Can O' Whup-Ass

Eavesdropper: Bill Clinton and Kim Jong Il

Former President Bill Clinton is currently in Pyongyang, chewing the fat with freshly spray-tanned stroke victim/demigod Kim Jong Il, trying to negotiate the release of a couple employees of his ex-sidekick Al Gore. The two women, reporters writing on the ickiness that is North Korea, are currently gaining valuable first-hand research on that particular topic as they eat dog pie in a re-education gulag. Fortch, one of our burly covert ninja operatives has cleverly disguised himself as 6 year old Korean Girl who handed a listening device concealed in a flower to Clinton and was thus able to record the following conversation:

KIM JONG IL: Welcome for coming!
BILL CLINTON: Yer a funny lookin feller.
KJI: We so so happy time we make big fun stuffs for funny fat Plesidant Crinton!
BC: Yeah, let's move past the formalities and get down to the nitty gritty. I just wolfed down a poodle burger and fries from a fast food joint called Fun-Yum-Pooch and soon I'm gonna hafta take a dump.
KJI: Dokie-okie! Let us to getting down with the glitty nitty stuffs!
BC: I want those two women.
KJI: Oh soldier-boy, you to doing sexy bouncy stuffs with naughty-fun boobie girlies! Which boobie-girlies you wanting to put cigar in now, cowboy?
BC: No, bubba. I want you to release Euna Lee and Laura Ling.
KJI: Who is to being these Euna Ree and Raula Ring boobie girlies?
BC: They're the boobie girlies you convicted of grave slander and sent to a labor camp. 
KJI: Dokie-okie, you can to taking poopy-face frowny sad boobie girlies from laughy fun gulag.
BC: Thanks.
KJI: You can sticking cigar up Ree and Ring's stinky place now, soldier-boy!
BC: Hillary took my cigar. She keeps it in her purse.
KJI: When I to saying cigar I am meaning that thing Mr. Lush Rimbaugh put in his mouth.
BC: A penis?
KJI: Yes, my Engrish is to being sucky. I am to meaning angry mad pants dragon!
BC: We're on the same page, Kimmy-Kim.
KJI: So Hirraly to keeping your angry mad pants dragon in purse-y-purse?
BC: It's for safe keeping.
KJI: Hirraly is poopy frowny bad lady.
BC: Come on, Buddy...you got lots in common with her. You both buy your pants suits off the Dress Barn discount rack.
KJI: KIM JONG IL NOT TO SHOPPING AT DRESS BARN, POOPY-FACE!!
BC: Whatever.
KJI: I TO BUY PANTS SUITS AT THE J.C. PENNEYS PLACE FROM JAQUERINE SMITH CORRECTION!!
BC: Cool your jets, Kimmy. Now if you'll excuse me I really have to pinch a loaf.

Kim Jong Il sez: "You poopy Amelicans to stop subsclibing to this frowny sad brog! I make so so angly mad foot stompy dance!"

Eavesdropper: Intimate Moments in Basketball

Were aliens to visit our gorgeous planet, they'd zap Miley Cyrus and Kathie Lee Gifford into the eleventh dimension. After that, they'd become fascinated by some of our oddest activities. For instance, what possesses a group of male humans of abnormal stature and excessive pigmentation to dart about in short pants while bouncing a ball and tossing it through a hoop? The two tribes apparently covet the orange orb but seem unable to hold onto it for very long. And when one tribe captures it, they put it into a basket which clearly has a hole in it. Its futility makes Sisyphus look like an over achiever.

Since we have shed light on the various intricacies of soccer, baseball, football and rugby, this moment was inevitable. If there are any visitors out there from Altair 4 who find themselves befuddled by the current NBA championships, we've provided golden snippets of intimate conversations that occur on the court as they play that game which was the sole domain of he-men (and now, thanks to the WNBA, female he-men), until Zac Efron dribbled and pranced his way through "High School Musical." No thanks necessary.

CONVERSATION ONE

Player 1: Say, what's the big idea?
Player 2: Baby, I been watching your pasty fanny hopping around in your cute shorts.
Player 1: And...?
Player 2: And I decided I needed to get me some o' dat.
Player 1: Can we put a pin in that until tonight after Ugly Betty?
Player 2: I feel the sponteneity is seeping from our relationship.
Player 1: We can discuss it in couples therapy. But right now I'm trying to shoot.
Player 2: That makes two of us, baby.
Player 1: You have no respect for my needs.
Player 2: That's not true. Right now I respect your need to ride my Magic Johnson like a bull in the chocolate rodeo.
Player 1: You are a crude, disgusting brute. But you sho 'nuff gots da skills to sex my ba-dunka-dunk.
Player 2: I like it when you speak ebonics. You sound like you've got a little negro in you.
Player 1: Right now I've got more than a little.

CONVERSATION TWO

Player 1: Move over to the left. I'm almost under the basket.
Player 2: mumph-glomph!
Player 1: Oh quit whining. It's not my fault we got stuck. You're the one whose throat constricts any time you hear "Thank you for Being a Friend." Now suck it up and let me get this hook shot.
Player 2: blurble gomp glug!
Player 1: Okay, it was rude of me to flip through the channels while you were playing the theme from Shaft on my skin flute. How did I know Lifetime was running a Beatrice Arthur memorial Golden Girls marathon?
Player 2: phluggle mumph!
Player 1: For now, we've got to deal with it. Now run down the court so I can get the rebound.
Player 2: glack! glurgle-mamp!
Player 1: Hey, watch the teeth.
Player 2: mummaglump!

CONVERSATION THREE

Duke Player: (to the tune of "I Feel Pretty")
I feel swishy
Oh so swishy
I feel swishy and fishy and gay!
It's delishy, and you wishy you were me today!
I feel bouncy
Super bouncy
I announcy how bouncy I feel!
Also flouncy, and I'm bouncy as Shaqille O'Neil!
Throw the little ball through that basket there!
NC Player: What basket, where?
Duke Player: Score a couple points, maybe three!
Such a swishy shot such a swishy game such a swishy day such a swishy me!
Must we quibble?
Watch me dribble!
Dribble double and triple and dance!
I can't fibble, that I'm dribbling inside my pants!

CONVERSATION FOUR

Player 1: Dude, wassup?
Player 2: I'm tryin to get you to switch teams.
Player 1: I don't play that way, dawg.
Player 2: Oh, just give it a whirl.
Player 1: Where the hell that ref at?
Player 2: Who needs him?
Player 1: Dude, stop slam dunking my rim.
Player 3: He slam dunked my rim in the shower after practice yesterday, Mr. Negro. And now it hurts when I Alley Oop.
Player 1: Shut up, bitch.
Player 3: Gosh, you don't have to be rude.
Player 1: Back off man, I'm about to shoot.
Player 2: Oops. Beat you to it.

AND FINALLY...

INSERT YOUR OWN CONVERSATION

xox
WAM

Dennis Rodman sez: "My subscription to this blog's feed made me feel so butch I forgot to re-apply my lip gloss."

Eavesdropper: The Obamas and HRM Queen Elizabeth II

BARACK OBAMA: Pleasure to meet you, Queen-bitch.
QUEEN ELIZABETH II: One is delighted. You might start with the floors, after which you may scrub the Royal Loo.
BO: I'm the President, foo.
QE2: Oh my, our face is red. We heard a nasty rumour that the colonies elected a negro.
BO: Fist bump a brovah.
MICHELLE OBAMA: Foo, da Lizziebiff don't be fist-bumpin' nobody.
BO: True dat. Fist bump dis ho an' you like to bust every finger in her bony-azz hand. 
QE2: And you are...? 
MO: I'm da first ho. Respeck.
QE2: One hopes staff remembered to hide the Royal silver.
MO: So who pimped your crib, dawg? This place be off-da-motherf*ckin-hook!
QE2: Did the Royal Guard inspect your pocket book?
MO: Why you axin a sistah so many queshins? Do I look like Alex F*ckin Trebek?
QE2: One only wants to determine whether you're packing a blade. We simply hope you are not fixing to shank a bitch.
MO: You da whitest ho since Doris F*ckin' Day.
BO: She all old and midget-y too.  
MO: Yo, I gots a queshin to lay on yo royal azz.
QE2: One wishes you'd lay that shizzle on a sister.
MO: Who be dat fruity brovah lurkin about tryin to poke his bony finger up a lady's poo hole?
QE2: That's our Charles. One was under the impression he'd kicked that distasteful habit.
BO: Dat punk be da prince? Dayum, bitch. I just told my Secret Service posse to take him outback and show him wassup.
QE2: Oh dear. Well, one supposes we should pose for a photograph.
MO: Ooo! I'm glad I got my hair did!
QE2: Before you draw too close to our Royal person, we feel we ought to inform you that we've nothing but Kleenex and a bottle of pepper spray in our Royal handbag.
MO: Whatevah, ho.
QE2: While we're awkwardly standing like we've got sticks up our collective arse with insincere smiles pasted on our faces, might I ask a Royal favor?
BO: Hell yeah, Queen-bitch. Axe a brovah anyfing you want.
QE2: We don't suppose you'd consider laying any of that bailout green on a royal ho. We've been reduced to eating at McDonald's, and one finds it terribly demoralizing to holler into the mouth of a clown every time we experience an unforeseen big mac attack.
BO: Hell no, bitch. I give all dat green to the CEO brovahs.
QE2: We suspected as much. Oh well, can't blame a queen for trying.
MO: Respeck.
QE2: One wishes they'd snap the damn picture already.
BO: Cheese!
QE2: On your way out, one shall be pleased to present you with a pair of darling golliwogs from our Royal Gift Shop.

HRM Queen Elizabeth II sez: "One subscribes to the Whup-Ass feed."

Eavesdropper: Illuminating Moments in Rugby

We have overheard interesting conversations between soccer players. We've eavesdropped on the boys of summer and spied on those rugged gridiron fellas. What's left? Rugby? Shut up. That's not even a real sport. Stop making stuff up!

No one really knows the rules of rugby. It seems to be played by sweaty men who are all grumpy because they came dressed to play soccer only to discover that the ball is lopsided and won't roll. For those of you into football, the rules are exactly the same. Except:
1) No padding or helmets
2) No pausing for tea and crumpets just because someone gets tackled. Boo-friggin-hoo.
3) Kick and toss the ball anytime you want. Just don't toss it forward or kick it backward.
4) Concussions are fun; teeth are temporary
5) At any random moment (and solely at the referee's whim) the players may be forced to "scrum" which is basically a dry hump daisy chain wherein they grab each other's crotches and turn the player in the middle into a "hooker" (an activity which, in the states, is a misdemeanor and typically results in mass arrests).

The whole spectacle would be a great deal less confusing if the players could decide whether they wanted to play soccer, football or a scene from a gay porno about a mud orgy. But COWA is nothing if not educational, so we've dispatched our ruthless band of covert ninjas to eavesdrop on various illuminating conversations from the pitch.

Again, you're welcome.

CONVERSATION ONE:

Player 1: So I says to him, I says "anyone who thinks Ida Lupino is fiercer than Bette Davis is a Philistine!"
Player 2: You go, girl!
Player 3: Excuse me, but...
Player 1: And he goes "Who cares what you think? Your mother shops at Sears!"
Player 2: Oh no, he di-int!
Player 3: Sorry to interrupt but...
Player 1: So I shrieked and told him to take it back or I'll tell everyone he stuffs his calvins!
Player 3: I really have to insist you release my testicles.
Player 1: Queen, please. This is rugby.
Player 3: Actually, this is Pugsley contingent of the Aadams Family convention.
Player 1: Oops.
Player 2: Explains the striped shirts. Sorry mack.
Player 4: Not at all. I love your bald head. It's very Uncle Fester.
Player 2: Thanks. Care to grab a frozen yogurt?
Player 4: With or without the nuts?

CONVERSATION TWO:

Player 1: Bun check!
Player 2: I'm not talking to you.
Player 1: What's wrong now?
Player 2: Last night at Lance's Golden Globes party you loudly ridiculed my Crepe Suzette.
Player 1: No, I didn't. All I said was that your crepes give me the trots.
Player 2: You called them Craps Oozette. You laughed at my expense. Leave me alone.
Player 1: Aw, who's my widdle pookie-monster?
Player 2: At couples counseling you agreed to stop belittling me in public.
Player 1: I only said that so we could be home in time for Project Runway.
Player 2: I need some time apart. I need to find out who "me" is.
Player 1: Okay, if that's how you feel.
Player 2: I need some space.
Player 1: Fine.
Player 2: Ahem.
Player 1: What?
Player 2: You can start by taking your thumb out of my poo hole.

CONVERSATION THREE:

Player 1: Excuse me, but may I cut in?
Player 2: Um, I don't THINK so!
Player 3: Dude, we're competing in the foxtrot championship.
Player 1: You haven't been foxtrotted til I've foxtrotted you.
Player 4: Excuse me, but may I cut in?
Player 1: I'm already cutting in.
Player 2: This is ridiculous.
Player 3: Hello!!? We're foxtrotting here!
Player 4: I'll foxtrot you til your eyes roll back in your head.
Player 1: I'll foxtrot you til your toes curl.
Player 4: I'll foxtrot you to the middle of next week.
Player 2: This is just silly. Four people can't foxtrot!
Player 4: We can try.
Player 1: Okay...
Player 3: Everybody foxtrot!
Player 2: But who's leading?
Player 4: I'll lead.
Player 3: You can't lead, you're too easily distracted.
Player 4: Dwayne Johnson is so dreamy. I like chocolate.
Player 2: Have you been eating poop?
Player 4: Huh?
Player 3: He's right, dude. Take a tic-tac or a certs or something. Jeez.
Player 1: Are we foxtrotting or what?
Player 2: Say, this isn't so hard!
Player 3: Okay...everybody DIP!

"CONVERSATION FOUR:

Player 1: See?
Player 2: You're right! His sphincter does look like Betty White!
Player 3: Shut up, my sphincter doesn't look like Betty White.
Player 4: But does his sphincter look like "Sue-Anne Nivens" Betty White or "Rose Nyland" Betty White?
Player 2: Excuse me, I think we've forgotten why we're here.
Player 1: Oh. Right. Do you see it?
Player 2: I don't see your cell phone. I see an iPod and a hamster cage and the Melrose Place season three DVD set, but negative on the phone, dude.
Player 1:That's bullsh*t. I saw him stick my phone up his shame zone.
Player 3: Shut up, I didn't put your phone up my butt.
Player 4: Call your number and see if his ass starts to ring.
Player 1: Great idea! Let me borrow your phone.
Player 4: My phone doesn't text.
Player 1: I don't need to text his rectum, I need to phone it!
Player 4: Okay, here.
Player 1: Damn!
Player 2: What's wrong?
Player 1: I think I left it on vibrate.
Player 4: Call it anyway and see if Betty White starts to smile.
Player 3: If you put your ear to my ass, Betty might give you the Password.

If you don't subscribe to COWA, we'll tell everyone that you shop at Sears.

Hu Jintao's Facebook Wall

That's right, Chinese President and Party Chairman Hu Jintao does Facebook. His spokesperson assures us that the fact that he only has 12 FB friends reflects his overzealous privacy concerns, and has nothing to do with rude suggestions that most people don't like him very much. Of course only friends can view a person's FB Wall. So one of our ruthless ninja operatives posed as Bai Ling and generously copied the Chairman's Wall o' China for your general amusement.

Hu Jintao is so so angry stuffs stompy foot frowny face at poop-eating Dalai Lama to saying fibby stuffs! He poop-eating lady man! Ha ha!

Hillary Clinton likes this.

Dalai Lama: Shut up poo-poo face. Dalai Lama kick you ass. You are the lady man guy.

Hu Jintao: You poo-poo face. We make Tibet peoples to doing laughy fun cattle prod dance! How are you to liking those apples, man in dress? ROFL!!

Dalai Lama: You laugh now, lotus boy. Tibet peoples know you tuck your pee-pee between your thighs and put on a wig and lip sync to "I Enjoy Being a Girl" from Flower Drum Song. You homo and you boyfriend name is Siton Dong! LOL!

Hillary Clinton: Listen, you shifty little creep. Next time your retarded navy surrounds a US spy ship in international waters we'll blow  your cheap-ass made-in-China flotilla into chop sticks, got it?

Lucy Liu likes this.

Dalai Lama likes this.

Hu Jintao: We make that part of sea extra special China trade territory! That how we get dog meat from Korea! So shut your mu-shu hole, lesbo lady.

Hillary Clinton: The Chinese navy is so retarded...

Jackie Chan: How retarded is it?

Hillary Clinton: The Chinese navy is so retarded Chairman Hu put screen doors on all their teeny-tiny submarines!

Lucy Liu: LOL!!

Foxy Brown: Yo, Hu-Ji! Sup, mo-fo? Listen punk, wassup wif yo chinesey bitches? How come evry time I go to those chinesey manicuricist hos they f*ck up a bitch's tips, dawg? Then Foxy gots to bust some kung fu shizzle on they flat ass. Respeck!

Lucy Liu: LOL! I just got Hillary's joke about teen-tiny submarines! OMG that's like so funny! Cause Chinese really DO have teeny tiny submarines! ROTFL!!

Hu Jintao: You are not to being the sharpest tool in the shed, are you, Lucy-san?

Dalai Lama: I'd still hit it.

Hillary Clinton: ditto.

Dalai Lama just tagged Hu Jintao with pictures of retarded Chinese signs (click to enlarge):

 

HIllary Clinton: OMFG did you hear that the president of Taiwan likes taking negro shame hose up his poo hole? :-)

Hu Jintao likes this.

Foxy Brown: Don't knock it til you try it, foo.

Jackie Chan: ditto.

Hu Jintao: Ma Ying-jeou is a lady boy, LOL!!

Dalai Lama: Bitch please. You are just to being jealous face.

Hu Jintao: You are to shutting you chow-mein hole, man-in-dress! I make so so angry stompy foot!

Hu Jintao thinks Dwayne Johnson is the dreamiest! And all

his FB friends should subscribe to the COWA feed!

 

Eavesdropper: Laura & Michelle

WASHINGTON DC -- A week ago today, the future first family paid a visit to the white house (soon to be the negro house), a quaint domicile built by slaves, where the only negros to previously take up residence lived backstairs and polished the silver. By all accounts, the visit went well.

While George was smiling and pretending to understand Barack's multisyllabic words and touring a certain round-ish room still stained with Nixon's sweat and Clinton's sperm, their women traipsed about upstairs before sitting down for a cordial photo-op.

As luck would have it, we have a covert ninja mole posing as a secret service goon. He was able to record the ladies' conversation and transcribe it for your mental delectation.

Again, you're welcome.

LAURA BUSH: Why are you following me around?
MICHELLE OBAMA: Excuse me?
LB: You people are always underfoot! Any-who, while you're here could you fetch a gal a lovely rum-and-mister-pibb with a Xanax back? And easy on the Mr. Pibb this time!
MO: Um, I'm not a maid.
LB: You and your politically correct flap-doodle! Fine, you're a pickininny-american domestic engineer.
MO: No, I'm the next First Lady.
LB: Negros shouldn't fib.
MO: I'm serious. Didn't you follow the election?
LB: Wasn't that exciting? I spent all night hiding my vicodin before that nasty Cindy McCain gets here.
MO: Well...McCain lost. My husband Barack won the election.
LB: Are you sure?
MO: Yes. I'm Michelle Obama.
LB: Goodness! Hello, My Sheller-bomber.
MO: Hi, Laura. It's a pleasure.
LB: I like your dress.
MO: Thanks. It's Valentino.
LB: Oh I prefer to shop American. Valentino sounds like a hairy smelly homo from Europe.
MO: He's an important designer.
LB: That's what I said: a homo from Europe. I like to buy my stuff at Dress Barn. This is from Bonnie Franklin's "Frumpalicious" line.
MO: It's...um...lovely.
LB: I've got an idea! I should tell you stuff about what it's like to live here!
MO: I'd like that.
LB: First, don't take any sass from the help. One negro girl got all uppity when I asked her to dust my collection of Franklin Mint Mammy Figurines. And have one of those nice Secret Service boys search their handbags when they leave. Also, keep the liquor cabinet locked. I can't tell you how many times I came back from Supercuts to find my girls Jenna and the ugly one passed out in the Lincoln Bedroom. Oh, and you'll get to travel to other countries and stuff. So watch out for that Prince Charles guy. He likes to sneak up on a gal and finger-pop her in her poo hole. And if you go to Arabistan and pose for pictures with some ladies dressed like sand jawas from star wars, don't ask them why their country smells like ass.
MO: That's excellent advice. Well, I think I should get going.
LB: Okie-dokie. But before you go...
MO: Yes?
LB: I'll have to take a little peek into your purse. My mammy figurines have a silly habit of finding their way into negro ladies' handbags.
MO: Bitch, you best check yoself befo a sistah bust some kung fu shizzle and break off her Prada pumps in yo cracka azz.
LB: You talk funny. Are you magic?

Laura sez: "I subscribe to the Whup-Ass feed 'cause I like the funny pictures."

Eavesdropper: Fierce Moments in Football

When Fall arrives the sensible denizens of Sarah "You-Betcha" Palin's "true America" paint their faces, grab their foam-rubber "number one" pointy-fingers and gorge on weenies and coors light at the tailgates of their Ford Broncos before barfing into garbage cans and staggering into an arena. FOOTBALL!! 

Yes, football. Not that homo-magnet Eurosport correctly called soccer. We're talking chest-bumping fanny-slapping "let's put on spandex pants and writhe about in the mud like real men" FOOTBALL!  The manliest sport since gladiators pranced about in sandals in front of an audience of dress-wearing men with laurels in their hair. It oozes more testosterone than Turkish oil-wrestling.

Our rabidly loyal readers will recall when we did the public service of explaining the "ins and outs" of soccer. They will also remember when we peeked into the dugout and spied on the boys of summer. Now, for our international friends, we are shedding light on the nuances and delicate shadings of that peculiar sport that starts with a high-kick and ends in a shower of ice cubes and Gatorade.

Below are snippets of exchanges between various tight ends and wide receivers as overheard on the field. No thanks necessary.

CONVERSATION ONE:
Coach: Yer fanny's lookin' real purty.
Player: Gee, thanks coach!
Coach: Seeing you all bent over in that huddle gives me some kookie ideas.
Player: Um, time-out's almost over, coach.
Coach: Just making sure the next time a man makes a pass at you that you'll be wide open.
Player: Uh, well I'm defensive tackle.
Coach: A trivial detail.
Player: Gosh, coach. I feel kinda funny when your finger explores my man-cave.
Coach: Relax, killer. Just looking for my wedding ring.

CONVERSATION TWO:
Player 1: Guess who?
Player 2: Heavens to betsy! You startled me!
P1: I've been watching the way that enormous linebacker jumps all over you. It's making me jealous.
P2: Don't mind him. He's just trying to grab my pigskin.
P1: Remember when our couples counselor said you belittle my feelings? It seems every time I turn around some virile beast is throwing you to the turf and grinding his meaty person all over your supple physique.
P2: They mean nothing to me. No matter what positions we play in, you'll always be in posession of my ball.
P1: When you talk dirty like that it makes me wanna kick one through your goal posts.
P2: Tonight after Ugly Betty I'll catch your pass in my end zone if you like. 

CONVERSATION THREE
(to the tune of "There's No Business Like Show Business"):
Player 1: There's no jazz-hands like my jazz-hands
Like no jazz-hands I know!
When the pigskin sails between my uprights
Every time I'm tackled in the sack
Every time I feel those certain ass-pains
When I've got grass stains
Upon my back!
There's no spandex like man spandex
What man spandex can show!
Yesterday they threw you in the icky ground!
You score a touchdown and prance around!
Check the glossy Fosse moves I've finally found!
These jazz hands that I has! These jazz hands that I has!!

CONVERSATION FOUR:
Player 1: Hey, what's the big idea?
Player 2: I saw your back field in motion and I couldn't resist.
P1: Say, that's a big helmet on your head.
P2: That's what all the tight ends say.
P1: You're not using any lube. That's unnecessary roughness!
P2: Enough lip! Bite some turf and take it like a man!
P1: You're gaining some serious yardage in my home territory.
P2: I'm getting ready to punt.
P1: I think I have to fart.
P2: Block that kick!

Score one for the homo team! Subscribe to this blog's feed!

Eavesdropper: Clint n' Angelina

HOLLYWOOD -- When ancient negro-baiter and erstwhile cowboy portrayer Clint Eastwood decided to make a movie about a woman who misplaces her baby, he decided to cast a woman who collects ethno-toddlers like stamps and shills their pictures to gossip rags for fun and profit before consigning them to the ever-expanding baby-zoo in the basement of her Malibu estate. Yes, her royal bodaciousness, known as "mommy hottest" to Zahara, Shilo, Knox, Vivienne and "those two Chineezy lookin' dudes" (as her loving boy-toy calls them), stars in Eastwood's latest negro-free cinematic endeavor called "The Changeling" in hopes that she can once again treat America to the sight of some incest-y bro-on-sis tongue wrestling as she claims her second golden statuette. 

Seen here posing for paps on the red carpet of some uppity Eurotrash film festival, the withered auteur proudly gushes over Ms. Jolie's considerable talents. Luckily, our covert army of undercover ninjas was able to conceal a microphone in Dirty Harry's pacemaker (seen here going into overdrive). A partial transcript of their conversation has been provided below for your vicarious entertainment. You're welcome.

CLINT EASTWOOD: That's what I call a double feature.
ANGELINA JOLIE: Well you said you wanted to meet the twins.
CE: I meant Sox and Marengue.
AJ: Knox and Vivienne.
CE: Whatever. I can't get used to the fruity names you punks give to your uterus plop.
AJ: You sound like my ass-hat republican dad.
CE: You mean that guy who played a homo hooker and a gimp who sexes up Hanoi Jane?
AJ: He's acted like a total buttwipe since that time he walked in on me and my brother playing "Flowers in the Attic."
CE: Enough about that has-been.
AJ: Oh my God! Is that Spike Lee?
CE: No, that's a valet. That squat little uppity negro knows better than to tap-dance his way into my premier. I've had enough of his belly-aching just because I prefer to blow up cracker actors in my war movies.
AJ: Well I put on blackface for my last movie. Does that count? 
CE: Sure, toots. Whatever. So where's Pretty-boy McPowderpuff?
AJ: He's supposed to be cleaning the cages of the baby zoo, but I'll bet my left nipple ring he's off doing somersaults with Maddox at Gymboree.
CE: Baby, why are you with that fairy-bitch Breck girl? You need a real man.
AJ: Calm down, grandpa. I left your defibrillator in the limo.
CE: Can't blame a guy for trying.
AJ: Um, Mr. Eastwood?
CE: Yes, baby-doll?
AJ: Kindly remove your finger from my buttcrack.

Clint sez: "Go ahead, punk. Subscribe to this blog's feed. Make my day."

Eavesdropper: The Boys of Summer

Some time ago, we tried to educate our fellow Americans in the manly joys to be found in the great sport of soccer (or "football," as the rest of the world has mistakenly called it). It was a truly enlightening experience, to say the least.

Now, in the interest of spreading international goodwill (a trait for which we Americans are universally adored), we decided to educate the citizens of all non-American nations on the nuances of our national pastime. No, we don't mean eating cheese doodles and watching Oprah. We're talking baseball, bitches.

Below, we've provided snippets of conversations of several electrifying moments overheard in various ballparks. In between swinging their wood, sliding into home, and popping their flies into the cheap seats, it becomes quickly apparent why baseball was once called by Damon Runyon "a virile ballet." You're welcome, whores.

CONVERSATION ONE

PLAYER 1: Hey, drop the chalupa!
PLAYER 2: I just wanted to shake hands with your short-stop.
P1: He's shy.
P2: Well he's making my one-eyed ump call it high and inside.
P1: I feel our relationship's growing quickly trivial.
P2: Come on, baby. Lean into the pitch and take one for the team.
P1: No. Your knuckle ball scares me.
P2: It's my slider that should worry you.
P1: Shush. Kate Smith's about to bless America.
P2: Screw that fat dead broad. I got your oceans of white foam right here.
P1: You're naughty.

CONVERSATION TWO

PLAYER 1: Penny for your thoughts.
PLAYER 2: Not here. My domestic partner is watching us.
P1: You said it was over.
P2: He ridiculed my tofu lasagna at our last Project Runway dinner party.
P1: Such flagrant cruelty! My poor, dear, buttercup.
P2: And I caught him hitting grounders with the bat boy in the bullpen.
P1: Let's run away to Ibiza and tango in sarongs to Madonna.
P2: I don't deserve you. Can I ask a favor?
P1: Anything, my little pinch hitter.
P2: Could you like, suck on a tic-tac or something?

CONVERSATION THREE

PLAYER (to the tune of "Everything's Coming up Roses"):
You'll be swell! You're a natch!
Every ball that you pitch I will catch!
You'll be safe, slide it home!
Honey, Everything's Coming up JAZZ HANDS!
Get on deck! Swing your wood!
Gonna bunt you a grounder, but good!
Wear a cup, grab your mitt!
Honey, Everything's Coming up JAZZ HANDS!
You're my guy now, stick with me and we'll win
Pop a fly now, this time don't aim for my eye now!
Batter up! Don't strike out!
Hit a homer and then prance about!
And when no one's around, we can meet on the mound
And then we'll hit the showers when we're through!
Honey, Everything's Coming Up JAZZ HANDS for Me and For YOU!!!!

CONVERSATION FOUR

PLAYER 1: And one, two, cha-cha-cha! Three, four, cha-cha-cha!
PLAYER 2: I'll never be ready for the All-Star Ballroom Dance Expo!
P1: You're not counting.
P2: I hear Giambi's doing the Merengue with Posada this year.
P1: Say, you've been doing squats!
P2: I'm glad you noticed. In spring training A-Rod said my batter's box was bigger than Fenway.
P1: There's a full count in my jockstrap.
P2: You beast! Hold that thought until the seventh inning stretch.
P1: You're still not counting.
P2: Okay, okay. I'm a silly little flibberty-jibbet.
P1: Say it with me: one, two, cha-cha-cha...

CONVERSATIONS FIVE, SIX and SEVEN

The original transcripts accompanying these three images were purchased by the participants for a hefty sum. We encourage you to fill in your own overheard conversations. Add them to the comments section if you wish.

Derek Jeter sez: Subscribe to this blog's feed, you silly goose!

 

Eavesdropper: Suri's Heart-to-Heart With Her New Scientolo-dolly!

TELLURIDE -- Given her existence as the world's cutest fashion accessory, frequently paraded about and displayed as irrefutable evidence of her daddy's heterosexuality, be-wigged pixie Suri Cruise has matured remarkably fast for an earthling (but right on schedule for a lizard baby from Altair 4, an ammonia-choked planet in Andromeda).

Here, the adorable moppet (her peaches-and-cream humanoid skin-suit nicely covering her scales) is having a heart-to-heart with her new Scientolo-doll as she lays down the fat and the skinny with respect to what it takes to be a productive, tolerated member of the TomKat household (fondly dubbed "Xenudu" by her showtune afficionado daddy).

And, natch, our ruthless cadre of covert spies resourcefully concealed a microphone up the doll's shame hole and transcribed the entire thing. Don't mention it, it's our pleasure.

SURI: Hi, dolly. My earth name is Suri and I am your mommy. Earth mommies have dirty brains cause they have to spend 10 hours a day getting them washed at the scary place, so get used to being left alone, got that? First thing we have to do is get you a baby wig. Next, you have to remember the rules. Number one: when daddy is in his bedroom with the pool boy and they're playing a loud game called "bronco-busting butt rodeo" that means you can't walk in on them or else daddy might fall over and his pee-pee might get accidentally stuck in pool boy's poo hole, which makes pool boy scream "Yee-haw! Eff me in the A, Daddy! Oh God!!" and Daddy will get upset and put you in the "bad cage." And if a scary fat negro lady visits with a pet lesbian on a leash and she makes everyone bow and make offerings to The Great and Powerful O, don't try to pick up her scent by flicking your tongue at her, or Daddy will stop jumping on the sofa and put you in the "bad cage." And when you're having breakfast and you pour some lizard milk over your bowl of crunchy thetans, don't let them get soggy or daddy will make you drink some of Jenna Elfman's pee-pee and then he'll put you in the "bad cage." And if a scary fat witch named Curse-y Allie comes over for dinner and sad Mommy serves the main course, don't say "Placenta again??" or sad Mommy will start to cry and Daddy will make you sit on the "ouchy stool" and then he'll put you in the "bad cage." And if we go to visit our friend Shiloh and you open all the cages in the baby zoo so you can play "baby roulette", don't tell Zahara that Mommies have babies when Sleestaks tie the them to a table and put lizards in their tummies, or Zahara will be a tattle-tale and Daddy will make you sit on the "ouchy stool" and put you in the "bad cage." Got that? Now it's time to take off your head and fill it with cat poo. In this house, we call that "auditing." It won't hurt a bit... 

Tom sez: "Only a pre-clear wouldn't subscribe to this blog's feed"