Can O' Whup-Ass

A letter to Liz McClure, chocolate eater

Dear Liz,

We read with rapt fascination your horrifying tale of confectionery debauchery that unfolded one seemingly banal afternoon in the dazzling metropolis of Renfrewshire, Scotland. Apparently, you were curling up to eat your way through a package of Cadbury nibbles when you came frightfully close to wrapping your lips around (and sucking the goo from) a three-inch penis-shaped treat.

We sympathize with your subsequent crusade against sweets-related smut (which appears to be something of a pandemic in the Queen's realm). Furthermore, we share your adamant fury with Cadbury for refusing to apologize for nearly forcing you to engage in unwitting oral with a disembodied (albeit caramel-filled) negro appendage.

We've lost sleep over it, Liz. We've obsessed over it.

And here are the take-aways:

1. Society has gotten itself into a depraved state when a gal can't cope with her sexual obsolescence by devouring a package of nibbles without being confronted with a rude reminder of why she turns to the comforting embrace of chocolate to begin with.
2. We agree with your righteously irritated claim that your toddler grandson could have gotten into your chocolates and enjoyed his first taste of juicy brown "cockolate." Indeed, two-and-a-half is far too young to ride black stallion 'round the track, and it's best to keep such nauseating ideas from his impressionable mind at least through kindergarten.
3. The next time the echo from your forelorn uterus and the draft from your abandoned vagina compels you to fill your emptiness with cocoa-derived sublimation, you'll be confronted by the traumatizing memory of the engorged member, its swollen brown testes and life-like veiny shaft pointing angrily at your various orifices, daring you to thumb a ride down the hershey highway.
4. We applaud your courage and fortitude; instead of gobbling the engorged underpants rocket and feeling remorseful and dirty, you saved it and phoned the tabloids so you could hold it in your frigid hands (we notice it's not melting) for a dignified photo session. Stay classy, Liz.
5. We agree that the offending nibble had to have been the creation of a sex-crazed deviate chocolate factory employee, some nymphomaniac oompa-loompa must have fashioned the nubian phallus for the express purpose of getting something nasty past your lips. No, the negro pants worm is far too glorious an invention to have happened by mistake, an unfortunate "melting of three nibbles" as Cadbury dubiously claims (after all, they've recently been acquired by Kraft, who claims Velveeta is cheese). On this point, we find ourselves alarmed to be siding with the creationists. Because if the chocolate penis haunting your nightmares is really just the result of a manufacturing glitch, that would raise suspicions that you're a cranky old biddy and next week you're likely to be outraged by the appearance of an Asian clitoris in your bowl of frankenberries. And that would make you a filthy-minded old broad. Agreed?

At any rate Liz, we sincerely hope you recover from the trauma and find something more Christian on which you may suck without feeling like the scabby-kneed Aberdeen strumpet you're terrified of becoming.

xox
WAM

***

ATTENTION WAM-KATEERS: News of our (and COWA's) demise has been greatly exaggerated. More to come. And more often.Your prodigal Ass-Whupper has returned. So bend over.

DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Rihanna

Um, Rihanna...? Ri-ri?

Hi.

What do you say we slink off to the nearest astro-lounge and order a pitcher or three of harvey wallbangers? We can get stoopid and laugh at the ugly people. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? We KNOW!

Listen, it's not like we don't sort of sympathize; these days you're famous mostly for being smacked around by yo man. We know you'd prefer to be that bitch who likes to sing about umbrellas (howev, you will forgive us if Catherine Deneuve will always be our favoritest umbrella-singer-abouter). 

We own the fact that most of today's R&B makes our ears feel like they're being raped in the butt. To our mind, R&B means Stevie, Aretha, Marvin, and pre-Jehovah's Witness Prince. Since then, it all sounds like the same bass-heavy whisper-sung crapola. Of course, we're old enough to be your father and that's precisely the sort of thing we're expected/allowed to say. But that's neither here nor there, is it?

Anywho, here's the deal. It's nice to be noticed. And uni-nom'd divas are required by law to wear things that push the boundaries of good taste, decency laws and feminine hygiene. There was a time B.C. (before Cher) when all a bitch had to do was stitch a few sequins to her frock and hoist the girls skyward. Since the advent of Madonna's conic boobulars, Lady Gaga regularly forgets to put on pants, Beyonce appears to have a Buick emerging from her batcave, and Britney seems doomed forever to be dressed for a date with her gynecologist. But you've convinced us, with these two get-ups, that an intervention is in order, stat. 

Let's start with your first look. Sigh. Well, it certainly looks like it cost an arm and a leg. That aside, did you actually tell your stylist you wanted to look like a pole-dancing Cruella DeVille?  Were your left boob and right thigh cast in a dinner theatre production of Chicago? If so, why did your right boob and left thigh accept a role in Catwoman 2: A Very Catty Christmas?  Additionally, while having forgotten only half of your pants is a step up from Lady Gaga, the resulting crotchular effect makes it appear as if your camel toe has a hang-nail. It's unfortunate.

And the hair. You look like Kate Gosselin's been hired to front the Flock of Seagulls reunion tour.

Finally, what's with the ill-fitting O.J. gloves? Did you seriously look into the mirror as you were about to leave the house and decide this look requires accessories (other than the chrome hula hoop destroying your earlobe)? Oops, we just answered our own question.

All in all, this outfit makes us long for alcoholism's sweet embrace.  So let's move on, shall we?

Oh. oh my goodness.

Why, Rihanna...why do you hate our ability to see? You ruined a perfectly decent French maid costume by stuffing a futon into your brassiere.

Did you fracture your shoulder, spine, and ribcage? Why the crotch bib? Whence the fluffy bunny tail? You look like the third runner up in the Miss Elephantitis pageant. It's all so confusing.

Wait. Hold on! We got it! You've rigged your wardrobe with passenger-side air bags! That way, the next time yo man gets tired of your sass and decides to show you wassup, your dress will deploy.

Unfortch, it seems to have deployed on the red carpet, and now you're obliged to hastily concoct the unlikely story that you took a jaunt through a teleportation device and were disastrously fused at the molecular level with the Michelin Man. Or a tempurpedic mattress.

Come to think of it, a tempurpedic gown might come in useful; should Chris Brown ever decide to jump up and down on your breasts, at least you won't spill your merlot.

xox
WAM

Chris Brown sez: "I caught my last bitch subscribing to this blog's feed, so I showed her wassup"

Post-its of Friendly Concern: 2010 Edition

Our long absence from this space is attributable to a bout with the flu, a nasty eye injury and the unforeseen onset of end-of-the-worst-year-ever apathy.

Nevertheless, incidents are occurring. Blips on our radar screen, each pregnant with the promise that 2010 will be just as retarded as the aughts. And we've decided that should we repress our ass-whuppitude for another minute, we'll likely bust. Ready?

POST-IT NUMBER 1 — To Gary Stewart, the Rude Homo Who Kidnapped His Lesbian Neighbors' Three-Legged Kitty-Cat 

Dear Mr. Stewart:

Lesbian cat-lovers are admittedly insufferable. Not only that, it's an indisputable universal truth that three-legged pets are irritating. They hop around, pretending everything's hunky-dory when clearly everything is not. It was careless of them to misplace a limb.

Be that as it may, Mr. Stewart, not only was it ill-advised to kidnap your lesbian neighbors' wretched feline tripod, it was sloppy to have been caught in the act.

Furthermore, when you mixed slug pellets into a take-away curry dish and presented it to those tedious sapphic amputee aficionados as a peace offering, it betrayed your woeful lack of expertise in the area of ridding one's block of be-flanneled rug munchers (for inst, every homo knows it's far more effective to hire k.d. lang to coax them into a humane lesbian trap and release them into a distant Home Depot parking lot). But slug pellets and curry is hardly an effective recipe for Lez-b-Gone.

xox
WAM

POST-IT NUMBER 2 — To Ivana Trump, Baby Curser-Outer

Dearest Ivana,

We were troubled by recent accounts of how you were physically escorted from an aircraft when screaming children infiltrated first class, triggering a terrifying relapse of your post-traumatic stress disorder.

After all, those horrific memories of playing the Rusty Trump-bone must be repressed for sanity's sake. Goodness, we'd sooner felch Karl Rove than bump uglies with The Donald; who, aside from owning the world's most architecturally unstable comb-over, is the ghastliest tub of paste in the Milky Way Galaxy.

Nevertheless, a classy dame such as yourself simply does not charge the cockpit of an airliner after screaming at a baby and calling it a "little f*cker."  Don't get us wrong. We sympathize, and secretly believe the major airlines should require all under-fivers to be shoved into baby kennels and checked as baggage.

At the very least, one wonders why the Valium people haven't introduced Teletubby-shaped chewables. The world would be infinitely pleasanter. Agreed?

xox
WAM

POST-IT NUMBER 3 — Attention Chattanooga Wal-Mart Shoppers

Dear Chattanooga Wal-Mart Shoppers:

We hear you. Times are hard. To add insult to injury, y'all live in Chattanooga. But any time you need some cheap entertainment, simply pile the family into the Caravan and head to your neighborhood Wal-Mart.

It seems some fellow Chattanoogans recently performed a dazzling piece of Wal-Mart performance art (Walm-Art?). First, a man attempted to circumvent the cashiers by strolling through the exit pushing a cart filled with flat screened TVs. When questioned by a security guard, a woman nearby started having a heart attack. Suddenly, a witness told the guard the heart-attack-haver was actually the shoplifter's wife and was faking it. Perturbed by having her shenanigans exposed, the woman experienced a miraculous recovery and followed witness into the parking lot and attacked her. Then the witness stabbed the woman with a pocket knife.

We consider "Wal-Mart Heist Gone Awry" to be a brilliantly scathing satire depicting that "real America" about which Sarah Palin waxed so eloquently.  

Kudos and bravo!

xox
WAM

POST-IT NUMBER 4 — To the Best Aussie Dad in All of Queensland

G'day Mate!

As the show-tune goes, when one plants a radish one gets a radish, not a brussel sprout. But with children, sometimes the son you dreamt would grow up to play rugby and bang broads suddenly starts skipping about wearing purple blouses and lip-syncing to Cher. Relax, this is nothing more than Yahweh having a good laugh at your expense.

But should you plant a zucchini and harvest a kumquat, you'd do well to love the kumquat for being a kumquat. We'd advise against forcing the kumquat to bone a hooker. But you did just that, and stood outside the door, threatening your terrified 14-year-old son that he wasn't going home until he produced a used condom as evidence of the deed.

Because when one forces an under-aged boy into sex, it's called child rape. And now you're charged with the rape of your son. And now you'll likely end up in a sad place where men like you learn exactly how to be a kumquat (you'll be delighted to discover it's remarkably similar to rugby).

And that, my dears, is irony.

xox
WAM

FINALLY — THE FIRST-EVER WAM PLUG

A very good friend of ours has written and directed a truly hilarious 2-minute movie and it's entered in the Nikon 2-minute film competition. Check it out. It's short, clever, and we laffed outloud several times.

His name is Rob Muraskin and his film's called "Carpool Therapy: First Day"

Vote for him. He's a gifted dude and he deserves the prize.

Ivana sez: "Every time I start to remember The Donald in his Aquaman Underoos, I remember my subscription to this blog's feed and life seems bearable again."

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Lady Gaga

Um...Lady?

Ms. Gaga?

Hi. May we call you Ga? Why are you staring at us? Is that a "no"?

So, what do you say we hop the next spaceship to Planet Claire and order a pitcher of Supernovatinis? Or we could just go to TGI Friday's and slam back some fuzzy navels...same diff, really. Doesn't that just sound marvy? We KNOW!

Listen. Here's the deal. You're a serious broad. And we've resisted writing this BNoFC because you're fully aware (indeed, you're the architect) of your craziocity. And anyone who ridicules your LSD-inspired wardrobe is woefully UNaware that the joke is on them. You are begging to be talked about. You frequently leave the house having remembered to bobby-pin a Judy Jetson wig to your noggin, yet somehow you always forget the pants. Beyond that, while we rather enjoyed the rumors that you serve your hair pie with a side of kielbasa, we also strongly suspect you were the one behind that particular meme. You are, as our Beantown friends might say, "wicked smaht."

We've been tempted to drop you a note before. Especially that one time, whilst performing, you confined your breasts (whom we've fondly dubbed Etna and Vesuvius) to a maximum security brassiere and they rebelled by erupting. The point being while fashion has never been about comfort, it shouldn't incinerate your fans in a  pyroclastic flow.  But no, we held our tongue. Because any gal whose boobs are wont to spew magma and embarks on a career as a disco diva (instead of, say, an X-man), has spunk in our book. Besides, any concert during which a performer zaps her frankenboobs to life is well worth the ticket price.

But now, Lay-Ga...now we're concerned for your mental health. How we wish we could have read your mind today when you stood before your vast wardrobe. We're more than a little curious about the thought process that caused you to strap a JC Penney's "naughty grandma" underwire bra over your Mary Poppins blouse, hike up a pair of crotchless satin Depends, and secure a Charo wig to your noggin with what appears to be the wrapper from a Hickory Farms "deepest sympathy" cheese and fruit basket. 

We're certain it seemed like a good idea at the time. But you look like you're attending the funeral of your sanity. See here's the thing. You're a trend-setter. Do you really want the entire world to start wearing their underoos as outerwear? Have you given the slightest thought to the potential ramifications? For starters, it would force us to cover our furniture in plastic. Is that what you really want?

You look like (pick one):

1. Morgan Fairchild in a very special Lifetime movie-of-the-week called "Not Without My Mom-jeans," the heart warming story of a woman who goes into mourning when The Gap discontinues their line of high-waisted acid wash stretch pants
2. The winning design from that episode of Project Runway where Heidi Klum gives the designers one day to stitch together a wardrobe for the soon-to-hit-the-toy-stores Bi-Polar Barbie
3. A publicity still from "I Was an Incontinent Space Widow," a daring independent film directed by Darren Aronofsky and starring Charlize Theron, which swept the awards at Sundance
4. That long lost episode of Love Boat, wherein cruise director Julie McCoy spikes the punch with ecstasy causing Charo to hurl herself overboard, whereupon her distraught lesbian lover Donna Mills disrupts a shuffleboard tournament with her shocking announcement that her girdle's been possessed by beelzebub.  
5. Bloody hell.

xox
WAM

Lady Ga-Ga sez: "I got so wrapped up in my subscription to this blog's feed, I forgot to put on a skirt."

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."

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"

A Sex Prayer for Catholic Couples (PLUS: A Letter to Miss Lisa Newsome)

As we all know, Cathy-lick priests are experts on everything sexual. Of course they're all celibate (wink-wink), so hippity-dippity is pretty much all they ever think about. So who better to write a charming book called "A Prayer Book for Spouses," which includes a Catholic sex prayer that opposite-married heterosexuals can say together before getting down to the unpleasant business of spousal coitus. Just prior to part where the wife does her duty by bending to her husband's will and allowing his spitting sin-serpent to spelunk in that place "down there" where Cathy-lick babies shoot out with alarming frequency, the couple gets down on their knees for a Jesus-approved orally-delivered prologue. 

This is a sticky wicket, natch, as The Bible gives little reason to believe that God wants to listen to us praying about S-E-C-K-S. So as one might imagine, the priests who wrote the prayer went through many drafts before getting it just right. Thanks to our underground cadre of ninja operatives posing as sensitive altar boys, we were able to get our hands on an early version. You're welcome.

Dear Lord,

We ask, in Your Infinite Grace, to guide us through the proceeding ickiness. May the miracle of Viagra pull a "Moses" by transforming the limp snake into a staff. Let us not enjoy it, for a grunting middle-aged alcoholic's pasty rump piston-pumping a long suffering cellulite-afflicted baby factory is hardly an occasion celebrate. Have mercy, O Lord; for although You instructed us to "be fruitful and multiply" we've multiplied quite enough, having been blessed with eighteen insufferable children who sass us and smoke pot. To that end, please make the army of sperm about to spew forth get lost in the shame cave and wander about like a bunch of Jews in the desert. And speaking of being fruitful, while the husband has found many opportunities to defy Leviticus by placing ads on Craigslist for randy truckers into watersports, help us to avoid the temptation of using a condom. For as the Pope said, condoms spread the AIDS, which is our punishment for answering the urges you put in our heads to test us. And please help us wrap it up during the commercial break so we don't miss any of CSI: Special Victim's Unit. In Jesus Christ's name we pray,

Amen.

***

Dear Lisa Newsome,

We were enchanted by the heart-warming story of your recent brush with the law.

As the story goes, one day it occurred to you that you might enjoy a nice cold beer. So you sauntered into a liquor store in the dazzling Louisiana metropolis of Zachary, hiked up your house-dress, and stuffed a twelve pack of Miller Light up your tuchus.

We appreciate the kind of gal whose hair pie doubles as an ice box. Moreover, it's the only way you could conceivably compel us to reach betwixt your thighs. However, while we always like our brew with a nice healthy head, that's hardly what we had in mind. And although we shudder to contemplate where you might have stored the pretzels, we'd be much more impressed if you did the same trick with a keg.

At any rate, thanks for the suds. You can pull your dress down now. By the way, do you have a bottle-opener? Oh. We see.

Nevermind.

xox
WAM

WAM sez: "Have a great Labor Day Weekend! And subscribe to this blog's feed."

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear K-Fed

Um...Mr. Federline?

Kevin?

Hi! You're looking...um...summer-y. What do you say we haul our carcasses to the nearest Taco Bell? You can order a couple dozen gorditas whilst we lounge over a super-sized vodka-spiked Sprite. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it bro? We KNOW!

So it's like this. We've never hated on you. Sure, you are famous only for the dippy broad you banged. You embarked on a meteoric rap career wherein your freshman effort went pewter. But after the divorce, when your ex was busily shaving her head, flashing her hair pie and dropping the issue of your loins on their soft lil' noggins, you became the responsible one. And although we know we're entirely alone in this (and we're likely to lose our readers' respect with this shameful admission), we always secretly thought you were something of a hottie, in a trailer-trash-crystal-meth-guest-star-on-COPS kinda way.

As your baby momma disappoints thousands with her spectacular lip-sync-to-gawdawful-music-whilst-dressed-like-a-pole-dancing-circus-whore tour, you're being paid $30,000 a month to babysit your own children. That's a truly excellent gig, and it leads us to believe that you're no dimwit; you know exactly which side your bread is buttered on. Which brings us to our point: You could stand to cut back a tad on both the bread and the butter. 

It's like this: just because you're pulling in 30 g's this month doesn't necessitate investing it all in Ho-hos, Little Debbies and Ringdings.

Dude. You're big as a house.

The thing is, we really don't have a beef against fatties (as long as they purchase two seats if they insist on flying coach). Okay, perhaps we've ridiculed Val Kilmer, Simon Lebon, Oprah Winfrey and thunder-thighs herself, Nikki Hilton. But that's just 'cause we care too much. Honest.

As you waddle hither and yon in that seck's-y Chairman Mao capri pants ensemble you picked up at Tents-4-Tanks Discount Big-n-Tall Emporium, scientists are finding oodles of new ways fatties die of fattiosity. Their hearts fart to a stop. They get the diabetes. They fall through floors. They snap bungee cords and elevator cables. And as we learned from Bugs Bunny, to a Tasmanian Devil they look like yummy hams.

Worse still, a new study undertaken by the University of California has shown that folks with excessive gravitational pull have smaller brains. Their fat bodies are choking their noggins with all the fat.

The results are incontrovertible: fatsos are dumb. This, among other things, explains the Southern Baptists.

So drop the malomars and the yodels, stat. Pick up jogging, K-Fed, you've been K-Fed enough.

Otherwise, as science demonstrates, your new nickname will soon be Special K.

xox
WAM

K-Fed sez: "Science has shown that subscribing to this blog's feed makes you less dumb and stuff"

A Gal Named Stu

Sometimes, as in the case of LA Times sports writer Mike Penner, a dude decides to send back his plate of bratwurst in exchange for the clam dish. Or in the case of Chastity Chaz Bono, a gal realizes she's not in the mood for meat pie, and opts instead for the kielbasa. In either case, it requires a brass set of cojones to willingly have one's shame hose hacked off and replaced with a batcave (or vice versa). It's not like having one's cavity filled. This is not an out-patient procedure. As we've mentioned previously, unless you're Mr. Potato-head, genitalia are not easily interchangeable.

And of course, transgendered folks make the Jesus crowd all nervous. Any man in a dress (who isn't Milton Berle or Flip Wilson) makes them all fidgety. The sight of Ru Paul makes them want to vacuum their Volvos. If a man isn't the pope, he simply cannot flounce about in a gown. And of course, there's a blossoming fear that under Obama's health plan everyone will be forced to have sex changes. It's ironic that the uberconservative Iranian theocracy will execute a dude for fagnicity, but accepts gender identity displacement as a valid medical condition; if you chop it off and wear a hijab, they won't give you a rope necktie. But that's neither here nor there. Let's get into the meat of things, shall we?

Meet Stu Rasmussen. Girlfriend has recently undergone sexual reassignment AND been elected mayor of Silverton Oregon (we admire multi-taskers). Since being freshly equipped with a set of boobalicious ta-tas and corresponding oopsie hole, Lady Stu has been displaying the merchandise; she showed up for a speaking engagement at a children's charity clad in a mini skirt over a backless one-piece bathing suit and open-toed "f*ck me" pumps. This prompted yelly vibrator hobbyist Bill O'Reilly to yell about how trannies are harming the kiddies. But f*ck O'Reilly. He's retarded and yelly.

We'd like to address Ms. Stu:

Dear Mayor Rasmussen,

First, get a load of you. How many years have you longed to shake your maracas and mince about like Mitzy Gaynor? It must be terribly liberating. So you go, girl.

What's more, we believe our country needs more transgendered mayors. For instance, if Lady Bunny was Mayor of New York, everything would instantly be much more entertaining (we imagine Bunny at a press conference spontaneously lip-syncing "Come on-a My House"). But more to the point, city hall would be whipped into shape faster than you can say "sashay shantay." One does not irk a queen and live to see tomorrow. The only thing scarier than an angry transsexual is a premenstrual minotaur.

But we have some issues. First, you've endured the discomfort of having your pants worm refashioned into a hoo-hoo. You've had more estrogen jabs than all of the Golden Girls put together. Why then are you still named Stu? To our mind, you look like a Babette or a Prudence. That settles it; hereinafter you shall be Babette.

See, Babs, it's like this. We really have no qualm with an ex dude tarting himself up like Lady GaGa and slinking into a Children's Charity fund raiser. Kids will accept you; they've been acquainted with gender illusionists since Tinky Winky pranced onto the scene like Lola Falana at a Key West gay bar, since Lady Elaine vamped about on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. And it's not that we object to the fact that you're uglier than a pole cat on a mud fence. Just because you couldn't win the Miss Landmine Pageant even if the judges were blind doesn't mean you're incapable of holding office. Heck, Golda Meir looked as if she'd been hit in the face with a shovel more than once and that broad was serious.

No, our main beef is taste, or your tragic lack thereof. If Mayor Bloomberg marched in the Saint Patty's parade clad in fuscia spandex biker shorts and pasties, it would be inappropriate (though certainly amusing). Likewise, if Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa attended a ribbon-cutting ceremony dressed as Charo, eyebrows would raise. Babette, a bitch cannot expect to dress up like disco gidget at public appearances AND retain the dignity of elected office. You are hereby sentenced to open a charge account at Dress Barn. Pick out a lovely pants suit or three. Some tasteful separates. Invest in some closed-toe flats, stat! (and, not for nuthin, maybe some moisturizer)

Save the hoochie-mama get-up for latin night at karaoke. Capice?

xox
WAM

Stu Rasmussen sez: "I like to dress up like a whore and subscribe to this blog's feed."

Dear Madge

'Nuff said?

xox
WAM

Mercy Ciccone sez: "Mommy says if I stop throwing poop from my baby cage she'll let me subscribe to this blog's feed."