Can O' Whup-Ass

God Beat with Jeannie Bladdersham: Lazarus Awakes!

Glory! Greetings and blessings, fellow soldiers of Christ! I fear my extended absence from God Beat has left holes in your lives. These lonely holes of yours have become drafty gaping caverns of despair. But your prodigal sister in Jesus is back, asking you to find it in your cholesterol-choked hearts to invite me once again to dive into your holes and fill them up with the pulsing throbbing warmth of the Holy Spirit. Praise!

Long story short, my beloved Aunt Betsy mistakenly had yours truly committed to an open-ended stay at the Peducah Home for the Odd and Peculiar (or P-HOP), a discount maximum security mental health facility wedged betwixt the Jiffy Lube and the Piggly-Wiggly out on Route 3. Let me assure you I had no business being tossed amongst the fruitcakes and demonically-possessed. It was all a poopy misunderstanding which arose when I took my still-born twin Janet –  floating obediently in her jar of formaldehyde – down to the Peducah edition of the Antiques Road Show.  I was hoping one of those sweet effeminate bachelors could put a price tag on a set of pewter salad tongs I picked up at a Lutheran flea market (I wrongly suspected they date back to prehistoric Mesopotamia). Can you believe they thought I was trying to get Janet appraised? Heavens, no! Let me chase away any doubt; I would never sell my still-born twin Janet, not even for 10 million dollars. Well, yes, I’d sell her for $10 million. I’m not CRAZY, after all. Glory!

As you know, I sing mezzo-soprano with the Peducah Praise Singers (an all-girl gospel choir), now on temporary hiatus following our whirlwind tour of South Sudan, Saudi Arabia and Craters-of-the-Moon Idaho. The tour was mostly successful, although we had to high-tail it out of Saudi Arabia; a sudden sand storm struck as Trudy Plank (coloratura, whore) leapt into her scat solo during “My Fanny is an Exit (Since Jesus Entered My Heart).”  Gale-force winds ripped Trudy’s hijab off her body, leaving her nakeder than Jesus wants to see anybody. Imagine our shock to discover the graphic tattoo of crucified Jesus on her torso (which wouldn’t have been so tacky if her nipples weren’t doing double-duty as the nails in Our Lord’s hands). Anywho, Trudy was promptly gang-raped then stoned to death for being gang-raped. Hallelujah!

In ferret news, you will remember that the latest in my ill-fated line of ferrets (Princess Penelope Prancypuss) was discovered to be not a ferret at all, but a rabid Yemeni mongoose. Before I could sell the wretched imposter on Craigslist, she gave birth to a litter of 50 rabid baby mongooses, all of whom perished horribly because their irresponsible mother made her nest in the garbage disposal. Imagine my shock when I dumped my breakfast bowl’s remaining Apple Jacks and flipped the switch! Such a commotion! I had to replace the drapes over my sink.

But enough fiddle-faddle! Let’s get down to brass tacks already!

This week on God Beat:

• Who’s-his-name and what’s-his-face – otherwise known as Jimmy “JJ” Walker and Kirk Cameron – hopped the same train back from Has-beenville long enough to tell us they believe homosexuals oughtn’t be permitted to register at Pottery Barn. Jimmy Walker, if you recall, last experienced semi-relevance three popes ago while playing Steppin Fetchin on a show about funny negros.  Kirk Cameron’s superstardom hit its apex when he graced page 6 of Tiger Beat back when Cheney had a human heart.  I for one am thrilled to see them again! What’s more, I’ve developed a swelling curiosity as to what Pam Dawber has to say about climate change and whether Mindy Cohn feels spending cuts alone will sufficiently achieve meaningful deficit reduction. Glory!

• Mittens (everyone’s favorite Mormon after all of the Osmonds except for the fat/gay ones), allowed lovely Ann out of her wife-kennel. Suddenly she appeared on teevee to defend her man’s decision not to release documents that reveal he pays Uncle Sam less taxes than a busboy at Ruby Tuesdays. But that’s only because his vast network of sister-wives run shell corporations in the Cayman Islands.  “You people know enough about us!” she hissed through clenched teeth. Agree, Ann. We know plenty about Mittens: he enjoys traumatizing incontinent dogs and he finds it fun to tackle terrified fairies for impromptu haircuts. As for Ann, we know she likes to ride Cadillacs and her horse, and gets her kicks teaching the latter how to prance about like a homo while she rides it through the eye of a needle. Praise!

• Goodness! Colorado (the square state to the left of Kansas, in more ways than one) certainly has been smited by Yahweh these days! First He sent fires (which inadvertently devoured the most right-wing city while leaving Gomorrah Boulder unscathed). Now, during a movie about a man-bat who traipses hither and yon doing battle with evil clowns and penguins (obviously based on the Book of Revelations), a shy young man dressed like a commando mowed down more people than Dick Cheney on a pheasant hunt. Several evangelicals (showing their best Christian mercy) immediately Just-For-Menned their pompadours so they could explain to the media that it’s the homos fault, and graciously informed us which of God’s children shot to death are currently being spit roasted by demons in the bowels of you-know-where (no not Tuscaloosa, sillies!).  

• Speaking  Kansas, you simply MUST load your diabetic families into your Dodge caravans so they can spend an enchanted day at the multi-million dollar Aborted Fetus Museum in Wichita. The Peducah Praise Singers were proud to sing our hit “Ride me Home, Jesus” (number 14 on the Pentecostal Hit Parade) at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. After an hour, I have to admit I got bored and started thinking about my newest entrepreneurial venture: selling Biblical costumes for ferrets  on E-Bay. Jesus forgave me when I explained to him that aborted fetuses, like Chinese folks and Olive Garden restrooms, are entirely identical and interchangeable (although Aborted Fetus #873 reminded me of my still-born twin Janet). Glory!

In conclusion I think we can holler in unison, with every ounce of Christian charity in our bones: “Actually, Dorothy…you ARE still in Kansas, you pill-popping succubus!”

xox
WAM

 

 

How we met Rob: a totally true story

So last night we attended a screening of an odd yet hilarious independent film called "Co-dependent Lesbian Space Alien Seeks Same," starring a college friend. After the credits rolled, the producer bounded onstage with the following announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen, I thought you might like to know that our state legislature just legalized gay marriage." The cheers were deafening. There are good days, aren't there?

There's been a subtle yet unmistakable shift. Today we are less of a them and more of an us. And that's what Gay Pride, with all its disco, leather harnesses and g-strings, has always been about (yet we admit a platoon of dykes on bikes leading battalion of baton-twirling homos prancing about in jock straps is an excellent way to be seen as a "Them" with a capitol "T"). And yet, the straights came through. Even some Republicans. Overwhelmingly, gay family members and friends changed their hearts and minds.

And with that in mind, this is how we met Rob...

Once upon a time we'd throw annual gay pride parties on our massive East Village roof deck. There were balloons, streamers, grilled fruit skewers, reefers, martinis, and (at the party's apex) servings of magical mushroom tea. Folks came in drag, leather, party boy spandex. But it was all very co-ed. Male, female, gay, straight. Fellini on poppers. And on the boombox, Ethel Merman's disco album did battle with ABBA, Madonna and Carmen Miranda (thank you, Bruce).

During one such soiree, two stunningly beautiful heterosexual women (fierce bitches by the name of Claudia and Deborah), both clad in halter tops and daisy dukes, briefly left the festivities to pick up some ice at the corner bodega. While they were there, they thought it would be cute if they also purchased some chocolate covered cherries and several dozen condoms in festive gold coin wrappers.

At this point, they caught the eye of a handsome Jewish straight NYU student who was buying a six pack of Heiniken.

"Hey, What's your name?"
"Um...Rob."
"Hi Um Rob, I'm Claudia. This is Deborah."
"Hi."
"So we're having a party, care to join us?"

Poor thing. Two primo specimens of babe-a-licious boobocity, brandishing a bag of ice, chocolate covered cherries and enough prophylactics for the Russian army. He thought he'd stumbled onto the kind of paradise you only read about in Hustler or the Koran.

We remember when our girls escorted a stunned Rob into the throng of the party and immediately abandoned him to flirt with the homos (a zero stakes game). The homos, in turn, preferred flirting with Rob, the reluctant belle of the ball. We have photographs of that party. There's Rob on a bench, surrounded with homos, his lopsided grin frozen, his eyes betraying a kind of terror.

We must have had a profound effect on him, for he promptly abandoned his studies and fled to Budapest to write about gypsies. We stayed in touch, though. And evench, after he returned stateside, he even moved into our vast, decrepit cold-water loft where he lived for a few years.

He saw us through a brutal break-up with an attorney who turned out to be a married embezzler. We, in turn, commiserated with him through two nasty divorces.

Rob has a bad habit of falling in love with the kind of gal you can live with for several years, but runs screaming for the hills within a year of exchanging vows, suddenly discovering she doesn't "see herself married." And frankly, we're not sure we do either.

Perhaps us homos are like the indians who were so ecstatic at first to receive those pox infested blankets from the white man. Marriage equality is divorce equality, after all. Hooray! And...um...thanks?

We recall when Rob returned from vacationing in Majorca with a contraband bottle of Absinthe in tow. During the trip he'd broken up with a dishwater blonde Polish gal (he tends to like fair-haired Eastern European chicks with thick accents who are perpetually bored and have rude personalities).

We each did a couple shots, getting acquainted with the green fairy. Rob grew increasingly remorseful about his lost Polski baleboste.

And absinthe made the tart grow blonder.

xox
WAM

Claudia 'n' Deborah say: "we DARE you to subscribe to this blog's feed."

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."

 

On your 50th birthday

*sigh*

So. How's junk?

Lots happened since we saw you last, looking (forgive us) less than your best in that sterile chamber; silent, save the regular beeps and whirrings of all that infernal machinery.

Where to start? Chronologically: an election was stolen, the twin towers (and a nation's optimism) reduced to dust, a war or two. We've fallen in (and out of) love. Worked several jobs.  The writing briefly took off, then stalled. In short, life has been occurring. Time has its pedal to the metal these days; milestones fly by in a dizzying blur.

Some developments you'd find interesting: marriage equality and the supreme court stare each other down at the OK corral. Soon our soldiers will be allowed to be gay, honest and employed – all at the same time. A recent rash of homo teen suicides has God's favorite country shaking its head and tossing the word "tragic" around like frisbees at a picnic (we suppose we should be grateful that suddenly it's "tragic"). There's even a YouTube phenomenon called "It Gets Better," where hundreds of well-meaning folks, famous and not, have posted video platitudes for gay youth about how everything gets better.

It's a lovely lie. You knew that better than anyone, having made one clumsy attempt in your youth. Suicide happens when "tomorrow" is too long and terrible a road between "today" and "it gets better." What's more, it doesn't "get better." But we do develop spines. We grow into our armor. Those slings and arrows become easier to deflect.

The two of us are of a certain era, aren't (weren't) we? We're the ones who came of age while watching the ones we adored morph by the dozen from "happy, youthful and vibrant" to "blind, emaciated and incontinent," sometimes in the space of a month.

Our coping mechanism was withdrawal. Numbness over fury. We seldom cried. But now in our 46th year, the ice has thawed a tad. The novocaine's worn off. Some of us are lonelier that we'd prefer to admit. There are so many of you we miss. Maybe we drink more than we ought.

Middle age crises strike every man, of course. Suddenly we feel a tender brotherhood with the poor sap we used to ridicule; the one driving his Corvette down the avenue, hair plugs to the wind, Huey Lewis blaring on the stereo. A lesson you'll mercifully never learn: it's terrifying for a dude, waking up to discover he's past his prime. But enough about us.

What an infuriating, original, beautiful and flat-out cra-zay-zay creature you were. The consummate host who could (and frequently did) clear a room with a venomous remark. You were the big brother we never had, and we fought accordingly. Often. But lord, how you were loved. By everyone.

Your final night on terra firma, we got what we knew would be our last look at you. The faint furrow in your unconscious brow, your body heaving slightly as you refereed the hushed battle between AIDS and your respirator, those impossibly blue eyes clinched shut. Somehow we wound up on the floor, our cheek against the lime green tile of Beth Israel's terminal ward, our nose filled with Pine-Sol clean. We never cried harder or longer, before or since.

Through the alchemy of time, we turn around and a decade separates us from the tiled floor of Beth Israel. We can still smell the Pine-Sol, though.

Remembrance has its irony. We're the big brother now, to the memory of that sweet man on cusp of 40, hooked up to a breathing machine. Funny, isn't it? Life's unexpected reversals.

It's a beautiful autumn Sunday. The air's crisp, the sun brighter than it has a right to be, the sky so blue it borders on cruelty. So...

So we raise a glass (ginger-ale, tonight) to your miserable, glorious, bi-polar, gorgeous ass.

Happy birthday, B.

You would have been fifty today.

xox
WAM

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Motor-mouth Mark of Asbury Park: A totally true story

Hi bitches. We were tempted to rant on 9/11 (aka Republican Christmas), and all the bone-headed Q'uran-burning hijinx that make us wonder whether America's become one big Tuscaloosa trailer park. To us, 9/11 is like Thanksgiving with our Baptist relatives. Everyone talks about God too much. They bicker. It makes our tummy hurt. We're glad when it's over.

And it's over. It's 9/12. Nine years ago today, we were with a friend from TriBeCa who was rendered homeless from the attack. We went to K-mart so she could buy underwear. All they had left was a pair of Disney's Pocohantas thongs which she bought while hissing under her breath that we were forbidden to mention the purchase ever again. We like 9/12 much better. It reminds us of friends. And how they help us wade through crap.

With that in mind, we'd like to talk about our friend Mark (not his real name). Mark's a good guy. Heart o' gold. And to know him is to be aware that should you ask him a harmless question like "what's up," you'd better get comfortable. Not only will he tell you exactly what's up, his answer will take longer than a non-stop flight to Pittsburgh. Our cell phone's battery has run out in the middle of his voice messages. He can talk, but he's not a bore. Everything he has to say in his faint Tennessee drawl is interesting. He doesn't repeat himself, much less pause for breath. Stick a pin in that for a sec.

A few years ago, Mark moved down the shore to Asbury Park. Part of the first wave of homosexual homesteaders (homosteaders?), he and his partner bought an enormous old house just steps from the boardwalk and spent years restoring what had become a decaying SRO crackhouse to its former glory. At the time, Asbury was drug infested, dangerous and filthy. But the few rainbow flags sprouting up like edelweiss at Treblinka seemed to suggest it just might turn the corner.

Last week, we went down for a visit. While Asbury Park hasn't quite turned that corner (it still has the air of a post-nuclear Coney Island), it was good to be there. We went to the beach and chillaxed. And it got us thinking about our two favorite memories of "motor-mouth Mark."

First, know that Mark (a musical theater homo) used to understudy for a once-famous 70's disco group who liked to dress up like cops and cowboys and sing about the Navy (yes, they still tour hither and yon caterwauling their musical invitation to "body-body, feel my body," though half of them need a walker to make it to the stage).

On Mark's 40th birthday, he held a cook-out on his front lawn (freshly cleared of discarded crack vials in honor of the occasion). Philipe, the original "Indian" (who's really Puerto Rican), was in attendance, along with Mark's lovely, chain-smoking and thoroughly charming southern mom.

At the high point of the festivities, the faux-Indian (having indulged in heap-big fire water) cranked up the karaoke version of that song about how much ass-sex can be had at a certain Christian boarding house/fitness club. For the next blissful five minutes, Mark, his mom (menthol Virginia Slims parked 'twixt her lips) and an aging (though still sexy) Puerto Rican Indian sang (and did the complete choreography to) this classic homo anthem. All the while, crack dealers, pimps and hos strolled by, viewing the spectacle with a priceless mixture of terror and confusion. That was the day, we're now convinced, that Asbury Park went irrevocably gay. And though life is booby-trapped with harrowing days like 9/11, Yahweh sometimes blesses us with a vision so surreal and delightful everything seems exactly right with the world – even (especially) when they clearly aren't. 

The second memory (take the pin out), is about the day Mark's motor mouth saved our lives. One bright July Sunday before he moved to the shore, we bought some sandwiches, packed some beer, rolled a joint and headed into Central Park for a lil' picnic. We found a secluded patch of grass away from the madding crowds. Forty-five minutes later...sandwiches eaten, beers open, joint half-smoked, we lay in the grass, looking at the clouds, listening as motor-mouth Mark waxed eloquently, endlessly, prophetically about the house outside of the city he would one day buy and restore. Suddenly, his soliloquy was interrupted.

"Yo, man...got another beer?"

We raised our head and shielded our eyes from the sun. Standing three feet from us was a menacing thug and his just-as-menacing sidekick. The motor of Mark's mouth momentarily slipped into neutral.

"Um, sorry," we croaked, in our deepest heterosexual voice, "we only brought two."

"Aw, man. Me an' my boy want a f*ckin' beer."

Mark's big blue eyes widened. We gulped.

We feebly held up a half-empty bottle. "Wanna sip?"

"No, f*ggot. I don't want no motherf*ckin' sip. I want a beer and you don't gots none. So watchoo got for a brovah, punk?"

At this point, we noticed the sidekick had circled around behind, trapping us between them. They both stuck their hands in the pockets of their baggy jeans with a purpose. They were armed. Thug looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. Sidekick moved in closer. Things looked bad. We might have peed a little in our underoos.

Miraculously, Mark's motor mouth shifted from neutral to overdrive. His astounding monologue went something like this:

"What's your favorite beer? I like Sam Adams. Lager, not dark. Dark beer's too bitter sometimes. Do you think dark beer is bitter? I think so. Sometimes. Although I like Red Stripe. Red Stripe's good. Do you like Red Stripe? I like your pants. Where did you get them? How do they stay up? Nice and baggy, lots of pockets to put things. Do you have a gun in your pants? I hope you don't because if you had a gun I'd have to assume you're going to mug us or shoot us or something. I mean, if you two were having a picnic the park and some guys came up and asked for a beer and pulled out a gun, I'm pretty sure you might draw the same conclusion. I like picnics, do you? When was the last time you went on a picnic? So are you going to mug us? I hope not. I think I saw a policeman walk by a minute ago. It's a beautiful day and it would suck to get arrested for mugging or shooting a person. I've never been arrested. Have you? Not to suggest that you've been arrested. But you look like you might have. Excuse me a sec. Hey you! Yeah you, the man and lady walking your dachshund! Hi! Beautiful day, isn't it! I'm wondering, have you ever seen a mugging? Do people get mugged in this part of the park? I'm just curious because I think these guys might be trying to mug us! So if you know what a mugging looks like maybe you could come over and tell us if we're being mugged or not. Do either of these guys look capable of mugging a person? What about this one, in the red-and-white Chicago Bulls jersey? The other prefers the Knicks, apparently. He's the one who looks like he has a gun. They both might. Anyway, I think they might want to mug us or shoot us, just FYI. Do you like sandwiches? My buddy and I just had some sandwiches. I had a turkey and provolone on wheat and he had a pastrami and swiss on rye. I like pastrami but I can't eat it cause it makes me gassy. We got them at the deli on 110th and Amsterdam, with the old Greek lady with the mustache. They make good sandwiches but I don't like their soup. Have you tried it? I had their tomato soup and it tasted like spaghetti-o's sauce. It was gross. What's your name? I'm Mark. This is Steve. He's hilarious. He's not talking right now but he's funny as hell. A playwright. Do you go to the theater? I like the theater. Did you see Rent? I liked it, although I found the lyrics to be a bit trite and clumsy at times. I mean, if I want to see a show about dirty kids shooting heroin and singing about love, I'll just see Hair. Rent was Hair with AIDS. But it was okay. I hated Lion King, though. It made my head hurt. I think a hundred dollars is too much to pay for a puppet show, don't you?"

By the time motor-mouth Mark started talking about musicals, our would-be assailants were skulking away, dazed looks in their eyes. For our part, about halfway through Mark's jaw-dropping diatribe, the terror had seeped out of our bones, replaced with quiet awe. "Have a nice day!" he called after them.

That last bit, that "have a nice day!" cemented it in our mind: motor-mouth Mark rocks. And while some folks are chatty in a way that makes us long for a rope and a kick-stool, we can listen to motor-mouth Mark's crapola all day long.

Happy 9/12. We survive.

xox
WAM

Motor-mouth Mark sez: "This blog's feed leaves me speechless"

Ask Aunt Betsy: I warn ya, California

Well, howdy-dowdy-dippity-do! Gracious! It's been eons since yours truly, America's most reckless advice columnist, favored your drab lives with my invaluable words of wisdom. Here I sit, luxuriously ensconced in my gorgeous Broyhill peach-and-teal naugahyde love seat, pouring over MOUNTAINS of letters that have accumulated during my long and regrettable silence. My absence has left a miserable void in your pitiful lives, a hole in your woebegone existence through which the ill winds darkness and despair blow constantly and make an irritating whistling sound. Fret not, lamb chops. I'm back.

The reasons for my unpremeditated sabbatical are myriad and various. First, my maladjusted niece Jeannie Bladdersham (ferret hobbyist, gospel singer) ran afoul of the authorities when she showed up at the Peducah edition of Antiques Roadshow to get an appraisal on a jar filled with formaldehyde that contains the pickled remains of her still-born twin Janet. She was briefly detained for transporting medical waste without a license, and upon questioning, admitted that she occasionally removes the malformed fetus from its briny display and dresses it up like Cinderella. Long story short, I was obliged to travel to Kentucky to oversee dear Jeannie's temporary confinement at the Peducah Home for the Odd and Peculiar (or P-HOP), a discount nut barn. 

Second, your own Aunt Betsy has been unjustly chastised by the neighborhood association once again. It all started several years ago when my darling lawn jockeys (named Sambo and Mr. Bones) caused offense with my hypersensitive neighbors. I recently replaced them with two precious lawn gnomes, smartly uniformed and waving cheerily to passers by. It seems my Christ-killing next door neighbors the Finklebaums found my charming lawn display to be a wee bit Hitler-esque. What's more, fence-mending efforts were coldly received; when a van emblazoned with "Pork o' the Month Club" pulled up outside their garishly landscaped split level, they seemed less than enthusiastic about receiving the first of twelve monthly shipments of bacon, ham, pork chops and sausage.

In Yahtzee news, this year's tournament is plugging along swimmingly, save for one disquieting incident when Fern Blatz (a hare-lipped Methodist afflicted with lumbago and scoliosis) suddenly had a seizure as she was rolling the dice at a critical juncture during semi-finals. While the dice scattered hither and yon, I  quite rightly insisted that the roll stand and the hideous (though lovely-hearted) woman was obliged to accept a score of zilch on her small straight.

But enough fiddle-faddle! Let's get to the mail bag, shall we? This week, I've received simply oodles and scads of desperate missives on the subject of a certain pansy judge who wants to force Californians to throw rice at sodomites as they gallivant down church aisles while lip syncing to Lady Gaga. So let's dive right in!

Dear Aunt Betsy: I represent a lovely state in the U.S. House of Representatives. I won't tell you which state, but our state bird is the loon and folks there like to sculpt things out of butter. And it rhymes with "minnow soda." I've said repeatedly that allowing the gays to register at Crate and Barrel will lead to toddlers being taught how to be gay in kindergarten. Aren't our kindergartners being taught enough gay stuff already? There's that Barney fellow, a suspicious man in a purple dragon outfit, who encourages little boys to prance around like fags, for one. Listen, I keep saying I don't hate the homos cause Jesus says we have to love them and stuff. And while it may be true that my campaign contributors admire Iran for executing gays, it's not like I don't understand oppression. One time, I was held prisoner in a toilet for eleven seconds! Signed STOP KINKY ANTICHRIST NANCY KIDS

Dear SKANK: I doubt we need to teach kindergartners to try being gay. The way I see it, the nasty creatures have mastered the art. They skip, they cry, they dress up like cowboys. But I do share your admiration of Iran, dear. Not only do they throw frequent necktie parties for nancy boys, they encourage women like you to stay inside and shut their yaps.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I founded a political action committee dedicated to defending traditional marriage. I won't tell you my name but it rhymes with Gaggie Wallagher. When I heard that an effeminate judge in San Francisco decided that gays are people too, it made me think of our founding fathers. When they were sitting around in their knickers and tights, passing the wig powder and humming "Yankee Doodle," they hardly expected the constitution they were writing would be used to legitimize man-on-man honeymoon suite co-habitation. When I think about it, I get so worked up my panties get all bunched up in my sin hole. Signed, FRANKLY ALL THIS TASTES YUCKY

Dear FATTY: Indeed, our founding fathers must have been distracted by rubbing saddle soap into their slave whips when they wrote stuff like the separation clause. It seems obvious that when they sought to guarantee freedom of religion, what they really intended to say was that all Christians are perfectly free to continue pretending the grape juice they were drinking was actually the blood of a long-deceased Jew. They were a nutty bunch, who clearly foresaw the invention of the fully automatic assault rifle (not to mention the rocket propelled grenade) when they concocted the second amendment. However, although I hate to rain on our collective parade, the sodomite judge who wrote the opinion based it on the 14th amendment, which guarantees equal protection and due process. This amendment was written much later, and its concepts were blissfully unfamiliar to those virile wig-wearers who owned people as property (and frequently shtupped them).

Dear Aunt Betsy:  For ages, I been flying hither and yonder preaching God's gospel and earning big bucks delivering one expert testimony after another about how the lil' ones need a mommy and a daddy or they'll grow up to read Salinger and sass their folks. Unfortch, I hired a strapping young lad to assist me on my last trip to witness my pro-hetero screed and don't you know that lil' feller turned out to be a fairy? Seems a man can't hire a rent boy from rentboy.com without winding up with a rent boy! All I needed was a virile youngun' to help me with my bags. I'm mighty particular 'bout how I like my bags to be handled. They're old and leathery and need spit-shining at least twice daily. And hoisting them into overhead bins must be be done with gentle loving care. Whew! I think I need a nap. Back now. In closing, may Jesus be with you  Sincerely, OH LORD! DEMONS TRY RECRUITING O LASCIVIOUS LADS!!

Dear OLD TROLL: Aunt Betsy is losing her patience with all you men of God who preach against the homos but end up being caught with your sin hoses wedged into the hot orifices of hell-bound sodomites. The crusade against homo nuptials would do quite well without the support of all you holy men who seem to be spending your off-hours honoring your wives by barebacking meth-addicted man whores. Marriage is, obviously, the exclusive domain of vagina owners and penis possessors. In a household absent of a female, who can be made to submit to her husband's will by cooking waffles and squirting newborns from her thighs? An which two women can have a truly fulfilling family life without the presence of some beer-swilling neanderthal who can burp the national anthem?  Before my late husband Cecil met his untimely end (due to a freak bath time mishap involving three valiums and a blender set to "puree"), we enjoyed exactly the kind of man-wife relationship endorsed by Jesus. Namely, I tolerated his gross behavior and rewarded him by bending over the sofa on a semi-weekly basis for some wifely unpleasantries. But he's dead now. Take the hint.

xox
WAM

Michele Bachmann sez: "I feel like I've been held against my will by this blog's feed, just like in that bathroom!!"

   

 

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"

The Stoopidest Winter Olympics Events Medal Ceremony

In a couple weeks, the world will descend upon Vancouver to watch lithe pale-complected (non-negro) athletes do an endless series of ill-advised things on snow and ice. We are from Colorado, so we practically skied from the womb (it was a little icy for our first black diamond run), so we are loathe to call all winter sports retarded.

But some of them are.

And now, Can o' Whup-Ass is thrilled to present the medalists for the stoopidest events in the Winter Olympics.

BRONZE: FIGURE SKATING

Sure, we enjoy watching nubile little girls (of both sexes) prance, spin, hoist their legs over their noggins and air out their sin holes whilst gliding about a rink to showtune medleys. But this is not a sport. We hear you protest; "these kids are incredibly talented and athletic!" Fine, but so are porn stars (as a side note, no one can beat Jeff Stryker's dismount).

We insist; if one is wearing a sequined costume, one is not competing in a sport. Furthermore, until we see Pocahontas performing the giant slalom or Aladdin Luge-ing at Madison Square Garden, we simply can't take it seriously. If Disney characters do it with any regularity (outside of an acid trip, that is), it is not a sporting event.

Perhaps we could combine figure skating and the biathalon. Give Michele Kwan a rifle and test her marksmanship in between triple lutzing and double salchowing. Just a thought.

Oh, and call us a cynic, but don't you miss Tonya Harding? That was the best year ever for figure skating. Nancy Kerrigan howling "WHY?" for the cameras. Remember? Maybe Tonya Harding should chase the contestants around the ice with a truncheon. Make it interesting.

SILVER: THE LUGE/SKELETON (DOES ANYONE REALLY KNOW THE DIFFERENCE?)

The sport of lugers. We have about nine million questions about the luge, the first being why would anyone participate in a sport invented by a man named Caspar Badrutt? What was going on in Caspar Badrutt's mind when it occurred to him to take a lie-down on a sled and fly down the Matterhorn whilst yodeling and steering with his thighs? Wouldn't you prefer to take the gondola? If one is lying down, can one actually be competing in a sport (bringing us back to the porno analogy)? Lugers strike us as particuarly lazy in that regard. You're competing at the Olympics, for heaven's sake. You could at least sit up!

Moving on, how was Caspar Badrutt able to convince others to drink his particularly kookie flavor of Kool-Aid? Why isn't saucering a sport? We'd be interested in seeing folks compete in the saucer event. In the doubles luge, what happens if your partner pops a boner? All roads lead to Rome, and all these questions lead to the same conclusion:

Luging is retarded.

But speaking of porn, should we ever embark on a career in the field, we've decided our name will be Caspar Radbutt.

GOLD: IT'S A TIE! BIATHALON/CURLING

First, the biathalon. We can say without the slightest hesitation that the day we wake up obliged to cross-country ski twenty miles whilst shooting at things will undoubtedly be the worst day of our life. How is this a practical pastime? We know skiers, we know hunters, but we've never met a hunt-skier. It strikes us as an excessively irresponsible hobby.

Why combine those two particular skills? Why not, say, bobsledding and badminton? Or speed skating and knitting? We'd be interested in seeing Apolo Anton Yoko Ohno (or whatever his name is) crocheting a lovely scarf on the short track.

Second, we have curling. Second only to the biathalon, should we ever find ourselves on a frozen lake sweeping a path for a stone, we will have been long overdue to take serious personal inventory. Invented by the Scots and perfected by the Canadians (possibly the only thing ever to be perfected by the Canadians) one feels pity for the people obsessed by it. Haven't they heard of internet porn? There are so many more productive,  enjoyable ways to spend an afternoon. We can think of many things we'd rather do, including drilling screws into our toes whilst listening to Tori Amos. 

Besides which, isn't curling basically shuffleboard for eskimos? Until we see summer Olympians medaling in croquet and shuffleboard and mah-jong, you cannot convince us that any curler really deserves to stand on a podium mouthing the words to "O Canada."

Medaling in snow angel-ing sounds no less legitimate.

That is all.

xox
WAM

Tonya Harding sez: "Subscribe to this blog's feed or the snotty bitch gets it in the knee cap."

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."