Can O' Whup-Ass

Goldman Sells a Whatzit

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

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

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

GOLDMAN SELLS A WHATZIT

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

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

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

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

A foo and his money are destined to part"

xox
WAM

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

God Beat with Jeannie Bladdersham: Pope Floats

Glory! It seems ages since I, Jeannie Bladdersham (devout Baptist, mezzo soprano with the all-girl gospel choir The Peducah Praise Singers, ferret hobbyist) filed a report on all things divine and Jesus-y (and, by necessity, all things icky and satan-y). The reasons for my long absence from that nice (though hell-bound) Mr. WAM's bloggy thingy are varied and plentiful.

Suffice it to say that two months ago, The Peducah Praise Singers found ourselves up cock-a-doodie creek without a you-know-what. We were giving a free concert at the Pentecostal Temple of Signs Appearing on the outskirts of Port Au Prince, and were only ten minutes into our crowd-pleasing medley of hits ("Jesus is a teabagger/Christ loves a Fetus/Hell is for Homos/Ride Me Home, Jesus") when God sent an earthquake as punishment. Whom He was punishing and why is still being hotly debated; Tammy Sue Plotz swears it's because our audience was rudely texting satan during the performance, but I remain convinced God got all seismic on us because Trudy Plank (coloratura, whore) started doing the robot dance during her solo in "My Fanny is an Exit (Since Jesus Entered My Heart)." It was tacky.

Anywho, we spent the next few days shoving Bibles into the rubble so all the trapped negros could read Leviticus before going home to glory. When a representative from the Red Cross complained to the authorities (note: to tart the cross up by coloring it red gives the baby Jesus vertigo), we decided to help three or four dozen orphans come to America so they could get jobs as janitors at various Baptist Churches in greater Peducah. Long story short, we suddenly found ourselves imprisoned! Just like the Jews! Praise! We weren't in our cell for five minutes before Wanda Mae Flapp and Eloise Porchnik started acting like lesbians, humming "Sweet Jane" and fondling each other's sin zones. The rest of us distracted ourselves by singing "I'm Saving My Icky Parts For Hubby" (now number 53 on the Pentecostal Hit List!). We hadn't even finished the first verse when we suddenly found ourselves loaded onto a plane bound for Tallahassee. Glory!

In ferret news, Princess Penelope Prancypuss (my adopted ferret) started having anxiety attacks every time I spoke in tongues (the spirit always seems to move me during commercial breaks while watching CSI: Miami), so I took her to the vet. Imagine my shock when I discovered she's not a ferret at all, but a wild Yemeni Mongoose with rabies! Was I ever furious! It's not very Christian of a Yemeni Mongoose to masquerade as a ferret! Having decided Princess Penelope Prancypuss is an enemy combatant, I've wisely rendered her to my own little Gitmo: a hamster cage in the attic, next to the jar of formaldehyde that contains the pickled remains of my still-born twin Janet.

But enough dawdling! Let's get to the business of disseminating God news!

• PAPAL PROSTIES: At the Vatican, where Cathy-lick men put on dresses and flounce about swinging burning incense purses, there are two pals: Papal Aide named Angelo Balducci and a negro Papal Choir member named Chinedu Ehiem Thomas (heavens, a woman who names her boy Angelo is asking for trouble, but Chinedu? Why didn't Chinedu's mother just tattoo "hell-bound savage" on his patootie?). Well, as it turns out Angelo and Chinedu were were running a hummer-seckshul prostitution ring, hiring out impressionable seminarians and choristers to do that thing that makes Jesus cry. Pope Benedict, who used to be a Nazi until he wasn't, and who wants to make war-time Jew-ignoring Pope Pius XII a saint, knew nothing about this nastiness, of course. Speaking of things the Pope knows nothing about...
• THE POPE AND THE PEDO: Pope Benedict, who liked to goose step hither and yon as a boy and talk lovingly about der Fuhrer until he stopped, used to be the top cheese at the Archdiocese of Munich. One day, he learned that one of his priests was spending rather too much time underneath altar boys' robes. So just like Hitler used to send homos on lavish vacations at Auschwitz and Treblinka, Benedict sent his pervy priest to therapy (because pedophile therapy is so effective). So effective, in fact, that the little bugger returned to the priesting racket, where he resumed ministering to sensitive boys in unorthodox ways. While the Pope had direct involvement in sending said priest to Club Ped, he totally didn't know anything about his return to the priesthood.  Because if he had, it would take a little of the bite out of his strong rebuke of the Irish Cathy-lick bishops who did exactly the same thing. But of course that's a bunch of silly fiddle-faddle!  Not to worry, all is right in Popeville. Oh, except for the inconvenient fact that...
• THE VATICAN IS CHOKING ON "SATAN SMOKE": The Pope is a lovely old man who used to follow a dictator who called for the execution of homosexuals until he saw the light and became the boss of a religion that calls for the execution of homosexuals. But why him? Why does this pale oldster get to wear expensive dresses and prance from room to room in a big old castle? Who on earth does he think he is, Queen Elizabeth? Well, every time a Pope gets yanked home to Jesus, a bunch of bishops lock themselves in a papal conclave, where they scurry about in floor-length gowns. After gossiping like schoolgirls for few days they have a pope-vote and burn the ballots. The color of the smoke tells the anxious lay folks waiting outside whether or not someone's avoided being "aufed" and gone on to win Project Popeway. But there's a different kind of smoke in the Vatican these days. According to the Chief Papal Exorcist Father Gabriele Amorth, the "smoke of the devil" wafts abundantly throughout the Vatican, and that Satan likes to "make fun of him." Honestly, why doesn't that silly man just open a window? No wonder the devil makes fun of him. It doesn't sound like anything that couldn't be solved with a little carpet fresh and maybe some febreeze. Praise! Hey, maybe Benedict is hiding in his chamber smoking devil doobage! That would explain his silly hats!

Jeannie Bladdersham sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed until I realized WAM smokes devil doobage!"

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"

God Beat With Jeannie Bladdersham: Man-Pants

Glory! Happy end-of-summer, God-Beaters! I don't know about you, but I'm pooped! The Peducah Praise Singers (the all-girl gospel choir with which I sing second mezzo-soprano), just completed a marathon, two-day concert at the spectacular "Healthcare is for Homos" Labor Day Picnic and Bible raffle in the outskirts of gorgeous Tuscaloosa. Everything went smoothly, except for that awkward moment when Fanny-Sue Butz started speaking in tongues during the second encore of our newest single "Jesus Is a Teabagger." Fanny-Sue's eyes rolled back in her head and she started flopping about on the band stand like a catfish as the Holy Spirit supposedly spoke through her. I say "supposedly," because I instantly recognized her gibberish as the theme song to Petticoat Junction in pig latin. I know from experience that Fanny-Sue Butz is an obnoxious attention-whore a lovely woman who enjoys the spotlight. Who can forget when we went to see "The King and I" at the Clap n' Chow Dinner Theatre and they stared singing "Shall We Dance?" We were all slightly taken aback when Fanny-Sue climbed up on stage and tried to cut in. In her defense, she had downed thirteen sloe gin fizzes. On the bright side, the Peducah Praise Singer's single "Christ Loves a Fetus" has shot up to the number eight spot on the Pentecostal Hit List! Praise!

In ferret news, you'll remember that my latest critter Baroness Betty Bounce-a-lot tragically expired in a bathtub electrocution mishap while in the care of my beloved Aunt Betsy (an advice columnist in Headcheese Oklahoma). That makes three of my ferrets to have been sent home to Jesus over the last year (Lady Hildegarde Hoparound was decapitated by a leaf blower and Lord Skippy Scamperpants caught fire and hid under the gas tank of Trudy Plank's Buick Skylark, causing a spectacular explosion). So I decided that The Lord's plans for Jeannie Bladdersham do not include ferret ownership. However, if you recall, Millicent Stump (our choir's coloratura) was conscripted by Somali Pirates during our command performance at Mogadishu's dazzling Allah Akbar Soccer Field and Wife-Stoning Arena. And as it turns out, Millicent's ferret Princess Penelope Prancy-puss needed a new home. She's a joy, but I had to put her in her quiet time cage for shredding my "Fetuses are People Too" throw pillow.

But let's dispense with that flapdoodle and get to the God News! Glory!!

• When godly South Carolina governor Mark Sanford took a wrong turn on the Appalachian Trail and ended up in the arms of a raven haired Argentinian succubus, there were those who believed he was going about honoring the sanctity of his marriage the hard way. This caused tasseled loafer wearing Lieutenant Governor Andre Bauer to call for his resignation. Since then, professional gaydar operator/blogger-for-Satan Mike Rogers has rudely suggested that what Mr. Bauer really wants is to hop astride the governorship like a sweaty stallion so he can turn the governor's mansion into a den of mansex, disco music, and Project Runway parties. So now Mr. Bauer (the most sensitive-looking homo-condemner since Ted Haggard) has launched a whirlwind "Don't Call Me A Pansy Or I'll Scratch Your Eyes Out" publicity tour and press junket to accuse Governor Sanford of masterminding those dastardly fibs. Because as we learned from the Republicans when Clinton was being impeached for mistaking a zaftig Jewess' shame hole for a humidor, Jesus cries when our politicians fib about carnal oopsies. 
• In Sudan, a lovely nation where folks ride camels through villages so they can get stabby and rape-y with folks who rudely insist on breathing, Lubna Hussein was recently sprung from jail after having been arrested and sentenced to 40 lashes for wearing pants. Because in the hell-bound "religion" of Ismuslimism, it's a sin for a gal to sashay hither and yon wearing something that can't be tossed over her head for convenient raping. Of course, gals who get raped also typically get 40 lashes for being in the company of strange men, but that's neither here nor there. If you're a Sudanese female, you must wear a dress. Just like the men.
• Greg and JaLea Swezey, members of the Church of the First Born, are avid practitioners of faith healing. So when their 17-year-old son Zachery fell ill of a tummy ache, they prayed. Then Zachery got worse and they prayed some more. Suddenly, something occurred to Greg and JaLea (who really ought to change her name to something Jesus recognizes as remotely Christian so he doesn't ignore her in the future). Their son was acting all blue and deadish. Zachery actually had a burst appendix. Natch, this has led to Lucifer-worshiping "Doctor" types to condemn faith healers. But as we all learned from Peter Pan, if you don't clap hard enough, Tinkerbell dies.    
• Today, the President of the United States/servant of Beelzebub Barack Hussein Jihad Taliban Ass-sex Stalin Obama made our teachers dismiss their students from their studies so he could tell them not to let anything distract them from their studies. Of course, most godly parents excused their lil' angels from attending, as the text of his speech clearly contains subliminal indoctrinations into sordid concepts like anal penetration and socialized medicine. Although this thinly-veiled "fist bump" exposed millions of youngsters to horrific concepts like personal responsibility and hard work, one hardly expects to hear the word "fist" and "our children" in the same sentence. Not at school anyway. That sort of thing belongs in our churches. Glory!

Greg and JaLea Swezy say: "If we pray hard enough, maybe everyone will subscribe to this blog's feed."

Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney's Do-it-yo-damn-self Homo-be-Gone Exorcism Tipz!

Jeebus Chrise love yo ass, chile. Hush up, now.

Y'all saw the videe-oh of dat boy who come to my church "Manifested M*therf*ckin Glory Ministries" for whatchoo call a hummaseckshul exorcism. Y'all watch dat sh*t when I, Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney (ex crack addick, high priestess of da voo-doo hooba-joo) say "Ooo! I finks dat boy gots da debbul in his belly!" Then a fat-azz bruvah hump him from behine til da batty-boy barf out da deminz into da Hefty bag! Hooba-joo!

But since den, y'all been all up in a pastorz grill, sayin dis-and-dat 'bout how da hooba-joo all whack. Den y'all saw me on dat CNN nooz show when I say "Don't go messin wif a sistah's hooba-joo, chile! I puts da voodoo mojo on yo noggin!"

So let me axe you sumpin. Did you shake yo nazz-tay bootie in a parade yessadee? Was you wearin nuffin but pasties an' a buttplug? Did yo stank azz git possessed by da deminz of homo pride? Well set yo azz down. I, Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney be fixin to skool yo azz on step-by-step instuckshinz on how to fro yo gay hummaseckshul deminz out on they azz!

• Firs: Y'all gots to remember dat "deminz" standz for "de menz." So if you git jiggy wif de menz, it mean y'alls gots a deminz in yo bod-ay. Dats how y'all knows you gots to do a ecksa-shizzims. 
• Seckind: Y'all gots to rattle some chicken bonez in a soup can (it don't mattah what kinda soup, foo...just make sho you wash da split pea and pork outa dat sh*t firs). Rattle dem bones an fro dem on de flo. Hooba-joo!
• Fird: Lay yo skinny azz down on de flo, punk.
• Fif: Axe yoself if you wants to A) BE Beyonce, or B) bounce Beyonce's boot-ay froo da ceilin. If you answer "A" den you gotz to holla: "Oh lawd! I gots da deminz in my belly! Get yo azz out my belly, mistah deminz!" Hooba-joo!
• Sixf: Y'all gots to sang dis song (to da tune of "Lord Won't You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz")
  (Firs Verse)
  OH, LAWD HELP ME STOP GITTIN JIGGY WIF MENZ
  WHO POKIN THEY BIZZNISS IN BOFE OF MY ENDZ
  DA VOGUERS AND POGUERS THOSE PUNKS AIN'T MY FRIENDZ
  I WANTS TO FRO STONEZ, SO GIT RID OF THESE SINZ
  (Seckind Verse)
  REMOVE, LAWD THE TURNSTYLE I BUILT ON MY BUTT
  MY POO HOLE'S A NEW HOLE, THE ENTRY'S NAILED SHUT
  IT DON'T TAKE DELIVERIES OF MANLY MENZ NUT
  CHRIST IS DA ONLY MAN 'LOWED IN MY GUT 
• Sebbinf: Y'all gots to jerk 'round on da flo like yo azz is starring in "Breakin 2: Da Electric Boogaloo." Hooba-joo!
• Eightf: Y'all gots to stop sayin' "fierce," "beeyotch," "faboo," "clinique," "liza," and "shantay." Yo new words are "Jeebus," "Chrise," "buh-dunk-a-dunk," "yo," "word," "poontang," and "hooba-joo."  
• Ninf: Y'all gots to imagine yoself in da bosom of da lawd Jeebus Chrise, feelin his fine-azz arms 'round yo azz, yo head restin on Hiz toned chest, smellin' the sweet masculine musk froo hiz robe. Ooo! It get hot in here all sudden-like!
• Tenf: Y'all gots to get a fat negro sistah like me sit on yo azz til you barf out da deminz into a Hefty bag. Hooba-joo!

Pastor Patricia "Hooba-joo" McKinney sez: "Oh lawd, please help me resist the temptation to pick up the crack pipe again and subscribe to dis blog's feed." 

CRAP YOU COVET: Dazzling New T-Shirt Designs

We hear you, ass-whuppers. "Why, oh why," you exclaim, "why can't I find a t-shirt about buttplugs?"

Well, you can put a cork in your kvetching. Because we are thrilled to announce the unveiling of five dazzling new designs. Take note, Ms. Wintour. Prick up your ears, Mr. Lagerfeld. Is there an aching void in your soul that can only be filled by an Aunt Betsy mug? Would a set of greeting cards tastefully paying homage boobie-girlies complete you? The answers to those questions are, of course, "yes."

Thank us not. Just whip out your MasterCard and clothe your pets and family. Adorn your fridge with fagnets. Do it.

And to help us roll out our gorgeous summer line of COWA t-shirts (and other Crap You Covet), we have enlisted four regular guest contributors to provide the romance copy.

Clicking on the t-shirts will open a new window which will enable you to enlarge, browse and of course purchase at Cafe Press.

The first two designs (also available in "Jesus Asks What I Would Do")...

Glory! As I wrote in the last edition of God-Beat, my gospel choir The Peducah Praise Singers recently sold out of J.A.W.I.W.D. (Jesus Asks What I Would Do) t-shirts after performing our latest single "My Fanny's an Exit" at the Fayetteville Rapture Daze BBQ and Hootenanny. When the last XXL was sold, we narrowly avoided a riot when a quick-thinking Trudy Plank told a little fib about deep fried Ho-Hos being sold 'round back the Daniel's Den Petting Zoo! Praise be to Jesus, that nice Mr. WAM has stepped in to the fill the demand. It was awfully nice of him to also create a W.W.J.B.D. t-shirt! Because when faced with a moral dilemma, I like to ask what I would do, and I often end up doing just that! I personally purchased 100-packs of J.A.W.I.W.D. and W.W.J.B.D stickers and spent a giddy afternoon pasting them on everything in my house! (my new ferret Baroness Betty Bounce-alot didn't particularly care for the sticker I slapped on her, but she'll get used to it.) And although I disapprove of thongs, as I believe Jesus gets nervous when anything gets near a Christian's buttcrack, I'm sure The Lord has blessed my new W.W.J.B.D. thong! Glory! 
-- Jeannie Bladdersham

The next design...

Well hidee-didee-doodle-all-day! Here I sit, cozily ensconced in my gorgeous (and freshly Scotch-Guarded) House Beautiful divan with Okra-and-Peach Floral Explosion upholstery. I've just finished a yummy plate of microwaved leftover poodle casserole (note to self: send a sympathy card to Lance and Bruce, the sodomites next door whose insufferable pet seems to have wandered off. LOL.) And now, fully sated, I can enjoy the satisfaction of gazing with pride at my trophy case which is stuffed to the gills with all my Tournament Level Yahtzee trophies. When I'm not answering scads of pitiful letters from desperate advice-seekers, I'm either playing Yahtzee, thinking about Yahtzee, or refereeing a Tournament Regulation sudden-death tie-breaking Yahtzee knife fight. It was inevitable, natch, that my regal visage would be immortalized in t-shirt form. "Confessions of a Yahtzee Nazi" indeed! I wonder if that darling dog shirt would fit my kitty cat Mr. Sillypants? If not I can always re-gift it to Lance and Bruce! LOL!
-- Aunt Betsy

Followed by this design...

Herro, and welcome for coming! I so so so am to riking this shirt of tee! It show twelve happy fun China girlie peoples who are to having funny neglo aflo hair stuffs! They are to waking up dragon in my Aquaman Underoos! As Mister Shake-a-spear is to saying: "Some peoples are born naughty-fun boobie-girly, other peoples are to achieve a naughty-fun boobie-girly, and every other peoples are having naughty-fun boobie girly thrust upon their stuffs!" Which one are you to being, yankee boy? If we to give Naughty-Fun Boobie-Girly shirts to poopy sad Tibet peoples, they no to making us do stompy angry sending laughy happy pow-guns to make them do funny jerky bullet dance! Then all stuffs be dory-hunky! WE ARE WANTING TO MAKE BOUNCY SEXY STUFFS WITH NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY! WE ARE TO WEARING NAUGHTY FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY TANK TOP! WE CARRY NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY WATER BOTTLE IN HAPPY GOOD NAUGHTY-FUN BOOBIE-GIRLY TOTE BAG!! DOKIE-OKIE?
--Hu Jintao

And finally...

When butt-banging sphincter boy WAM asked me to provide my c*nt-fisting critique of his c*ck-smoking m*therf*cking t-shirt design, how could I say "no" to the ass-spelunking jizz-gargler? And I must say I admire this goddamned design. Indeed, finger-popping sh*t suckers, Buttplugs are NOT just for Homos Anymore. What d*ck-slurping expectant mother wouldn't love to be seen at the rectum-poking A&P in her "Buttplugs" maternity tee? And once her stank-ass butt-ramming queef-box shoots her gash-banging sh*t-machine baby from her dong-squatting goddamned bloody-ass thighs, she can clothe her lil' ass-bandit in a "Buttplugs" onesie. This goddamned design is so m*therf*cking chic, it's making me squirt some f*ckin bitch-c*m outa my muff-punching goddamned boner box!
-- Sailor Talkin' Sue

xox
WAM

Anna Wintour sez: "You can take my Boobie-Girly Tote Bag (and my subscription to this blog's feed) when you pry it from my cold colder dead deader hands!"

Maggie Gallagher's Open Letter to "Z" und "Vielpunkt," Die Sündhaften Weibischen Pinguine (TRANSLATION: Those Sinful, Nelly Penguins)

A few weeks ago, employees at the North German Bremerhaven Zoo yodeled "hello" to a new arrival; two homosexual male penguins called "Z" and "Vielpunkt" hatched a chick. Despite previous efforts by zoo personnel to convince them to do the hippity-dippity with girl penguins, Z and Vielpunkt remain devoted to each other. So not long ago, after two traditionally-married penguins expressed their commitment to family values by shoving an unwanted egg from their nest, it was given to the Z-Vielpunkts, who doted over the egg and show early evidence of being protective, nurturing parents.

This, of course, has Maggie Gallagher (president of the National Organization for Marriage) seeing red. Ignoring the fact that most penguins can't read, she nevertheless penned an eloquent letter to the birds to explain why their unholy union makes her queasy. We've generously provided a copy below.

Dear Z und Vielpunkt:

It has come to my attention that you are currently violating Leviticus by barfing masticated fish down the throat of an innocent penguinette. I write to let you know that in doing so, not only are you destroying the sanctity of marriage, but you might as well be puking into the mouth of Baby Jesus.

Moreover, it's rude of you (as creatures of the natural world), to commit crimes against nature. It forces us rapture-bound heterosexual Christians to envision you mincing about on an iceberg, all limp-flippered and faggy, engaging in penguin ass-sex and penguin bukkake and penguin rusty trombones. If God intended penguins to be gay, he would have given you fists instead of flippers.

What kind of upbringing are you providing for your spectacularly unfortunate baby?? True, your God-forsaken progeny was lovingly shoved out of a traditional nest and left to die, just as thousands of nancy-boys are tossed from righteous Baptist homes for listening to Cher and wearing purple scarves. But if nature had been allowed to take its course, your baby would be frolicking up in penguin heaven. As it is now, you've selfishly condemned your chick to roast in the reptilian bosom of beelzebub through all eternity. Happy now?

Perhaps you're unaware that oodles of experts (Carrie Prejean, Stephen Baldwin) have determined that those of you who prance about the Antarctic as if it was a foam dance at the Palm Springs White Party are, by your very existence, threatening life on this planet as we know it. But need I remind you that you're at a ZOO? Heavens to Betsy! How do you expect parents to explain to their children why those two boy penguins are watching Ugly Betty and teaching evolution to their child? Why I remember when my parents took me to the monkey house. I ended up throwing my poop well into my early twenties!

For God's sake, think of the children!!

Yours in Christ,

Maggie Gallagher

***

SHOUT-OUT TO HU JINTAO: Happy Tiananmen 20!!

Maggie sez: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is like having traditional parents barf fish down your throat; it's simply YUMMY!"

Foxy News Channel: Kim Jong Illin'

Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Sup punks? Woo! It be three f*ckin monfs since Foxy lay some newz shizzle on yo azz! Firs, a ho had to par-TAY cause it be a whole year since Foxy git her azz sprung from Rikers. Feel dat, suckaz. It seem like only yessadee a sistah get her azz bustid for bouncin her blackberry off da noggin of some sassy ho. So last monf Foxy git on her cell an' call up the bitches who still in da joint. I say wassup to Big Betty, she da correckshinz officer who bus' a sistaz noggin cuz her boy smuggle in some treez up his poo hole. Then I holla at dat fat bitch wif da lazy eye from Cellblock D who gots razor blades in her weave. Foxy used to fist dat ho's stank-azz muff ev'ry toozday fo a pack o' bajinya slims, yo. Now dat bitch gots another ho punchin her queefbox. She finkin Foxy replacable? F*ck dat. Foxy fro dat sh*t. Respeck. 

On da self improobmint tip, a ho finish dat triflin' book call "Anne-bitch o' Green-azz Gables." It be all 'bout some ginger orphan bitch who get her azz sold off to Nervous-Kosher, which be a country in Alaksa where they put all da jewfolk. It be kosher, but they all nervous an sh*t. Now Foxy be checkin out a book call "Little-azz Crib on da M*therf*ckin Prarie," which seem to be all 'bout some gay-azz cracka family who all homeless and shizzle so they go on a campin trip to Kansas or sumpin. Foxy hopin it git good, like maybe some injun punk take a tamahawk to Half-pint and show dat uppity ho wassup.

On this espizode of da Foxy News Channel, a ho be in da boogie-down Pyongyang to do da innavoo wif some punk-azz bitch call Kimz Dongz Li'l. Check it, mo-fos.

FOXY BROWN: Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Feel dis, punks. Foxy chillaxin in some stank azz hood call Pyongyang, spittin rhymez wif Kimz Dongz Li'l. Respeck.
KIM JONG IL: Welcome for coming, neglo boobie girlie.
FB: Chile, whatchoo got on? Wassup wif those Jackie-O shades and that country-azz Little Richard weave?
KJI: I am being what Prince is to calling a sexy f*cking your m*ther.
FB: Foxy thought she gonna rap wif Li'l Kim. I be finkin she change her name to Kimz Dongz Li'l. I ain't suprized dat ho gotz a li'l dong. Whoop!
KJI: I am not to being Little Kim!
FB: True dat, foo. But you both smell like dog food, yo.
KJI: I am to being Big Kim!
FB: Punk, don't front a bitch. Take off those tired platforms and you smaller than a oompa-loompa.
KJI: You are to having happy fun bah-donkey-kong fanny.
FB: Chill, mo-fo. A ho tryin to lay some queshinz on yo azz.
KJI: Dokie-okie, then you are to laying those shizzle-stuffs on a brother person.
FB: How come Korean manicurisist hos f*ck up a sistah's tips? Last time Foxy get her nails did she gots to bus' some Kung Fu shiznit on they azz.
KJI: You no make poopy talk about sexy happy Korean girlie peoples!
FB: It jus' a queshin, bitch. Don't pitch a fit, yo. Nex queshin: how come you gots those whatchoo call new-color bombs but yo pitiful peeps be starvin so bad thay gots to eat pooch-burgers?
KJI: You to stop saying frowny fibby stuffs! Korean peoples are not to making starvy time! I make stompy dance and send pow-bombs to make poopy sad America esprode!
FB: Queen, please. You build your planes out of cardboard and yo stank-azz army carry heat made by Hasbro. Our posse like to slap da pu-pu outa your family's seoul.
KJI: You not to sassing me, boobie girlie! I am to being Dear Leader! I make so-so angry mad time!
FB: Sit yo azz down, mo-fo. A lady was fixin to give you a case of Campbell's Cream of Chihuahua soup.
KJI: Oh. Dokie-okie. Are you also to letting Kim Jong Il to putting finger in your stinky place?
FB: Bitch keep dat li'l dong-missile in your pants silo! This innavoo be triflin! Foxy outa here!
KJI: Welcome for going, sexy Brown boobie-girlie!

Kim Jong Il sez: "If I not to getting subscliption to this brog's feed, I to send pow-bombs to stinky USA place!"

They're All Going to Laugh at You: The Carrie White Guide to Unfortunate Prom Fashions

Our favorite telekinetic prom queen/blood soaked mass murderess, Carrie White, has emerged from her grave to shop around a whimsical how-to book. Released in time for prom season, we are thrilled to provide an excerpt below.

Hi! My name is Carrie White. If you're like me, the word "prom" conjures visions of tuxedo-clad jocks barfing out of the moon roofs of rented limos, and be-gowned cheerleaders having their ankles pushed behind their ears in the back of Ford Tauruses. Other sentimental images: mayhem, electrocutions, karo syrup with red food coloring. It's a momentous night in a gal's life, and it's important to get everything just right. Don't believe me? Ask the Bates High School class of 1976, may they rest in peace.

I remember when Tommy Ross asked me to the prom. I thought I'd swoon! And when my sweet mother (may she rest in peace) offered her customary sage advice, "they're all going to laugh at you," I knew it was destined to be an unforgettable affair. With that in mind, what follows are examples of ways in which unfortunate fashion choices can make an otherwise joyous event go awry (though not as awry as a prom can go, given the right cocktail of pig blood, demon-possessed fire hoses and bisected gym teachers).

When a guy and a gal get ready for the big night, it's important to be coordinated. For instance, I knew Tommy Ross (may he rest in peace) was going to wear a dreamy powder blue tux, and that's why I sewed my own dress out of pink satin, ignoring my dear mother's thoughtful observation that it lasciviously displayed my budding sin pillows.

However, if it's really important to you and your beau to be perfectly matched, it's a mistake to fashion our outfits from the paper in which the local butcher wrapped your lamb shank.

It makes you look as if those mean pranksters Chris and Billy (may they rest in peace) are up to their old shenanigans, but instead of dumping pork blood on your noggins they opted for a far more hilarious bucket of cow poop. A little constructive criticism? You look douche-y and retarded.

Next, as every gal knows it's nice to have a hobby. However, if your hobby is knitting ball gowns with your feet, I suggest avoiding the pink, maroon, violet, fuscia, orange and blood red color combination. Yet I do love how pleased you seem to be with the results. You certainly are a talented knitter.

Furthermore, I admire how, faced with a dateless prom, you knitted yourself a life-sized tuxedoed sock monkey to escort you to the festivities. Next, I might suggest knitting yourself a sense of taste and crocheting some self esteem. 

Moving on, when a gal sits down at her singer sewing machine to decide what kinda matching outfits she's going to make for herself and Dennis Rodman's effeminate autistic nephew, it's best not to use the drapes from Fook Mi's Chinese Take Out. Especially if your outfits look like pairs skating costumes for the Ghetto Ice Capades.

Because when the Prom Queen gets a bucket of KFC dumped on her noggin and she starts to go mental, the evening will end up best for you if you're not already trapped in a net.

There's something about this next prom gown. I can't put my finger in it. I mean "on" it. What could it be? Certainly it's not because it looks like an enormous sin cave. I'm sure it won't put any randy thoughts into Tommy Ross' curly blond noggin when you press your gargantuan satin hoo-hoo against his excitable adolescent underpants serpent as you spin giddily amongst the tin foil stars.

The only upside to your obscene tribute to Georgia O'Keefe is when prom is over, after your date barfs up his last ten shots of Jagermeister and coaxes you into the back seat of his daddy's Hummer, he might mistake your dress for home plate, resulting in a trip to the dry cleaners instead of the abortionist. That's the sort of smarts a gal needs, if she doesn't want to show up at next year's prom looking like this:

While it must be quite convenient for a gal to carry her prom date in her womb, we suspect this tasteful young woman forgot that her beau needs to be dressed too. 

But why so glum? Cheer up, girlfriend! You're drinking for two tonight! And the naughty boys who came stag will have very little doubt in their minds whether you're willing to ride their lil' ponies in the back of a mustang. 

However, a word of warning to the Chris Hargensens and Billy Nolans who might be lurking back stage waiting to dump a bucket of babyback ribs on her Tina Turner Thunderdome weave. Remember how crabby I got? And that was after only one visit from Aunt Flo. Yakeisha here has a lot more hormones pumping through her veins. And once you pull the chord, she's likely to do to your gymnasium what the Ayatollah wants to do to Tel Aviv.

Party hardy! Wooo!

Love,
Carrie White

P.S. When we saw this trailer on YouTube, we thought our gay lil' head would explode. "Be Italian" indeed. This is homo catnip.

Carrie sez: "My gym teacher (may she rest in peace) told me to subscribe to this blog's feed."

HRM Queen Elizabeth II Wishes to Address the Rude Pair Who Shagged Each Other Rotten on the Front Lawn of Windsor Castle

*** FROM THE ROYAL DESK OF H.R.M. QUEEN ELIZABETH II ***

It has come to One's attention that the unruly pair who were nabbed whilst engaging in a distastefully public hippity-dippity session on Our Royal Lawn has been identified as Joy Taylor and Phil Cardon.

Imagine Our shock when the Royal Corgis started barking and We dashed to the window with Our Royal Binoculars, only to be confronted by the ghastly sight of you, Mr. Cardon, heaving and grunting as your pimple-afflicted buttocks quivered and bobbed in the sun whilst you piston-pumped Ms. Taylor as if she were a bronco in the pasty twit rodeo. We can assure you we were not the least bit impressed when you pushed Ms. Taylor's ankles behind her ears and re-enacted both pages of the British Kama Sutra (and, oddly, page 67 of this month's Popular Mechanics), as a crowd of befuddled Japanese tourists snapped photos of your rude display. And when the Royal Guard approached and demanded that you immediately cease jabbing your unimpressive snag into Ms. Taylor's indiscriminate meat pie, the grass stains on your knees and Ms. Taylor's back spoke volumes about your unfortunate lack of breeding.

One understands you've both been cautioned for outraging public decency. Were it up to Us, you'd also be charged with poor rhythm, flawed technique, premature ejaculation and a clumsy dismount, the penalty of which is having your severed heads mounted on a pike outside the Tower of London.

One feels compelled to inform you that you shan't be welcome at Windsor Castle going forward. Humping, fisting, donkey-punching, bukkake, rusty tromboning and all other violations of Leviticus are not permitted on Our Royal Lawn. Such lascivious activities are firmly restricted to private quarters, back stairs with a coquettish maid or robust manservant, or in the a horse stall with a surly stable boy. But the presence of a mattress (preferably queen-sized) is a sign of superior etiquette.

Finally, One seems to detect a distressing trend. First, Emma Modrate gave her bloke's skin flute a mouth hug in front of a pub. Not to be outdone, Ben Whelan and Rebekah James porked each other stupid in a public phone box. Finally, Susan Boyle waddled into prime time and sang a show-tune. If these brazen displays of bad manners and public vulgarity continue unabated, we are likely to snap our crown and get all medieval on you. We are a Windsor, after all; Windsors been getting medieval on unruly subjects since medieval times. We invented getting medieval and We have an irresistible itch to to bust out the thumb screws and iron maidens and put them to their long overdue good use.

Earnestly,

HRM Queen Elizabeth II

Liz sez: "One would trade a Royal Corgi to a Korean dog sausage factory for a subscription to this blog's feed."