. Especially considering the fact that, judging by your photo, weaves have waged the cruelest war on thou; for you look like the second-string Big-Mac-assembler at the Tuscaloosa McDonald's.

Perhaps you intended to purloin gal's locks, to pirate her braids in order to supplant your woefully inadequate hairdo.  

xox
WAM

Julie Romano sez: "I'm totally addicted to my subscription to this blog's feed"