Can O' Whup-Ass

Totally Exclusive: Ellen n' Portia's Lesbo-riffic Wedding Vows!!!

DISCLAIMER: The following post is profoundly offensive and perpetuates ugly stereotypes.
But we're a homo, so that makes everything okay.

BEVERLY HILLS -- Over the weekend, manic depressive dog-juggler and universally tolerated chat hostess Ellen DeGeneres got all gay with gal pal Portia De-who's-her-face when they exchanged wedding vows in a tasteful private affair. Amid vulva-shaped rose topiaries, there was nary a dry eye in the house at a slightly unconventional ceremony officiated by Rain Abramowitz of San Fernando Valley.

The unusual ritual was conducted by Earth Goddess Gaya as channeled by Ms. Abramowitz, a part-time wiccan priestess, semi-renowned macrame artiste and proprietess of an "I Can't Believe it's Tofu Paste" franchise on LaBrae (her all-nude differently-sexed production of Lysistrata, performed in Esperanto through megaphones, was warmly received at last year's Burning Man).

Fortunately, one of the flannel-clad bridesmaids was in fact in our employ as a ninja-trained mole and had resourcefully concealed a microphone in her brassiere. She later transcribed key moments of the event. No thanks necessary, and you're welcome.

ELLEN: Portia, as you know my vagina gets a boner for petite aryan has-beens. Hopefully this one won't strip naked and jog down Sunset Boulevard screaming about aliens. When I first saw you on that Allie McBeal show, your cute bun pulled so tight your ears were touching, I knew I was destined to cut me a fat slice of your cherry hair pie. I Always wanted to ride in a Porsche. And this Portia's a real smooth ride; she's got four on the floor, bodacious driver-side air-bags and a roomier interior than a stretch Humvee.
PORTIA: Ellen, when I saw you munching cocktail weenies at Liz Smith's cowgirl jamboree, I dashed home to Google your net worth. I immediately knew I had to take a dive into lake Ellen, so I put on my water-wings, held my nose and jumped. I promise that I won't rip off my clothes and run through Santa Monica screaming about robots. Or aliens. Or robot-aliens. I promise the sweet nectar of your lady oven won't turn me hetero like another certain size-two Clairol blonde you tongue kissed at the White House thereby making Clinton pinch a fattie.
RAIN ABRAMOWITZ: Moon Sister DeGeneres, do you take this sassy lipstick lesbian Portia De-whats-her-name through fat and thin, through strap-on mishaps and power tool accidents? Do you swear not to violate yet another bitch ownership contract by hurling her into your hairdresser's backyard and speeding away in your Lesbaru? Do you take the sacred oath on the labia of Gaya, to buff her muff and work her stuff until you lose interest and seduce Cameron Diaz, or until she rediscovers penises and elopes with a casting director, whichever comes first?
ELLEN: I do.
RAIN ABRAMOWITZ: And Sapphic Daughter of Gaya Portia De-thing-a-majig, do you take this butch, pants-wearing vagina owner with a Ricky Schroder haircut for richer or bitcher, to bounce her thing off the chandelier and spelunk her lady hole 'til the cows come home? Do you promise to take U-Haul off your speed dial? Do you take this solemn vow to park your butt in the matrimonial menstrual hut until Ellen tosses you over the fence like a dog named Iggy?
PORTIA: I do.
RAIN ABRAMOWITZ: With the power vested in me through a certificate faxed upon completion of the "so you want to be a Wiccan Priestess" correspondence course, I now pronounce you sisters of the poet Sappho, who once remarked in a famous Greek limerick:
"My bitches are children of Venus
We never let men come between us
The task here before us
Is to switch to clitoris
And Bobbitt the patriarch's penis"
I now pronounce your menstrual cycles synchronized. You may kiss your same-sex celebrity spousal tax advantage.

P.S. Dear recently-wedded California perverts: mazel tov and godspeed. May your happiness be genuine enough to drive the rapture right into a lather.

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Eavesdropper: Fabulous Moments in Soccer

Despite the fact that Beckham and his spice rack have gone Hollywood, here in God's favorite nation we haven't yet been able to bring ourselves to drink the soccer kool-aid. It's fine for the kids, but we generally feel it's something one should outgrow, like acne, teletubbies and excessive masturbation.

Yet elsewhere on the planet, rabid hooligans brawl in the stands at sporting events they've mistakenly called football, watching swarthy men prance about in shorts as they kick a cute little ball hither and yon. Or is that hither and yawn? We just don't get it.

So in an effort to promote soccer awareness, we here at COWA have dispatched our ruthless band of underground eavesdroppers to transcribe various tense encounters on the pitch.

Again, you're welcome.

CONVERSATION 1:

PLAYER 1: Giddy-yap, buckaroo!
PLAYER 2: Stop that! We agreed not to play "horsie" outside of the locker room!
P1: That's it...buck like a bronco.
P2: I feel our relationship's an an impasse.
P1: You know what I like.
P2: You seem to take delight in humiliating me.
P1: Nothing like a sweaty Arabian between your thighs.
P2: I can't believe you're riding me bareback in a stadium full of drunken chavs.
P1: A little less lip and a little more "yee-haw," Seabiscuit.
P2: All right, just this once. But tomorrow we're going to couples counseling.
P1: Whatev. Now gallop back to the stable, my excitable stallion. I'm about to feed you my oats.

CONVERSATION 2:

PLAYER 1: Whoopsie-daisy!
PLAYER 2: Hey! Stop that!
P1: Guess who?
P2: I'd say you're Ronaldo, by the size of things.
P1: Wrong!
P2: Hmmm. Do you own an antique shop in Minsk?
P1: Strike two. I'm disappointed.
P2: Don't tell me. Were you in the chorus of Starlight Express?
P1: Heavens, no.
P2: Yes you were. You played the steam engine's caboose.
P1: It wasn't me. I hate Andrew Lloyd Weber. He steals from Puccini.
P2: Well give me a hint, I'm getting vertigo up here.
P1: Very well, here's your hint: there's a romantic bistro in Lugansk.
P2: Yes...?
P1: With a filthy alleyway behind it.
P2: Ivan! Is that you?
P1: Yes, you saucy coquette! It is I!

CONVERSATION 3:

PLAYER 1: Hey! Drop the chalupa!
PLAYER 2: Pardon me. I'll just be a minute.
P1: I'm trying to kick this cute little ball over there. Do you mind?
P2: I see that. But I noticed that with all the hopping and mincing you've been doing, your tamale's all out of whack.
P1: Oh, thanks.
P2: Why aren't you wearing a cup? Don't you remember what Madame Souzatskaya said at ballet class?
P1: She said "plié, g*ddammit, plié!"
P2: Yes, and right after that she said Nureyev had his scrotum kicked off during a performance of Giselle because he wasn't wearing any protection.
P1: But check out my jazz hands.
P2: Fierce. I think that just about does it. Kick away!

CONVERSATION 4:

PLAYER 1: Man. Nice technique.
PLAYER 2: Mog mm wumph.
P1: Reminds me of a late night stroll I took along the piers in Singapore.
P2: Glork nomgupf mmmm.
P1: He was a longshoreman who collected Lalique figurines.
P2: hurgle mumf arg.
P1: I gave him my number, he never called.
P2: omm nom glomp.
P1: Oh man...I'm about to kick one into the net.
P2: mmmm...hunp
P1: Easy, Ronaldo. Watch the teeth.

CONVERSATION 5:

PLAYER 1: Aaaaaarrggh!
PLAYER 2: Eeek!
P1: Stop tap dancing on the pitch! This is a football match, not your high school production of "Anything Goes."
P2: I thought I saw a mouse.
P1: Oh. Carry on then. I thought you were doing a time-step. Every time I see someone tap dancing I feel an uncontrollable urge to tackle them.
P2: You're such a silly goose.
P1: It all goes back to a traumatic experience in my youth when a touring company of "Dames at Sea" performed in my hometown in Botswana.
P2: How odd.
P1: The show confused the local elders. One thing led to another and a fragile truce between warring tribes was quickly abandoned.
P2: You naughty negro. I shall spank you now.
P1: Stop that!

Beckham sez: "subscribe to this blog's feed or Posh will pursue a television career."

A vote for this post on Humor-Blogs will feed a child in Nairobi.

Eavesdropper: Tony Blair's Voicemail

SOMEWHERE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN -- Erstwhile person of relevance and current pasty twit Tony Blair took time off from fading into obscurity to go on maritime holiday. Pictured here, sipping a mai-tai on the poop deck of a yacht, Bush's former errand boy keeps tabs on the outside world by checking his voicemail with unnecessary frequency.

As our dear readers know by now, we can't let an opportunity like this slip by without dispatching our ruthless band of underground operatives to listen in. No need to say it, and you're welcome.

(BEEP)

Tony, pet. It's Cherie. Hope your vacay's progressing nicely. All's well here, I judged a "World's Ugliest Dog" contest and due to an unforeseen mix-up I came home with the trophy! Incidentally, love...I seem to have misplaced my pair of wide-hipped culotte skorts with a tropical floral print. Have you seen them? Toodle-pip!

(BEEP)

Halo, Tony old boy! This is your indefatigable agent. Bad news, sport. The producers of "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!" have gone another route. They've offered your slot to Gary Glitter, on account of they wanted someone more attractive and family-friendly. On the upside, we've got a solid inside track on Hollywood Squares and the role of a beached whale on Animal Planet. Fingers crossed! Cheerio!

(BEEP)

Ah, Tony...bon jour, mon amour! It is I, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. Listen, mon ami...I believe I gave you my chrysanthemum back in 2002. May I have it back, s'il vous plaît? Nicholas wants me to gather all the chrysanthemums I handed out over the years like Cracker Jacks at a Yankees game, because he is jealous, yes? I would ask about your well-being but I'm suddenly overcome by ennui. Au revoir!

(BEEP)

Barney! Stop playing with mommy's phone! Did you chew on my speed-dial? Bad doggie. (pause) Maid lady!! (pause) Yes, ma'am? (pause) I'm looking at a half-empty glass of rum-and-Mr-Pibb and Xanax Bottle One is down to three pills. What's wrong with this picture? (pause) Sorry, ma'am. I'll take care of it (pause) Sassy negros. Lord help us if those bin Obamas get elected. They'll decorate this place like an Islamic pimp-crib! (pause) Barney! Here boy! There's a good doggie. The First Lady just made a boo-boo and spilled marmalade on her oopsie hole. Be a good boy and lick it off. Oh! Yes...that's a good boy. That's a very good doggie. (pause) Your beverage, ma'am. (pause) Honestly, don't you people know how to knock? (pause) Sorry, ma'am. (pause) We're out of marmalade. (pause) Yes, ma'am.

(BEEP)

Right. This is Captain Williford of the Beckham's yacht "Spice's Rack." We're moored about three hundred yards off your aft port side. Posh has requested that the topless woman currently chatting on her mobile and sipping a high-ball on your poop deck cover her sagging mamaries. Whoever the spectacularly unattractive woman is, the glare off her pale skin is blinding our navigator and her bobbling nipples are frightening the children. Over and out.

Eavesdropper: Madge n' Guy

NEW YORK -- As the global economy's downward spiral reaches a dizzying pace, as Al Qaeda regroups and the Taliban's influence grows, as food and gas prices shoot through the roof, as floods, fires and earthquakes are getting all biblical on our collective ass, as global warming seems poised to drown Santa Claus when the North Pole completely melts this summer for the first time ever, the rapt attention of the populace is naturally fixed on the direst of fresh disasters: Madonna and Guy Ritchie's totaly sacred hetero marriage might well be careening towards splitsville.

Rumors abound as to whether Madge and A-Rod engaged in ritualistic Kaballah hippity-dippity, and serious concerns have emerged regarding The Material Girl's bizarre sinewy musculature, undoubtedly the combined result of an unhealthy pilates addiction and her odd habits of traipsing through Africa on ethno-tot safaris and her disquieting hobby of disco self-crucifixion.

Eager to put these cruel rumors to rest, Guy and Madge have launched the first leg of their "We're Blissfully, Happily Married" tour, by staggering arm-in-arm through the streets of Manhattan looking exhausted and miserable.

And lucky you, our covert band of maladjusted undercover operatives was there to capture and transcribe their conversation. Again...you're welcome.

MADGE: Guy, do you think you could act a little more content? We're being photographed.
GUY: I'm just confused by wot you're wearing, love. I mean it's a bit tacky, innit?
M: I'm a trend-setter, you butthole.
G: So this is the trend you settled on, then? You look like you yanked some Wal-mart soccer mom bermuda shorts over your Roxie Hart costume and topped it off with a puffy-sleeved Howard Johnson's cocktail waitress pullover.
M: God, Guy. Say it, don't spray it. Your breath smells like ass.
G: Everything smells like ass to me since you put in that negro baby zoo at the estate, innit?
M: I have the help vacuum it with Carpet Fresh twice a week.
G: The thing wot's in the "Malawi" cage throws its poop.
M: David does not throw his poop! Not since we put the tire swing in his cage! 
G: Love, you been on the rag ever since you've had your blood replaced with Kaballah water, innit?
M: It's not that. I've run out of kosher Valtrex and I'm having an outbreak.
G: Hope you told that A-Rod poofter.
M: Not to worry. He never exactly slid into home, although he did jerk a ball or two into my seats.
G: You're a rotten mother, pet.
M: My children adore me.
G: You dressed Lourdes in a cone bra for her first day at gymboree.
M: The other children admired her.
G: She poked out five eyes and burst three pre-nubile hymens.
M: I'm your meal ticket, you freeloading chav.
G: Two words: Swept Away.
M: Two words: Tic Tac. Your breath still smells like ass.

Eavesdropper: Pickles in Afghanistan

KABUL -- Yesterday, Laura "Pickles" Bush went to Afghanistan. Upon arrival at an outpost run by New Zealand's military, she was greeted by an alarming spectacle known as the native NZ "welcome" dance. Luckily, standing just out of frame, one of our ruthless covert operatives wore a wire under his burka and was able to record the following exchange for your general amusement. Again, you're welcome.

LAURA BUSH: Who's this naked negro man?
NZ SOLDIER: He's a Maori soldier, he's going to perform the traditional Maori welcome dance.
LB: He's real?
NZS: Yes, ma'am.
LB: Sometimes after my third xanatini I see naked negro men dancing in the Rose Garden.
NZS: He's not a negro, he's Maori.
LB: That's what they all say! And Tiger Woods is Japanese! Ha!
NZS: Yes, ma'am.
LB: He's funny! He's got a ferret in his pants!
AFGHANI WOMAN: No, praise Allah! That's his savage yogurt-spitting pants viper! LALALALALALALALALALA!!!
LB: Shhh! I have a headache!
AW: Sorry...
LB: Oh! Does he know "Swanee River?"
NZS: No, ma'am.
LB: How about "Them Ol' Cotton Fields Back Home?"
NZS: No.
LB: "Jimmy Crack Corn?"
NZS: No.
LB: "Mammy?"
NZS: No, ma'am. Sorry.
LB: Well what kind of negro is he?
NZS: He's Maori.
LB: His jumpy jumpy dance is making me giddy. Is he magic?
AW: No, but he can make his angry underoo serpent disappear, praise Allah! LALALALALALALALALA!!!
LB: I don't like that yelly lady. Shoot her.
NZS: I can't, ma'am.
LB: How long do I have to pretend to enjoy this? I'm tired. I need a ciggy. Last night after my seventh rum and Dr. Pepper I chased a unicorn through a poppy field!
NZS: Just a few more minutes, ma'am.
LB: I passed out and slept in this Dress Barn Chairman Mao pants suit and now it's all wrinkly. I need a nap.
NZS: It's almost over.
LB: You have a funny accent. Are you from space?
NZS: No, ma'am.

Totally Exclusive!! A Peek Inside the "Jenna's Gettin' Hitched Barn Dance and Hootnanny"

CRAWFORD -- It was the most splendorous social event the Lone Star State had seen in years (no, not the sinkhole). The toughest ticket since the ATF-sponsored Branch Davidian weenie roast, Jenna Bush's Knot Tyin' Jamboree occurred under heavy security, with only the highest-ranking family members, friends and ex-Enron executives in attendance.

But of course one of our shameless moles was able to infiltrate the goings-on, disguised as an undocumented Mexarican cater-waiter. And he was able to report back on the biggest gathering of douchebag yahoos since the FoxNews company picnic. And here's a few magical moments he overheard and transcribed for your exclusive consideration:

THE VOWS:

JENNA: Henry, I'm totally like into being your squeeze and stuff. I remember when I was a little girl and my daddy took me on his knee. After coppin a feel, he said I'm prolly gonna get hitched before what's-her-name. My twin. Her name's on the tip of my tongue. That girl over there with the ugly face. The card-holding member of the Itty-Bitty-Titty-Committee. Oh yeah, Barbara. I totally forgot what I was sayin. I'm majorly psyched that from now on when I give your pants-meat a mouth hug in the back of a limo, the baby Jesus won't get his swaddling clothes all bunched up in his buttcrack. Last night my Mom knocked on my bedroom door. I was tokin' on some chronic doobage so I put it out and gargled with jean nate. She staggered in and sat on my bed, spilling her xanatini and totally ashing on my comforter. And she said that now that I'm hitched I gotta bend to your whim. Well, um, I'm not sure what a whim is but if it's anything like your sperm-barfing underoo viper, I'll like totally bend to it whenever. Unless I'm on my period or feeling farty.

HENRY: Jenna, you look hot. In that dress I can totally see your bodacious boobage. I've had a boner for you ever since I saw you passed out in your puke at that nightclub, those secret service dudes tryin to wake you up and stuff. Your skirt was up over your head and I could see your twat. Then the secret service dudes pulled your skirt back down and I almost creamed my Gap khakis. You totally look like your Daddy if he was like a tranny. I knew from that moment I wanted you for my wife so's we both could be like, rolling in dough. I'll even put up with your nasty grandma's crapola, just so long's I can do lines of booger sugar off your boobs and shove your ankles behind your ears at least four times a week and do to you what your daddy done to the country. Heh-heh...C*NT-tree. I said "c*nt." That's totally hilarious, dude.

OVERHEARD CONVERSATION: BUSH FAMILY WEDDING PORTRAIT

JENNA: Daddy, quit touchin my butt.
LAURA: Who are you?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
LAURA: Likely story. Where's security?
GEORGE: Where's my momma?
BARBARA: Gam-gam's yelling at the Mexicans.
GEORGE: I was a-scared she'd get in one of her moods when Daddy started cryin like a girl and she slapped his glasses across the lawn into a cow pie. Say, who's that skinny gal?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
JENNA: Hey, whore. You can arch your back like a Hustler centerfold all you want, your boobs still look like dried cherry tomatoes.
BARBARA: Shut up, tw*t...your dress looks like wadded up charmin and you smell like you've been frenching Barney.
JENNA: Mom, make the ugly one shut her yap.
LAURA: It was a lovely ceremony. I 'specially liked the acrobatic leprechauns.
GEORGE: How many Xanax you take, Pickles?
LAURA: That's Rainbows to know, and bunny rabbits to find out.
BARBARA: I wish that guy would take the damn picture.
GEORGE: Relax, what's-yer-face. Brownie's doin' a heck of a job.
LAURA: Who's this lady and why is she pressing her mcboobs into my shoulder?
BARBARA: I'm your daughter.
JENNA: You look like Olive Oyl with scoliosis.
LAURA: Nice to meet you, Miss Oyl. Could you take your thumb outa my buttcrack?
GEORGE: My bad.
LAURA: Cookie monster!

Eavesdropper: McGreevey-à-Trois Pillow Talk!!

Fresh from her "I feel Silda Spitzer's pain" book tour and press junket, professionally outraged victim (and erstwhile Brokeback wife) Dina Matos-McGreevey is currently battling to keep her former marital aid/boy toy from giving rude testimony in her upcoming divorce procedings. Teddy Pederson, apparently, was frequently the meat in a coital McGreevey sandwich back in the day. Dina doth protest he's a dirty fibby-pants, while her ex-husbosexual Jim, er, backs up Teddy's claim.

Well, bitches...it appears Dina's the one with her pants on fire. How do we know? You have to ask? One of our ruthless (and ubiquitous) spies was hiding under the bed during one such encounter, and transcribed the entire event verbatim. And we, because we care, have provided an excerpt:

DINA MATOS-MCGREEVEY: Okay, is everyone ready?
JIM MCGREEVEY: Can I be in the middle?
DMM: No.
JM: Can Teddy-kins?
DMM: No.
JM: Oh, fiddle-sticks. You're no fun.
DMM: Let's ask our guest what he wants.
TEDDY PEDERSON: Um, I want a new car.
JM: She means what position do you want?
TP: Um, something that pays a lot of money so I can get a new car.
DMM: I know! Let's do "the rusty trombonist and the naughty piccolo player."
TP: Or how about "Dirty Sanchez punches his donkey under the hershey highway overpass?"
DMM: We can't. SOMEBODY forgot the sombrero and the mayonnaise.
JM: Oh! Let's do the "gimme-s'more-buttsteak Leviticus lambada!"
DMM: I don't know that one.
JM: That's with me on the bottom, Teddy on top, and Dina in the kitchen making s'mores.
DMM: Isn't that a little faggy?
TP: I love s'mores! Do you have any Mountain Dew?
JM: I don't know. Dina, go check if we have any Mountain Dew.
DMM: We don't have any goddamned Mountain Dew. Now what position, guys. Think!
TP: How about "Gladiator Leapfrog?"
JM: Yes! (MM and TP high five each other)
DMM: Nothing doing.
JM: How about "The Hardy Boys and the Dead Lady Mystery?"
DMM: Veto. Last time I fell asleep.
JM: And...?
DMM: Let's play "Madame Pompadour and her Prancing Poodles!"
TP: Okay.
JM: Fine, but the tu-tu makes my butt look fat.
DMM: Bitch, your butt makes the tu-tu look fat.
TP: Ha-ha! Oh, snap!
JM: Are we going to do this?
DMM: Ready...set...go!
JM: Arf, arf!!
DMM: Bad doggie! Le smack!
TP: Um...arf and stuff.
DMM: Ow! You're on my hair!
TP: Sorry.
DMM: Not you.
JM: My bad.
DMM: Stop! My ankles don't quite go behind my ears today. I missed yoga this week.
JM: I didn't miss it! I'll be Madame Pompadour!
DMM: I'm not in the mood anymore. Let's play Yahtzee.
TP: Darn.
JM: Let me and Teddy finish this hand.
DMM: Fine. I'll go make some s'mores.
TP: Can you make them with cinnamon graham crackers?
DMM: We don't have any cinnamon graham crackers.
JM: Well while you're at the store, pick up some Mountain Dew.
YP: Yay!

(holla-back to queerty)

Eavesdropper: Prayer Force One

WASHINGTON -- Taking a break from his whirlwind pope-a-palooza tour (in between his "awesome speech" on the south lawn and his unforseen and eye-brow-raising stint as Roxy Hart in Broadway's "Chicago"), His Popitude enjoyed a photo-op spiritual communion in the Oval Office with POTUS and Pickles (who rudely appeared wearing the same dress as His Holyship).

Luckily, due to a discretely placed bug (in a nearby bowl of plastic pansies), our unsavory band of moles was able to record the threesome's prayer time.

POTUS: Are those camera fellers getting this?
PICKLES: Ha-ha. I caught you peeking, Georgie. Cheater!
POPE: Vot is vit zis piece of paper?
POTUS: That there's the prayer deal my speech writers whipped up for you to say.
POPE: Dis is unacceptable. I don't be your pope-et on der string. Ich bin ein Pope!
PICKLES: Are you a ghost?
POTUS: Be a sport, Popester. It's a damn good prayer. It even rhymes!
POPE: Nein! Achtung!
POTUS: For reals, man! I like how it rhymes "whores shun" with "abortion." That's freaking GENIUS!
PICKLES: I saw that dress in the plus-size nighties section at Dress Barn, but it made me look "hippy."
POPE: Achtung! Der Pope does not do da dress shoppink at der Dress Barn! Nein! Der Pope go to da Lane Bryant!
POTUS: Shoot, don't go getting yer beanie in a twist, Pope-miester. Pickles don't know what she say after 11 a.m. or her third Xanatini, whichever comes first.
PICKLES: I had a dream that you me and the Easter Bunny rode unicorns to Europe! But then I woke up in the Rose Garden and Barney was licking my oopsie hole. Is that bad?
POPE: Achtung! Ketzer! Verlangsamte Schlampe! Achtung!!
POTUS: Listen, Pope-dude. Be a bro and read the damn prayer thingy so's the camera jockeys can get 'er done. I can feel that creepy portrait of my Momma just a-starin down my neck and it's makin me gotta pee.

 

Eavesdropper: Cheney 'n Nekkid Fishin Broad

ROW BOAT ONE, (Creek Undisclosed) -- As the blog-o-sphere erupted with wild speculation regarding the identity of the nekkid broad reflected in Dick's Ray-bans, we here at COWA were way ahead of the curve. It's well-known that when our country's top-ranked war criminal takes a break from singing odes to waterboarding and feasting on baby flesh, there's nothing he enjoys more than shooting his hunting buddies in the face hopping on Row Boat One and going fly fishing with his boob-tastic "secretary." Fortch, our covert operatives bugged his kreel. Below, we've provided a partial transcript of their fascinating discourse:

NEKKID BROAD: Penny for your thoughts.
VICE PRESIDENT CHENEY: This old bucket smells like a fish market.
NB: Should I close my thighs?
VPC: A dame like you makes a man like me glad I remembered my Cialis.
NB: Sometimes I think about your wife and I feel...um...like, bad and stuff.
VPC: Forget it, toots. The old battle-ax is riding a black mare in the Gertrude Stein all-girl bareback rodeo this weekend. It's just you and me.
NB: I thought you said she went cave spelunking with Condi.
VPC: That's right. Now be a good girl and open the dirty bait box and pull out a fat one.
NB: Um...not now, okay? My jaw's still sore.
VPC: No back-talk, or I'll smack you around again. Now grab Daddy's worm.
NB: Ew. It's so slimy and cold.
VPC: Get your hand out of my pants, you whore.
NB: Oh, but I thought...
VPC: Nevermind, I'll do it myself. Have you ever baited the hook on a man's fishing rod?
NB: I'm not sure what you mean by that, but I don't do anal.
VPC: No, I mean stick that squirmy little fella through his guts with that sharp stabby part of the fish hook.
NB: Oh! Just like at that funny Guantanamo zoo we went that one time!
VPC: That's right. Did you like that?
NB: It was ok, 'cept I didn't understand why all the chimps in the monkey house were in ugly orange outfits. So what kind of little fishy are we going to catch?
VPC: Anything but rainbow trout. I can't stand no f*ggoty fish.
NB: I hate f*ggots. They're so gay and stuff.
VPC: You've got a future in politics, Jenna. Now park that fine kiester on Uncle Dick's lap. Your Momma might start wondering where you are.
NB: As if, she's prolly passed out in the Rose Garden again.

Today in Pastey Twits: Prince Charles n' Camilla Go Ethnic!

KINGSTON -- Last week, the disappointing issue of Her Majesty's royal uterus took a break from finger-popping VIPs when he whisked his horse-hipped mannish wife off to a tour of Bob Marley's house in Jamaica. After sharing a generously rolled spliff with the rastafarians, the royals jammed in a reggae drum circle, their puss-colored complexions in stark contrast to their surrounding dredlocked companions. A covert spy was on hand to record the following exchange:

PRINCE CHARLES (to CAMILLA): I say, this is some chronic doobage!
RASTA 1 (to RASTA 2): Him be batty-man. Boom bye bye.
CAMILLA (to CHARLES): How deliciously pagan!
RASTA 2 (to RASTA 1): We canna be poppin da fairyboy, mon. Him gunna be da queen a da Englishland.
PRINCE CHARLES: That ganja sure was primo, as you smelly negros like to say.
CAMILLA: Indeed, Charles. I feel the drumbeats vibrating in my finger oven, if you know what I mean.
RASTA 1: I gunna be poppin da batty-man in da dress, mon. Him be da 'bomination, da maker dunna luv him no ugly batty-boy inna girlie dress.
PRINCE CHARLES: My dear, we are of the same mind. These savage rhythms have awaked the royal trouser beast.
RASTA 2: Dat be no batty-boy, mon. Her be da batty-boy's woman.
CAMILLA: Uncage that beast, sir! Send it spelunking up my barren lady-cave!
RASTA 1: Him dinna be no woman! Dat batty-boy be packin da bananas in da hammock!
PRINCE CHARLES: I shall take you right here, you saucy wench. My be-pimpled posterior glistening in clammy sweat as it awkwardly quivers and thrusts to the drumbeat in as close a semblance to rhythm as a Windsor can emmulate.
RASTA 2: Her be lookin like da Don Imus go shoppin inna da Dress Barn, dat be da trut. But her be da lady-girl, mon.
CAMILLA: What is it about ethnic co-mingling that turns you into a gutteral, brainless, lust-crazed monkey?
RASTA 1: Him be batty-boy. Him be havin da adam's apple.
PRINCE CHARLES: When in Rome, pet. Have you forgotten Jewish Christmas?
RASTA 2: I tellin you mon. She looka like she bring-a da tartar sauce but she really be bring-a da fish.
CAMILLA: You mean that cute cha-nookah event with the beanies and the candelabra? That was divine. We got frisky that evening and you dripped hot wax on my breasts from the minorah and made me call you Shlomo Windsorstein as you chided me for shopping retail. What an animal you are.
RASTA 1: Well her be an butt-ugly woman.
PRINCE CHARLES: RAWR!!!
RASTA 2: Yeah, mon. She be ugly. But me like to be tappin dat sh*t anyways.
RASTA 1: Tie up da skinny one, mon. I get da bag for hiding da ugly woman head.