Can O' Whup-Ass

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."

 

Texas is History

Texas is a beans-and-weenies, varicose veins, big hair, polyester stretch pants kinda town. Most Texans claim to be patriotic, blissfully ignoring the fact that their retarded state has tried to secede three times (side note: we wholly support Texas secession, if only for the fact that it would render future Bushes ineligible for president).

The fattest people in the world (see: Baptists) live there. It's the destination of choice for those who like dragging Negroes behind their pick-ups or shooting their buddies in the face with a shotgun. Texas is not, however, the kinda town through which Democrat Presidents should ride in a convertible.

The Wikipedia entry on Texas is long as your arm, but the section on "culture" consists of exactly one sentence about the breakfast burrito.

And now, a suspiciously effeminate Texan named Don McLeroy (fundamentalist, dentist, school board chairman, fat person) is re-writing the history/social studies books. And because text book publishers aren't in the habit of issuing state-specific editions, this could affect every classroom in America.

Why is this 500-pound sack of cat barf in a bolo tie doing this? Because current text books were written by hell-bound libruls. They rudely suggest that McCarthyism was a bad thing, that Mexicans are people, that the founding fathers intended to create a free, secular nation, and that Jesus didn't write every word of the constitution (except for the establishment clause, which was written by a n*gger-loving homosexual devil worshiper named Thomas Jefferson).

Texas text books (Textas books?) expunge the word "capitalism" for the more patriotic-sounding "free enterprise," because "capitalism" has a bad connotation. Of course, the Jesus Inc/"corporations are people too" Republicans are the ones who gave capitalism its bad rap in the first place, but why quibble? (aside: if you changed the word "syphilis" to "freedom cooties," every Texan would dash out to bone Jenna Bush).

Be that as it may, our covert band of ninja spies has gotten its mitts on the new Texas-style history book, complete with expurgated pinko commie passages destined for the trash bin. We've provided snippets below. You're welcome.

THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS:

Four score and seven years ago Once upon a time, our fathers Jesus brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty church, and dedicated to the proposition that all men  Baptists are created equal heterosexual, and their wives should shut their yaps and fry up dinner. Now we are engaged in a great holy civil war freedom spat, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure own a fella named Sambo. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. Support our troops! Woo!! It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate...we can not consecrate...we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living  unaborted and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract set the stage for endless civil war re-enactments by alcoholic sociopaths. The world Democrats will little note, nor long remember re-write what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here they're all a bunch of homos. It is for us the living Christian white folk, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced Jesus. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion Jesus—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom Republican fear-mongering—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people Jesus, shall not perish from the earth vote to send a certain uppity Democrat negro to the White House for a second term.

THE FIRST AMENDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech of homo libruls, or of and their homo librul the press except for Fox News; or the right wing of the people peaceably to will assemble, and to petition threaten the Government for a redress of grievances with their guns.

THE SECOND AMENDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES:

A well regulated Christian militia being necessary to the security of a free State the Republican Party, the right-wing of the People to  will keep and bear arms a butt-load of fully-automatic assault rifles shall not be infringed.

DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR'S "I HAVE A DREAM" SPEECH:

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children. Let freedom ring. And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring—when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children—black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics—will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last I'm doin' the hippity-dippity with yo cracker-ass daughters! Sho-nuff, bitches!

xox
WAM

Don McLeroy sez: "Does this blog's feed make me look fat?"

Goldman Sells a Whatzit

We're sure you've all heard of the Goldman Sachs Abacus scandal, but most folks don't really understand what it means. Well, Goldman created a CDO called Abacus and sold it to its clients. But Goldman forgot to tell its clients that Abacus was designed to fail. Meanwhile, Goldman had placed numerous side bets that it would do just that. It was like "The Producers," that movie in which some dudes raise a mint to put on a show destined to bomb, intent on pocketing the investment money.

But most folks have no idea what a CDO is, what the hell is a derivative. Trust us. We have worked in (or very close to) financial services for eight years. Ask anyone to explain a default swap. Watch them stammer and bullshit. They don't know either. We can only tell you they appear to be an unholy hybrid between an insurance policy and a side bet at a cockfight.

So to help us understand what went down at Goldman Sachs, we've enlisted infamous children's book writer Nurse Noose to explain it to us as if we were five. And here it is:

GOLDMAN SELLS A WHATZIT

In the land of Maglop, just south of Canack
A rich man named Goldman McSachy-McGlack
Arrived into town with a large golden sack
It was stuffed full of whatzits and slung on his back
The foos that inhabit the land of Maglop
Watched as McSachy-McGlack set up shop
The new shop was chic, it was shiny, compelling
"What are you selling?" the foos started yelling
McSachy-McGlack smiled and answered the foos:
"Come see for yourself, you've got nothing to lose."

Inside the shop, there was box upon box
And each box was locked up with five golden locks
"What is it?" they asked, their eyes bright with greed
"It's a whatzit, that's what, and it's just what you need"
"What does it do?" asked young Cindy-lu Foo
"Well" said McSachy-McGlack "I'll tell you"
"It makes the poor rich, and it makes the rich richer
And the richest more richester, now get the picture?
Just buy one or two, put them under your bed
And leave them alone, get them out of your head
And then sell them back, and worse comes to worst
They will be worth ten times what they cost you at first"
"But" he continued "there's one caveat"
The impatient foos said in unison "what?"
"The whatzit will work only if it stays locked"
"What's in a whatzit?" the older foos mocked
"It doesn't concern you, just don't open the box
Keep it under your bed, and don't unlock the locks"
"I'll take one" said one foo "I'll take three or four"
"I'll take a dozen" "put me down for a score!"

Each foo soon had his own whatzit stash
And each knew that soon they'd be rolling in cash
So they bought foo-mobiles and they mortgaged their huts
They had foo boob jobs and foo liposucked butts
What happened next? Well, what do you think?
The whatzits, one-by-one, started to stink
They reeked to high heaven, all icky and rank
Like bungle-beast farts, that's how much they stank
The foos plugged their noses, they cursed and they swore
Til Cindy-lu Foo couldn't take anymore
She took out her whatzit and unlocked the locks
She took a deep breath and she opened the box
What was inside? Well I've got the scoop:
Each whatzit was stuffed full of snorgle-pig poop
When word got around, every foo would lament
"My whatzit portfolio aint' worth a cent!"

They soon lost their jobs, and then lost their houses
They started to drink, they were beating their spouses
By the time they were left with no foo-pot to piss in
Goldman McSachy-McGlack turned up missin'
What happened then? It just keeps getting better
Taped to his boarded up shop was a letter
"I'm sorry you're left with nary a cent
But look on the bright side! I've made a mint!
See, to tell you the truth (and I know the truth hurts)
I placed a side bet that the Foos lose their shirts."
"The moral" it said "you should know now by heart:

A foo and his money are destined to part"

xox
WAM

Cindy-lu Foo sez: "If only every Foo subscribed to this blog's feed"

Notes From an Unapologetic Uni-tasker

Some time ago, a teenage girl named Alexa Longueira was blissfully walking the streets of Staten Island (suspicious in itself) whilst texting something earth-shattering, no doubt ("shut UP, Zac Ephron is NOT a homo!"), when she fell into an open sewer manhole. While we wish no one injury, we enjoyed the story as evidence of Darwin's genius. Open manholes, after all, serve two important functions: they allow access to the sewer, and they handily dispose of dingbats like Alexa.

Walking (like driving, flying a plane, luging, operating a lawn mower, skydiving and sex), is an activity that requires one's full attention. Nobody needs to be doing anything else when they're doing any of these things. And if one finds themselves in a position where they simply MUST tweet about Hannah Montana whilst merging their Prius onto the interstate, something has gone terribly awry with their lives.

Take, for example, the curious case of Megan Mariah Barnes. On March 2, the classy Ms. Barnes crashed her Thunderbird into another vehicle because she had her ex-husband (riding shotgun) take the wheel so she could shave her hoo-hoo. Driving and pube-shaving are two activities that need no distraction. One false move doing either can easily result in the loss of something valuable. Heavens, if we're ever driving along and suddenly experience an unforeseen but desperate need to mow the grounds around the Washington Monument, you can rest assured we'd at least pull over. But this is a woman who climbed behind the wheel with a razor. It was planned. Of course this happened in Florida, where they grow retards like oranges.

But let's leave Florida, shall we? Let's go to Japan, the country that gave us hello kitty, kimonos and dolphin burgers. The Japanese are a suspicious lot (enough with the bowing, we're never going to clap). As such, they have a boner for robots. So much so, that they've recently unveiled the dazzling SOM, a portable hands-free whack-off machine (quit yer bitching gals, it also comes in a model for the ladies -- and desperate homos).

It seems to WAM that masturbation is a task one mustn't delegate. Furthermore, our highways are hazardous enough with folks tweeting and texting and facebooking, without adding hands-free chicken-chokers into the mix. After all, at least once a year don't we hear about a frisky couple who engaged in a bit of automotive oral when suddenly their Taurus sailed through a guard rail and down a ravine? We don't need truckers spanking one out with the help of their SOMs as their rigs careen down the turnpike. It's a hazardous distraction.

Want proof? Over the past two years, as America's financial institutions imploded one by one, the good people at the SEC (you know, the dudes we pay to keep an eye on the finance racket) were busily accessing sites like www.ladyboyjuice.com, www.hotgoo.com, www.scatmen.com, www.trannytit.com and www.anal-sins.com. Sitting behind government computers, their sweaty fingers click-click-clicking away, they either gained or tried to gain access to these sites more than 8,273 times. Meanwhile Bernie Madoff was escaping their scrutiny, AIG was playing a shell game with hundreds of billions in non-existent cash, and the strongest economy in the world was transformed into a disastrously precarious house of cards. At least when Nero fiddled as Rome burned, he was fiddling an actual fiddle.

What's more, we are convinced multi-tasking leads to insanity. Exhibit one: a dear friend of ours once had a roommate. One day it was roomie's turn to do the dishes and our friend discovered that roomie had taken the dishes into the shower so she could rinse out her filthy bits while scrubbing the skillets and silverware. That is simply demented, not to mention of dubious hygienic value.

Exhibit two would have to be Tetris Girl. She's a woman we encounter during every morning commute. Her blackberry is constantly running Tetris. She's tetris-ing as she walks, boards the train, disembarks, and totters off on her day. If, on the rare occasion she stops tetris-ing to look you in the eye, one detects her brain making a snap decision on how she must rotate you as you descend, so that you may fit into her twisted tetris-based reality. Tetris is her crack; reality an inconvenient intruder. We sincerely hope she's not tetris-ing whilst crossing the street one day when a cross-town bus sends her to the next level.

No. We are a proud uni-tasker.

It's okay to concentrate on one thing at a time. Really. As a matter of fact, we might all be a lot better off if everyone did just that.

And sometimes, of course, it's okay to do absolutely nothing at all. Sometimes there's nothing we'd rather do.

XOX
WAM

Tetris Girl sez: "If I rotate this blog's feed 90 degrees counter clockwise, it will fit into my life."

Shall We Vance? (UPDATE: 4 years*)

As devoted readers will recall, last July we wrote a note to a professor we had in college, one Mr. Vance Fulkerson. Vance, a be-wigged reptilian creep, was found to have concealed a video camera inside a clock in his bathroom, where he recorded his students making pee-pee and ucky-poo. He often taught voice at his home and instructed his kids (students of his at UNC) to vocalize whilst pissing; singing, he told them, uses the same muscles as going number one. Really, Vance. That's just tacky.

Upon arrest, he claimed he installed the camera to keep tabs on his aging parents (because nothing says "I love you, mom" quite like spying on her pinching a loaf). Howev, of the many, many tapes of recorded bathroom guests, none were of mumsy or daddums, nor were any of them female. But in his defense some of his candid puerile porn stars were totally of legal age.

Anywho, after our blog post (which received FAR more hits than any other COWA post, and still does), his past students kept crawling out of the woodwork, each with a more harrowing/disgusting story to tell, many of whom emailed us or commented here on COWA.

Flash forward: on January 10, Fulkerson (not-so-affectionately known as "Vanceline" back in the day), pleaded guilty to one felony count of sexual exploitation of a child. In the bargain, 16 lesser charges were dropped. And this Wednesday, he gets sentenced to anything from probation to 12 years in the slammer.

We shall update this post when the sentence is handed down, so stay tuned. But meanwhile, we have a few more things to say to this oily predator. So let's "stop dicking around" (one of Vanceline's fave expressions) and get to it, shall we? 

Dear Vanceline:

It's a strong possibility that you're enjoying your last lungfuls of freedom's sweet air for quite a while, maybe even forever (face it cream-puff, you're 63, and some of our more sensitive convicts tend to get stabby with child molesters). So we thought now's a good time to have a lil' chat.

First, we hate to break it to you, but you need to brace yourself for the eventuality of relinquishing your spectacularly obvious toupee. They don't allow wigs in maximum security. We admit to looking forward to your booking photo, for no one (outside that legendary day in dance class when your rug became un-moored after you executed an enthusiastic fan kick) has ever seen you sans hairpiece. You will also be obliged to remove your high-heeled zippered ankle boots, your maroon tights, and that cute plaid shirt you liked to knot at your midriff like Ellie Mae Clampett.

We wish you the best of luck in your game of cell-mate roulette, for you could be partnered with anyone from a check forger to a psychotic cannibal. At any rate, please be aware that the terlit will be in plain view of your cell-mate and every passerby. We hope you think about your hidden clock-camera every time you undergo the indignity of public pooping.

Next, we feel the need to apologize. Not to you, but to your "pets." It's like this: every year, you'd set your sights on a confused young man. You'd groom him, and laughably claiming to have Broadway connections you'd promise him stardom and cast him in leading roles. The WAM-ster himself could have been so "fortunate," had we not shivered in revulsion and told you to remove your hand from whence it had wandered one day in your office. But in the sheltered sphere of college, your "pets" were routinely ostracized by the other students, ruthlessly torn to shreds behind their backs (and sometimes, regrettably, right in front of their faces).

We see now how miserable they were. Enduring the ghastly carnal attentions of an immoral (and profoundly icky) snake, the ridicule and cold shoulder of their classmates, and the visible destruction of their self-esteem. Eventually, a new semester would bring fresh meat, and they'd find themselves cut loose. We wish we'd seen what was really happening instead of being blinded by our shallow teenaged ego/rivalry/resentment. And we hope your long overdue incarceration brings them some kind of belated cold comfort.

And finally, you classy tub of rancid Crisco, know that we take no real pleasure from the thought of you being inevitably beaten to a pulp for pirouetting in some prison cafeteria; no more pleasure than we derive from the fact that you oozed from your mother's thighs to begin with. Your victim's scars endure, regardless. 

XOX
WAM

* The Judge has sentenced Vanceline to 4 years in the slammer (check out his hollow video mea culpa, complete with fake crocodile tears). Your sentence, Vancy-poo, is equal to the four years we spent in the college in which you taught. At sentencing, you said: "I am ashamed of my secretive fantasizing."

Well, Vance...it's like this. Everyone has weird fantasies. Not everyone acts on their fantasies by concealing a camera in their bathroom to record underaged guests going pee-pee and poo-poo. So you're going to the big house for four years, and were led from the courthouse in cuffs. And you'll be 67 when you emerge. Sorry bitch, we can't cry for you.

Because when you're released, the world, for 4 years, will have been blissfully, a little bit less slimy.

Bon voyage. 

Vance sez: "I wouldn't have been so creepy with the kid if I knew he'd grow up and write this blog and invite folks to subscribe to his feed."

Dear Andrea Fay Friedman

Dear Andrea,

We read with rapt fascination the story in the NYTimes (and again on Gawker) about how you engaged in slap fight with Sarah Palin and her daughter (sexually-abstinent single mother) Bristol and handed them their fannies on a platter. It all started when you, a Down Syndrome actress, voiced a Down Syndrome character on "Family Guy."

While "Family Guy" has never been accused of being highbrow (or even funny), the episode treated your character as strong, opinionated, and clever. But then came that moment when your character claimed that her mother "used to be governor of Alaska."

Never one to miss a chance to be publicly outraged, Palin immediately Twittered that she felt "kicked in the gut" (is it just us or does she seem to secretly enjoy a good gut-kicking?) Then she invited her totally non-Down Syndrome daughter Bristol to chime in. Apparently, the apple doesn't fall far from the fame-whore, because instead of saying "Mom, please don't drag our family into another public brawl," Bristol happily obliged:

"Insults directed at our youngest brother hurt too much for us to remain silent. If the writers of a particularly pathetic cartoon show thought they were being clever in mocking my brother and my family yesterday, they failed. All they proved is that they’re heartless jerks."

Then, unable to confine her outrage to Twitter, Sarah took her never-ending look-at-my-retarded-baby-and-admire-me reunion tour to that beacon of civil discourse The O'Reilly Factor, where she said "When are we going to be willing to say, you know, some things just aren’t really funny?" The answer to her question is obvious, of course; we'll stop making jokes about the Palins when they stop being hilarious.

But then the NYTimes asked you, Andrea Fay Friedman to comment. You said:

"Former Governor Palin doesn't have a sense of humor. (At least) My mother did not carry me around under her arm like a loaf of French bread the way former Governor Palin carries her son Trig around looking for sympathy and votes."

Oh, SNAP! Andrea, you are now our favorite person.

See, here's the thing. We're not a fan of Family Guy. We think 90% of its jokes are still-born. But even if the episode in question was slightly exploity, you made the conscious decision to take the role. Lil' Trig, on the other hand, has had zero say about starring in the long-running sitcom "Guess Who Mommy Didn't Abort?"

Because that's not exploitive at ALL.

When Sarah keeps repeating, over and over, that Trig is a special gift from Jesus, what she's really saying is she barely tolerates the poor child. We know that if Princess Youbetcha was truly concerned about protecting her family from public ridicule, she wouldn't be taking every battle public, writing memoirs about them, parading them about ad nauseum. After all, this is a woman who put great effort into making the father of her grandchild an overnight celebrity, then took great (public) offense when he became famous.

But then again, she's not exactly the sharpest tack in the box. She thinks Africa is a country. She believes we share a border with Afghanistan. She fears for the future of free speech in a country where the media can say whatever they want. (Some folks are born retarded, some acquire retardation, and others have it thrust upon them.)

We sincerely hope she's the Republican candidate in 2012. Because the Palin/Obama debate is bound to produce the greatest straight-man/funny-lady comedy team since Burns and Allen.

How do we know this? Because Palin engaged in a battle of wits with you and lost. It was an unfair fight of course. She was clearly unarmed.

Sarah sez: "When I subscribed to this blog's feed, it was like a kick in the gut."

New Hampshire State Representative Nancy Elliott Would Like Us to Consider Shame-Hoses and Poo Holes

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

My fellow Americans and New Hampshirans. That doesn't sound right. New Hampshirese? New Hampshipharians? Dear flannel-clad syrup suckers, it has come to my attention that someone rudely posted a video of me on the webbynet. It shows me talking at a hearing about what we can do to stop the homos from mincing down our church aisles to Beyonce's "Put a Ring on it." 

And now all the homocratic pundits have taken my words completely in context and are repeating it over and over like it's funny or something:

"We’re talking about taking the penis of a man and putting it in the rectum of another man and wriggling it around in excrement. And you have to think, would I want that to be done to me?"

Yes. And...? Why are you all snickering? Have you thought about it? Well, you should. In fact, I think every God-fearing American would do well to think about it every day. When you're pouring milk over your Cheerios every morning, think about an engorged pants-worm barfing baby paste up your oopsie hole. While you're tucking your little angels into bed at night, consider being given a tube steak enema by a muscle-bound fanny-riding butt-buckaroo.

Because ever since our legislature legalized fairy nuptials in 2007, ass-sexing has replaced ice fishing as our state's most popular man-on-man pastime. That's hardly the New Hampshire I've grown to tolerate. Homos would do well to remember option number two in our state motto, "live free or die."

Consider this: between 2000 and 2005, our state went from being 98% white Christians to 97% white Christians. And that was without any legislation whatsoever! What would have happened if we actually passed a law LEGALIZING negros and wetbacks? Now, not only is our fair state one percent negro-er, we actually bless the unions of negro boys who want to ride fat black ponies in the mandingo ass rodeo.  

You know, last night I succumbed to perform my bi-monthly wifely duties for my infinitely fortunate husband. Usually when I lie there surrendering my lady cave to his pee-pee, my mind goes to a happy place where babies ride unicorns and everything's made of chocolate. But this time all I could think about was how our state is kind of shaped like an erect groin sausage. And then I thought about what would it be like if hubby suddenly shoved my ankles behind my ears and used his goo-gurgling battering ram against my back door? Could I bear the indignity of having my back 40 plowed by a poo farming skin tractor? Those two minutes seemed to last an eternity, and so repulsed was I, that afterwards I dashed out to the garage and vacuumed my Hyundai.

It's all Vermont's fault, you know. That similarly phallic state, pressing lasciviously against our backside, started this whole mess when they legalized civil unions back in 1999. Which goes to show how contagious this naughty game of poo-billiards really is. Soon, mark my words, we will awake to the day where we can't tell why folks are wearing flannel; are they a backwoods yokel or a lesbo? And come to think of it, we should also think about lesbo stuff. Like we don't know what they're up to! All that muff-punching scissor-queefing lady-pie-eating fiddle-faddle!! Goodness! I think I need a glass of water.

Wait. What was I talking about? I lost my train of thought. Unicorns. Chocolate. Buttholes. Pie. Oh yes. I remember.

In closing, remember to keep thinking about penises and recti. And on a personal note, if my heterosexual husband thinks I'm going to hike up my dress tonight and slide down his flesh pole like a fireman...well...he's just going to have to go looking for it on Craigslist like every other decent, opposite-married family man in our God-fearing state.

Nancy Elliott sez: "I subscribe to this blog's feed to take my mind off of ass-sex"

Hippy-Dippy Hoolay Time! It's China's Duper-Super Webbynet Chat Loom!

Welcome for coming! We are to being happy stuffs because surfy fun-time on webbynet! There is to being people persons in cyber-rand who to saying poopy Google peoples crosing Chinese blowser stuffs. Google peoples to say belligerent stuffs about China censorfun! Google peoples to say China people person do hacky game with frowny bad dissident emails! To this we are to saying "hoo-fligging-boo." Other smelly sad yankee peoples are to saying we plant peoples from lucky good People's Party in chat looms to steer conversations to happy fun plopaganda. That is to being road of cocky-pop!

Glorious China webbynet is to being totarry non-censor stuffs and compretery flee! You are to putting those apples in pipe for smoking! And we to putting our yuan where our face-hole to being!

Herro and welcome dance! Indutrocing the Duper-Super Non-Censor China Webby Net Chat Loom! Laughy fun time!

DUPER-SUPER CHINA WEBBYNET CHAT LOOM

SUBJECT: MR. GAY CHINA

Comment: Hi Chinesey folks, I was watching Meredith Viera leer like a Tuscaloosa whore at that darling Matt Lauer when suddenly I started listening to what she was saying; some oriental homosexuals (horientuals?) were trying to have a beauty pageant but the Chinesy police shut 'em down. That wasn't very nice. Why, my best friend Sally Kerns has a son who's a fairy and he's just as sweet as he can be, bless his heart. He has a way with throw pillows and his room mate Brandon is a darling (I just wish he'd put a shirt on at family functions). I say if the gays want to put on gowns and prance down the runway like Carrie Prejean, where's the harm in it? As long as they can't marry or live next to children, I don't see why we can't treat them as if they were people. Let your horientuals have their cute pageant. Signed, Jeannie Bladdersham aka Jesuslovesferrets

Response: Most honorable Braddersham lady, my name is Frank and I am to living in the not Chinese city of Idaho. I am to make disagreement time. Happy good Chinese police persons do not to making poopy fanny poking humposexuals stopping to have frowny pageant. The humposexuals took the poppers and got lost on their way to the pageant place. Glorious nation of China not to wanting unrucky gay pageant. If all the gays to put on crowns and swimmy suits, social order corrapse! That is to being bad for party! Signed, Flank aka Maopower

SUBJECT: BAIDU SUCKS YAK BUTT

Comment: My name is to being Kum Ming Dong. I to hearing that Google is to make bye-bye time. That make Dong to dripping with cry water. Last time Dong do Google search on "naughty fun boobie girly" Dong sit up straight at two naughty fun boobie girlies who have one cup on YouTube. Those boobie girlies are so so naughty time! But when I go on Baidu for to searching "naughty fun boobie girlies" all I to getting is Chairman Mao poem about a kitty cat. Or if Dong to make Baidu search on "Palis Hirton oopsie hole," I not get naughty movie-show of Palis Hirton, instead I get Chairman Mao recipe for puppy dog chow mein. Baidu is to sucking yak butt. At reast can Baidu make compromise? Let Dong to watch a movie-show called "Two Maos, one cup"? That is to being excerrent idea stuffs. Make wait-time, someone is to doing knocky knock on door. BLB.

Response: You not to make frowny bad naughty time on webbynet any more. You are not to "be light back," because that knocky knock on door was happy good police. You to going to lucky good re-educational camp for to learn silly good cattle prod dance! Welcome for going, poopy face!

SUBJECT: TIBET

Comment: The people of Tibet are suffering under their seventh decade of iron fisted PRC rule and all they want is to be happy and free. They long to celebrate the return of the Dalai Lama, whose long exile is and act of a paranoid, evil and godless government. I suspect Tibet will eventually win its independence and China will eat crow. The PRC is occupied by lying, corrupt dogs.

Response: I edited your comment so it to saying what you really are to meaning. Welcome so much!

***

On a personal note, we're not surprised that COWA's blocked in China. Try searching "Can o' Whup-Ass" on Google. Now try it on Baidu. Nuff said?

Howev, we find it odd that COWA's Sino-file archive has seen a huge increase of hits lately (mostly from China or "Unknown"), and every time we do a search on "China," "censorship," "Google," and we click on a related link in the results, our browser crashes (it doesn't happen with other searches). 

Are we being monitored?

In September, we had the following comment to our post "Lucky Fun China to Wish you Have Duper-Super Year of Rat Earth Day":

"beijing08: I'm not the biggest fan of this post in my opinion."

To which we replied:

"Hi, beijing: In my opinion, you ARE the biggest fan of this post. Let's aglee to disaglee, m'kay?"

So to the Chinese web monitor who we suspect might be leading our brog (is that YOU beijing08?): Welcome for coming!

Beijing08 sez: "I'm not the biggest fan of this brog in my opinion. But WAM begs to differ and told me to subsclibe to this brog's feed."

Uganda, Mon Amour...

In 1994, three Rwandan dudes with annoying names (Jean-Bosco Barayagwiza, Ferdinand Nahimana and Hassan Ngeze), took to the airwaves. Encouraging the use of machetes (in order to save bullets) they called all Tutsis and moderate Hutus "cockroaches." The Rwandans listened. The ensuing hackfest was the efficientest genocide ever; 800,000 slaughtered in 90 days. Evench, the three radio dudes were convicted of inciting crimes against humanity. Flash forward.

Ten months ago, three American dudes with equally annoying names (Scott Lively, Caleb Lee Brundidge and Don Schmierer) decided to go to Uganda, where they got all evangelical at a conference about how the dreaded "gay agenda" was threatening the "Bible-based values of the traditional African family." The Ugandans listened. A month later, the dude who sponsored the conference introduced a bill that calls for the execution of the gays. It's expected to become law soon.

Bitch, Stevie Wonder could see the parallel. 

Think we might have something to say about this? Um, yep.

First, to Africa in general:

Dear Africa,

What exactly crawled up your butt? Aren't you busy enough, what with running from hyenas and ebola monkeys and walking 75 miles to market every day with jugfuls of zebra scrotums on your noggins? Where do you find the time for all your pirating, raping and genociding?

Yadda-yadda-yadda. Fine, we're making xenophobic generalizations. Fine, you have no history of bloody dictatorships.* Fine, you aren't constantly at war with each other. Fine, your children are well-fed. Fine, you don't hack off girls' clitori  because you think it makes them sexy, or steal penises to make ooga-booga stew.

Need we remind you that Africa is the AIDS-iest town in the universe? These days the "traditional African family" you're so hell-bent on protecting from Lance Bass consists of four malaria-infested AIDS orphans crouching in a mud hut eating crickets. Furthermore, if your "straight" men could resist having unprotected buttsex you'd be a lot less AIDS-y. Feel that.

We are unafraid to tell you to your face what the rest of the world has been thinking for ages. Your retarded behavior as a continent grows increasingly tiresome. Shape up or the other six of us are going to vote you off the planet and sell you to Uranus.

xox
WAM

*P.S. We actually have a negro president who isn't a neurotic despot (if the birthers ever needed proof that he wasn't born in Africa, that's it).

Next, to Uganda:

Dear Uganda,

Idi Amin. Milton Obote. The Lord's Resistance Army. You do have a hard-on for violence, don't you?

True, the Bible you revere is also violent; it instructs folks to throw rocks at homos until they're dead, but it instructs us to do the same with sassy children and prostitutes (you know, the women who help you give AIDS to your wives). Moreover, Jesus once told the Philistines (with whom you've got plenty in common) "prostitutes and tax collectors are entering heaven before you," so we would advise against looking to the old testament for ethical guidance.

Howev, thank you for creating the kind of country that our evangelicals are trying to create right here in America. Because since our tedious constitution prevents them from having homos executed, they might very well all decide to move to Uganda. We can only pray.

Furthermore, it's good to know that if white folk come to your country you'll do whatever they say. We'll book our flight tomorrow. We'll be the keynote speaker at our own conference, called "Uganda: go f*ck yourself." Punch and cookies will be served.

Finally, if you really want to protect your Godly families, we might suggest that you stop sacrificing your children.

xox
WAM   

Finally, a note to the Hague:

Hi Hague,

Pssst. Listen, here's the deal. In 2003 your International Criminal Court indicted Uganda's Lord's Resistance Army, who, while trying to force Uganda and the D.R. Congo to live by the Ten Commandments, conveniently exempted themselves from commandments 6 and 7 as they raped and murdered the populace by the thousands.

With that in mind, should Uganda enact its homo-hanging law, we'd be happy to deliver Scott Lively, Caleb Lee Brundidge and Don Schmierer to stand trial for inciting genocide and crimes against humanity. As a matter of fact, seeing as how anti-gay violence is escalating right here at home, we might also deliver Rush Limbaugh, "Dr." Laura Schlessinger and Michael Savage while we're at it. They regularly spew hate on radio just like the Rwanda dudes.

Sure, you probably won't be able to convict them, but we'd be happy to have them out of our country for a while.

Thanks in advance.

xox
WAM

Idi Amin sez: "Hell would be such a dreary place without my subscription to this blog's feed."

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."