Can O' Whup-Ass

Madame Secretary Clinton would like to apologize in advance to world leaders for all that stuff she said behind your back just for laughs before it gets wikileaked

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

Dear prime ministers, queens and despots (and I'm not just talking about you, Vladdy! LOL!!),

As you know, some fruity Aussie named Julian Assange runs a cyber fib clearinghouse called Wikileaks, which rudely disseminates classified documents about a bunch of flap-doodle that never happened anyway. And now, I've been informed that Wikilies is fixing to publish hilarious jokes me and my homies at the State Department crack about you when we're kicking back with a case of Lowenbrau and a stack of girlie mags.

So I've decided to take the bull by the balls (shush, Bill) and head this awkward whoop-de-do off at the pass and let you hear it from the horse's mouth (Bill, I said zip it). Let's dive right on in, shall we?

First, to German Chancellor Angela Merkel: girl, you know we're besties. Thank you for the "Christmas at Auschwitz" slow globe. I regret ever texting Ram Emanuel that you look like Fred Mertz in a control top, mincing about in Ethel's clothes. I may have commented on Sarkozy's Facebook wall once or twice about your Bonnie Franklin haircut and those bunion-plagued feet you're always airing out at the G8 summit. And I don't really think your wardrobe looks like Dress Barn had a fire sale.

Next, I'd like to address my dear friend and President of France Nicolas Sarkozy. I wish I could take back that email I sent to Biden calling you an elf-eared absinthe-swilling oompa-loompa with camembert breath. And it may be true that me and your wife Carla once smoked a jay in the Lincoln Bedroom and somehow my wedding ring got caught in her labia piercing. It was no big deal, really. We laughed about it.

And now to you, Hu Jintao. I regret being overheard in the Pentagon men's room giggling into my iPhone about that vast collection of ladyboy dildo porn the CIA found on your personal laptop. Yes, your wife's moo shu dachsund made my poo come out in a spray for two weeks.

There are so many others. Vladmir Putin, wish I could take back the Yahoo IM conversation I had with Robert Gates about how you smell like a dog got into the vodka and puked into a bottle of aqua velva. Karzai, your Afghan Presidency is not like a python babysitting a baby bunny. And I bitterly regret exposing your vast My Little Pony collection to ridicule. King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, sorry I commented on The Huffington Post that we have satellite photos of your subterranean all-boy harem on the outskirts of Medina.

Finally, to Queen Elizabeth. I was tipsy on rum and Dr. Pepper when I blackberried Barney Frank about how we have intel on the contents of the patent leather purse dangling from the crook of the royal elbow: spearmint Tic-tacs, a well-worn copy of The Well of Loneliness and a half-empty bottle of amyl nitrite. I'm sorry for making public your nightly routine of arm wrestling Prince Philip for who gets to be the top.

My bad.

Hugs and tugs,
Hillary :-)

xox
WAM

Madame Secretary Clinton sez: "I hope WikiLeaks doesn't disclose my subscription to this blog's feed."

Lady-parts

Hey! Do you know a lady who's an avid oenophile yet a tad deficient in the boobular department? Is she a card carrying member of the local wine tasting society AND the itty-bitty-tittie-committee? Do her a huge favor and buy her a Wine Rack bra! It's a clever undergarment that makes literal the "jugs" euphemism by transforming her mammary glands into booze vessels.

It's a brilliant concept, we must admit. A gal can get all gussied up for a night of honky-tonkin, top off the tank with some Almaden cabernet (or a fifth of Southern Comfort if she's a REAL whore), and head out to the local juke joint. The fellas, no doubt, will take note of her pendulous sweater meat. And if, during her come-hither interpretation of the achy-breaky (the hillbilly dance of the seven veils), some plumber takes a shine to her, she can shove a spigot into his mouth and feed him a quart of Jesus juice. Repeat. By the end of the evening, he'll be too sloshed to notice or care about her diminished cup size; in fact he'll be so indiscriminate he'd shtup anything with a pulse and/or an orifice. Everybody wins! Yay!

Yet we have our reservations. First of all, the optimum conditions for storing wine are 55 degrees and moderately humid. We suspect that after an evening of doing the electric slide and tongue kissing the roto-rooter dude, the quality of a gal's sweat-drenched blouse bordeaux may have been compromised (to say nothing of her long-deceased self-esteem). But most distressing is the looming possibility that someone will discover yet another female body part to double as a booze vessel. The "wine in a box" vaginal keg is not something the world needs.

Okay, okay. We hear your accusations. Our homosity disqualifies us from making such claims. But in our defense we're no more inclined to drink a glass of Budweiser from the spigot of some dude's balls-o-beer jock strap.

The thing is, and call us squeamish, but we firmly believe that food and drink oughtn't be stowed in one's sin zone. It strikes us as untidy, unappetizing, and patently unhygienic.

Case in point, when a classy broad by the pole-dancy name of Lori Shannon Turner placed an order for two burgers at a McDonald's, she promptly stuffed a "big and tasty" into her panties and attempted to accuse a hapless McEmployee of shorting her. Presumably, she meant to extract her diabolically concealed burger at a later hour and serve it up as a piping hot entree ("um, mom? this special sauce tastes funny").

We submit that any meat product concealed in the crotch of a McDonald's customer is by definition toxic.

Perhaps there's a temptation for females to make excessive use of their own God-given glove compartment. Tic-tacs? Lipstick? Pepper spray? Fine. But we hear stories of classy gals who smuggle guns, grenades, kilos of horse, syringes, all sorts of contraband stuffed up their baby chutes. Even a North Korean spy-girl whose oopsie zone carried a lethal dose of cyanide, which stands as a stark warning to anyone tempted to cunnilingicize a dame from the DPRK.

But food? Nope. We believe setting up an arsenal in one's lady cave is one thing, but a vaginal 7-11 is quite another. Exhibit one: this TOTALLY NSFW photo essay, showing a woman stuffing a raw chicken up her hoop-de-hoo at the supermarket. Desperate times may call for desperate measures, but no measure so desperate as exposing one's labia to salmonella and frying up a steaming bucket of yeast-infected fricassee. What kind of boob-wine goes with crotch chicken, anyway?

This trend has to stop. This bud must be nipped. Or mark our words, in some back-water town (probably Tuscaloosa) a chick will show up at a state fair selling corn dogs from her poo-hole. Pass the mustard.

xox
WAM

Supermarket gal sez: "This blog's feed makes me feel like chicken tonite!"

¡Las Ancianas de Oro! (Literally: The Ancient Women of Gold)

Currently, Disney is gnawing on Michael Jackson's frail, freshly deceased alien carcass by reviving Captain Eo, an incoherent 17-minute film by Francis Ford Coppola. It's about an effeminate Diana Ross impersonator who zig-zags across the galaxy shooting rainbows from his gloves, turning evil robots into be-mulleted Solid Gold dancers and zapping Coppola's career into oblivion.

Disney. Disney-Disney-Disney. We still believe our proposed "Lion King vs. Mary Poppins: A Spoonful o' Whup-Ass" is nothing short of inspired, but it's official. The mouse is out of ideas.

As if to prove our point, they've dusted off our favorite quartet of campy old bitches so they can have another go at it.

No, not the Beatles. The friggin Golden Girls. But since Sofia Petrillo and Dorothy Zbornak are currently bickering over bingo in the Hades branch of Shady Pines, the Disney folks have decided to put a new twist on it. The new Golden Girls will be in Spanish and set in Caracas.

Okay, okay. We admit it. That sounds totally hilarious. And although our Spanish is sketchy (we know how to curse and enquire as to the whereabouts of the nearest bathroom and/or library), we cannot wait to enjoy the exploits of Dorotea, Sofia, Roja y Blanca en español.

We already see endless plot opportunities. Here's a few off the top of our head:

1. Roja Nyland gets duped into acting as a mule for a drug militia and swallows eighty condoms stuffed with crank. Later that evening, whilst attending a cock-fight at the senior center, the condoms burst in her belly and Roja (in a narcotic frenzy), throws herself into the ring and bites off the head of every last chicken. The girls, having wagered heavily on Roja, split their winnings and buy matching pastel sombreros.
2. Dorotea starts dating Hugo Chavez. While discussing whether she should accept his invitation to go on a romantic cruise across Lake Titicaca, Roja tells one of her famous Santo Olafo stories, this one about how they used to stuff piñatas with herring. This prompts Blanca to bust out the bizcocho. Later, on the cruise, Chavez asks Dorotea to dress up like Fernando Lamas and strap on a dildo. Horrified, she dives overboard, swims ashore and encounters a tribe of Yanomamos who mistake her for a goddess. She directs them to overthrow the government, which ends in disaster when the natives are mistakenly machine gunned by Sofia, who, unbeknownst to the others, had fled to San Felipe to join the Socialist Party's citizen patrol.
3. Whilst getting gang-banged by a mariachi band on La Isla Margarita, Blanca recognizes the trumpet player as her daughter Yolanda, with whom she'd been estranged since she underwent gender reassignment surgery and changed her name to Pepe. Dorotea, meanwhile, has learned that an orderly at Los Pinos Sombreados nursing home has turned Sofia over to the authorities after she was caught with a kilo of blow in her purse. To raise money for Sofia's bail, Dorotea, Roja, Blanca, (and her long lost trumpet-playing daughter son Pepe) stage a charity talent show. The showstopper: a tap-dance number to La Bamba. Guest star: Charo as Sofia's predatorial lesbian cell-mate.  

We smell a hit.

Adios,
WAM

Hugo Chavez sez: "Quiero mi suscripción to this blog's feed more than 'Las Ancianas de Oro'"

SHOCK: Naughty Candy Wrappers Vex Uptight Brits (BONUS: Kung Fu Nun!!)

WEST YORKSHIRE, UK -- When pasty twit Simon Simkins and his long-suffering wife minced into a candy shop to purchase sweets for their unfortunate snaggle-toothed children, he was shocked when he saw the wrappers of Haribo Maoams. One is a disturbing depiction of a lascivious lime having its way with a lemon of easy virtue, while another portrays the same citrus cad gang-banging the cherry twins. Simon Simkins told The Sun that whilst he complained to the shopkeeper, his excitable wife "became quite distressed and had to sit down in the car park."

Monstrous, isn't it? Isn't the world unpleasant enough without candy companies forcing sensitive women to sit down in car parks upon exposure to copulating produce? We believe the Simkins have suffered quite enough, thank you. So we've decided to offer a few words of comfort:

Dearest Mr. and Mrs. Simon Simkins:

It is our sincerest wish that you've recovered from the trauma of being exposed to rude citruses having it off. One suspects your delicate sensibilities remain haunted by the distasteful and confusing questions that linger. First and foremost, what kind of depraved lime would engage in carnal activities with a lemon (who's obviously a godless tart), and then cheat on said lemon whilst contributing to the delinquency of two cherries? Certainly not the sort of lime we'd want our children to suck on.

Furthermore, had you known fruit was capable of such Leviticus-defying debauchery, it's highly unlikely you'd have ordered the Waldorf Salad at yesterday's luncheon. Heavens, we thought that was mayonnaise! 

May Jesus give you strength in your crusade. Stay vigilant, Mr. and Mrs. Simon Simkins; this must be nipped in the bud, and you seem ideally suited to bud-nipping. One cannot allow pornographic sweets packaging to blossom into a trend. We scarcely think upstanding Christian parents want to wake up one day to discover the M&M boys jamming their peanuts in each other's chocolate. One shudders to think of the filthy juxtapositions those randy Three Musketeers could get into. And the thought of Crackerjack pushing Little Debbie's ankles behind her ears while his dog Bingo has a go at her gooey ring-ding, is frankly too much to bear.

Sincerely,
WAM

***

KEIFING, China -- In precarious economic times, it often becomes necessary to consider a career change. Meet one Zhang Tingting, a lovely woman who has delighted the People's Republic for decades by pulling cars with her hair. A Kung Fu expert, she's made a career out of having her braid hitched up to various motor vehicles and pulling them through China's cities like a nightmare one might have about Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer after eating too much mu-shu pork.

Unfortch, there just isn't as much money to be had anymore from being yoked like a yak to heavy machinery and being mushed through the mainland as if there's a two-for-one dogmeat sale at Costco.

So the enchanting Ms. Zhang has shaved her noggin and entered a nunnery. We consider it an astute career move. Had Maria von Trapp learned Kung Fu so she could pull Studebakers through Salzburg by her hair, by the time she'd developed her irritating habit of clothing rich children in calico draperies and forcing them to gallivant across the alps whilst singing show-tunes, we suspect the Nazis would have thought twice about the whole Austria thing.

Mr. and Mrs. Simon Simkins say: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is as wrong as allowing fruits to marry."

A Tale of Two Genies

If you're like us (and you aren't, but you can dream), when you hear the word "genie" you think about Barbara Eden emerging from her over-zealously upholstered bottle-shaped efficiency studio in a blast of pink bong smoke in order to blink all sorts of hilarious things into existence, thereby complicating the life of her nervous master, astronaut JR Ewing.

You remember course, several times Babs Eden had us seeing quadruple when her evil brunette twin (imaginatively named Jeannie II) poofed onto the scene so they could double their shenanigans and jiggle their boobulars in stereo.

And today, the evil brunette Jeannie II seems to have been uncorked. She has re-emerged. And she's up to no damn good.

The gullible citizens of the colorful, malodorous, perpetually flooded nation of Bangladesh have recently been receiving phone calls from a rude entity that claims to be a "genie from the sky," demanding money or terrible things will happen to their families (um...not for nothing, but presumably their families already live in Bangladesh, how much worse can things really get?).

One wonders how retarded a person must be to buy such an unlikely story. After all, were we a genie from the sky (and after our third shot of tequila we often are), we like to think we'd choose to emerge from a Mr. Coffee or a hip flask for maximum effect, rather than dragging a wireless carrier into it. On the other hand, sometimes the Jehovah's Witnesses ring our doorbell, trying to convince us to drink their Kool-Aid and give them cash on behalf of their very own sky-genie, so this particular brand of idiocy isn't exclusive to Bangladesh.

Meanwhile, the multi-tasking Jeannie II has been tormenting an unfortunate family in the dazzling mecca of Mahd Al Dahab Saudi Arabia. She's calling them names and ridiculing their fashion sense, tossing things about and spitting in their baba-ghanoush. So the family's irate patriarch has decided to grab Jeannie II by her brunette weave and haul her into the notoriously practical Saudi court system. This will likely result in Barbara Eden being dragged to a public square and flogged for her Genie-osity (and for gallivanting about in a midriff-revealing harem outfit).

On a side note, as we learned from her confirmation hearings yesterday, wise latina Sonya Sotomayor is alarmingly familiar with the use of nunchucks, the lethal weapon of choice for discerning ninjas. Were the mischievous Jeannie II to appear before the Supreme Court nominee's bench, So-So's likely to get all Chuck Norris on her ass and conk Jeannie II back into re-runs. 

xox
WAM

Jeannie sez: "My master made me blink him a subscription to this blog's feed."

WestWord Cites Whup-Ass Master's Vance Fulkerson Story!

We are now part of the cultural zeitgeist. 

On Tuesday, we posted a heart-warming note to aging toupee-wearer Vance Fulkerson, a repulsive man who taught at our alma mater and is currently facing charges of getting a tad sexually exploit-y with the young 'uns and collecting snapshots of toddlers acting slutty. Since then, our traffic has exploded. We've gotten oodles of emails from the Be-wigged One's former students, each with a more horrific story to tell, each thanking us for writing about it.

And now, WestWord (the only remotely cool newspaper in Denver), has published a lil' piece about yours truly and our cute COWA bloggy thing.

Sharing is caring.

xox
WAM

P.S. Lest any nudges out there accuse us of exploiting a vulnerable dude for our selfish enjoyment, that's precisely what this snake has been doing for decades. Turn-around, while fair play, is hardly advisable in the presence of Vance.

Vance Fulkerson likes to secretly film underaged boys subscribing to this blog's feed.

U.S. Rep. Steve King: "Why I Done Voted 'Gainst Thankin' the Negro Folk fer Building This Here Clubhouse fer White Boys"

From the Desk of United States Representative Steve King (R-IA)

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE***

Ten score and whatever years ago, a bunch of negro boys started a-buildin' this here capitol thingy. But it ain't like they done it out of the goodness of their tap-dancin' hearts. You reckon they was a-hoistin' these stones and spit-polishing these banisters outa patriotism? No, ma'am! The folks who owned 'em practically had to use a bullwhip to get 'em to lift a damn finger.

Today, pastey good ol' boys been a-circle-jerkin in this here buildin' for two hundred some-odd years. Slaving away, sometimes for minutes a day, passin laws that gave you Afromericans yer own schools, drinkin' fountains and neighborhoods! And I'm a-sposed to say "thank you?"

Leave it to them hippy Demon-crats to pass a bill that says "oh, yeah...thanks for that." Why, iff'n them negros wasn't buildin' the Capitol they'd a-been a-shim-shammin' in the minstrel shows and smokin the crack and makin oreo babies with our virtuous lil' darlins while caterwaulin' their nasty cop-killing rap-hop music.

Look a-here, you people still got jobs workin' here, sweepin the halls and scrubbin the terlits! Shoot, this here capitol been keepin' y'all off the welfare so's you can take home a generous minimum wage paycheck (which I keep a-votin' not to increase, just so's y'all don't get to uppity)! Heck, how's about we pass a law that says "Yer Welcome?"

But nosiree-bob, them free-luvin partisan commie faggits lubed up this bill with K-Y and shoved it thru congress by a narrow margin of 399 to 1.

Okay so I was the "1," but that just goes to show that Congriss is a bunch of pinko Aunt Jemima golliwogs who spend their days rusty trombonin' Al Sharpton and a-jerkin' and a-twitchin' to Lucifer's ooga-booga music (e.g., Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, Fiddy). I think it's cause that uppity fat gal on the teevee with the sweet rack is fillin America's noggin' with fool notions about equality (Oprah needs to shut her fat yap and build her own damn capitol, that's what).

But y'all gots to stop a-callin me a racist. Sure, one time I done compared immigrants to cattle, but that's just 'cause they always lolly-gaggin out in the field acting all lazy. But I loves me the coloreds. I reckon they got their own feelins and they think real thoughts jus' like normal folks. Why just the other day when that cute little fella polished my tassled wing-tips with a sho-nuff smile and a polite "yassum" attitude, I toss that boy a quarter. Sure, he prolly gonna go spend it on the devil-reefer. But I'm a Christian.

I don't judge.

Steve King sez: "I vote for saying 'thank you' for subscribing to this blog's feed."

This Just In: Joe the Plumber Longs to Lay Pipe in Manholes!

After Obama's ascension inauguration, as the fruited plain basked in the morning dew, the chorus rang from sea to shining sea: At last, the most retarded tub of paste ever to hijack our national discourse and lower our collective IQ had been consigned to the compost heap of history, or so we thought. We speak, of course, of Joe the Plumber. 

To the Republicans, Mr. Sam Wurzelbacher (whose name isn't Joe and who isn't a plumber) represented something genuine; the typical American (if typical Americans had publicists). To the rest of us, he simply fit the central casting mold of a hypocritical beer swilling bigot (you know, the kinda galoot Obama infamously called "bitter," causing much bitterness amongst bitter galoots). But someone forgot to tell him that his fifteen minutes expired about six months ago, because he keeps resurfacing like anal warts.

He's managed to write a book (we KNOW!) imaginatively titled "Fighting for the American Dream" (ranked 667,697 on Amazon, impressively wedged betwixt the stunning potboiler "Peterson's Guide to Urban Wildlife" and R.C. Bell's thrilling page-turner "Discovering Old Board Games"). By contrast, Mr. Socialism himself, President Obama wrote a lil' tome called "Dreams From My Father" which was published five years ago and is ranked at 145. Note to Mr. Wurzelbacher: if fighting for the American Dream means cashing in on celebrity, Obama is far more capitalist than thou, and Paris Hilton seems to be the truer American. Oops.

Anywho, whilst shilling his cute little book on the globally revered media outlets Christianity Today and WTVG in dazzling Toledo, our bitter plumber casually tossed off the witty remark that although he has "gay friends" he doesn't want them "anywhere near his children." He also doth protest that "Men kissing each other…it throws me off. It’s not something I want around my family." Stick a pin in that for a sec, m'kay?

Meanwhile, on the VERY SAME DAY Mr. Wurzelbacher shared these insights, researchers at a French university released the results of a little experiment. Dozens of straight-identified male students consented to have instruments attached to their shame hoses while they were shown gay porno. The subjects who were determined to be homophobic (based on their answers to a survey), were shown to have significant, er, activity "down there" whilst the others who expressed no discomfort toward the Ida Lupino fan club showed little to no change in their wee donny doblin's girth/rigidity. Afterward, the same group of self identified homophobes denied any arousal whatsoever. Watch this video about the experiment, it's highly entertaining.   

Ergo, no other conclusion can be reached: the reason the thought of two men kissing "throws off" Joe the Plumber is clear. It's been clinically proven that he fantasizes about frolicking with Ricky Martin in a jacuzzi, and is statistically predisposed to long for Dwayne Johnson's pants-scud to be rammed up his ass-silo.

It's scientific. Right Joe?

Joe sez: "my subscription to this blog's feed keeps my mind off of my sinful inclination to wear James Dobson's virile man ass as a beret."

The Levi Johnston/Sarah Palin Twitter War

The world watched breathlessly as Perez Hilton and Lily Allen engaged in a Twitter slap fight. Just yesterday E!'s Giuliana Rancic and Access Hollywood's Billy BushTwittered the tar out of each other. And who was able to sleep when cultural bellwether Aston Kutcher and CNN were locked in a thrilling Twattle (aka Twitter Battle). Yet somehow, the bloody Twattle raging betwixt hunkalicious hockey dad Levi Johnston and America's favorite born-again moose hunter Sarah Palin managed to slip past our collective radar. How the heck did THAT happen? Could it be because they ingeniously disguised themselves with clever noms de net?

Leave it to COWA to right that egregious wrong. Below is the Johnston/Palin Twattle in its entirety. Your undying adoration is thanks enough.

GODGAL: Levi it was rude of U 2 go on that negro woman's talk show and tell fibs about us, even if they're true.

HOTPUCK: Yeah well suck it grandma.

GODGAL: We agreed to be nice 2 U until the election ended and Tripp plopped from Bristol's sin hole. And u agreed to shut ur yap.

HOTPUCK: Y R U callin my family white trash? They R so embarrassed they can't leave the trailer to deal their meth.

GODGAL: I can't believe Bristol let u put ur shame hose in her hoo-hoo. U R a doo-doo head and you make Jesus cry.

HOTPUCK: She begged for it, practically dragged me into the janitor closet right after the chastity pledge potluck.

GODGAL: U took advantage of her. U took my baby's virginity and put ur devil seed in her tummy. I regret giving u pointers on how 2 b a media whore.

HOTPUCK: Hey, I didn't want to make no baby with that bat-faced porker. I was a gentleman, I offered to put it up her poo hole instead.

GODGAL: Bristol said u wanted to sell her baby on e-bay like that man who tried to sell his daughter who was in that movie about the dot-heads.

HOTPUCK: So? My truck needs new tires and a gun rack.

GODGAL: I wish I followed thru on my promise to give u a job so's I could strong-arm ur boss into firing u.

HOTPUCK: Shut ur pie-hole, granny. Go check on ur retarded baby, it's prolly eating its poop.

Levi Johnston sez: "My subscription to this blog's feed is more fun than my 'I'm not white trash' talk show tour and press junket!"

Re-animated Cheney Defends Getting Torture-y with Sand Jawas

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

Good afternoon. First I'd like to thank my lovely wife for taking a break from writing her latest lesbo horse opera to defibrillate me into consciousness long enough to write this here press release.

It has come to my attention that our pansy-loving rap-hop president has freshly returned to the White Negro House after giving a lap dance to Raul Castro and slobbering all over Hugo Chavez's chalupa down in Mexarico. And instead of spending the next two days locked in el baño uno with a case of the taco trots like any normal American returning from Mexistan, he went and made a bunch of torture memos public. While only a commie homo goes around making things public, releasing these particular memos will only lead to our white American daughters being kidnapped and forced to dance the hootchie kootchie in Bin Laden's harem.

So we told a bunch of sadistic 007 types they could smack around a couple or eighty sand jawas? Boo-freaking-hoo. To some guys, getting trussed up in leather restraints and having their pecker zapped with a cattle prod describes a perfect Sunday afternoon (though it would be rude to name names, isn't that right, Arney-bay Ank-fray?). But let me ask you this, how many terror attacks have we had since we started getting a little waterboard-y with Abdul and Ahmed McFatwah? I'll tell you. Exactly the same number we had before I was President Vice President. So shove that in your bongs and smoke it, you screaming bunch of hippie communists!

However, I do agree with the President's decision not to prosecute those maladjusted spy boys who cream their underoos every time they hear a towelhead cry for his mommy in arabian. Because not only would exposing CIA operatives severely undercut our national security, it would imperil the lives of folks all over the world who are busy trying to render Ali and Anwar Jihadowitz to Egypt, where we outsource all that let's-drill-screws-into-his-toes grunt work. That is to say, outing spies is treason. Unless the spy is an uppity bimbo whose f*ggot husband writes a rude op/ed that calls "shenanigans" on our little white WMD fibs.

Well my decrepit ticker's about to overheat and fart to a stop so I better stop typing soon. But I would like to weigh in on that fat homo Perez Hilton blasting that cute Miss USA broad for speaking out against fairy weddings. Give the skirt a break. Who better than a stacked chick whose bikini is held in place with crotch tape to talk about morals? Take it from a man whose only women in his life up and turned lesbo, we're all sick and tired of hearing about it.

Cheney sez: "a subscription to this blog's feed is even tastier than baby flesh...mmmmm"