Can O' Whup-Ass

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"

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!"

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!!"

   

 

A letter to Liz McClure, chocolate eater

Dear Liz,

We read with rapt fascination your horrifying tale of confectionery debauchery that unfolded one seemingly banal afternoon in the dazzling metropolis of Renfrewshire, Scotland. Apparently, you were curling up to eat your way through a package of Cadbury nibbles when you came frightfully close to wrapping your lips around (and sucking the goo from) a three-inch penis-shaped treat.

We sympathize with your subsequent crusade against sweets-related smut (which appears to be something of a pandemic in the Queen's realm). Furthermore, we share your adamant fury with Cadbury for refusing to apologize for nearly forcing you to engage in unwitting oral with a disembodied (albeit caramel-filled) negro appendage.

We've lost sleep over it, Liz. We've obsessed over it.

And here are the take-aways:

1. Society has gotten itself into a depraved state when a gal can't cope with her sexual obsolescence by devouring a package of nibbles without being confronted with a rude reminder of why she turns to the comforting embrace of chocolate to begin with.
2. We agree with your righteously irritated claim that your toddler grandson could have gotten into your chocolates and enjoyed his first taste of juicy brown "cockolate." Indeed, two-and-a-half is far too young to ride black stallion 'round the track, and it's best to keep such nauseating ideas from his impressionable mind at least through kindergarten.
3. The next time the echo from your forelorn uterus and the draft from your abandoned vagina compels you to fill your emptiness with cocoa-derived sublimation, you'll be confronted by the traumatizing memory of the engorged member, its swollen brown testes and life-like veiny shaft pointing angrily at your various orifices, daring you to thumb a ride down the hershey highway.
4. We applaud your courage and fortitude; instead of gobbling the engorged underpants rocket and feeling remorseful and dirty, you saved it and phoned the tabloids so you could hold it in your frigid hands (we notice it's not melting) for a dignified photo session. Stay classy, Liz.
5. We agree that the offending nibble had to have been the creation of a sex-crazed deviate chocolate factory employee, some nymphomaniac oompa-loompa must have fashioned the nubian phallus for the express purpose of getting something nasty past your lips. No, the negro pants worm is far too glorious an invention to have happened by mistake, an unfortunate "melting of three nibbles" as Cadbury dubiously claims (after all, they've recently been acquired by Kraft, who claims Velveeta is cheese). On this point, we find ourselves alarmed to be siding with the creationists. Because if the chocolate penis haunting your nightmares is really just the result of a manufacturing glitch, that would raise suspicions that you're a cranky old biddy and next week you're likely to be outraged by the appearance of an Asian clitoris in your bowl of frankenberries. And that would make you a filthy-minded old broad. Agreed?

At any rate Liz, we sincerely hope you recover from the trauma and find something more Christian on which you may suck without feeling like the scabby-kneed Aberdeen strumpet you're terrified of becoming.

xox
WAM

***

ATTENTION WAM-KATEERS: News of our (and COWA's) demise has been greatly exaggerated. More to come. And more often.Your prodigal Ass-Whupper has returned. So bend over.

DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL

Texas is History

Texas is a beans-and-weenies, varicose veins, big hair, polyester stretch pants kinda town. Most Texans claim to be patriotic, blissfully ignoring the fact that their retarded state has tried to secede three times (side note: we wholly support Texas secession, if only for the fact that it would render future Bushes ineligible for president).

The fattest people in the world (see: Baptists) live there. It's the destination of choice for those who like dragging Negroes behind their pick-ups or shooting their buddies in the face with a shotgun. Texas is not, however, the kinda town through which Democrat Presidents should ride in a convertible.

The Wikipedia entry on Texas is long as your arm, but the section on "culture" consists of exactly one sentence about the breakfast burrito.

And now, a suspiciously effeminate Texan named Don McLeroy (fundamentalist, dentist, school board chairman, fat person) is re-writing the history/social studies books. And because text book publishers aren't in the habit of issuing state-specific editions, this could affect every classroom in America.

Why is this 500-pound sack of cat barf in a bolo tie doing this? Because current text books were written by hell-bound libruls. They rudely suggest that McCarthyism was a bad thing, that Mexicans are people, that the founding fathers intended to create a free, secular nation, and that Jesus didn't write every word of the constitution (except for the establishment clause, which was written by a n*gger-loving homosexual devil worshiper named Thomas Jefferson).

Texas text books (Textas books?) expunge the word "capitalism" for the more patriotic-sounding "free enterprise," because "capitalism" has a bad connotation. Of course, the Jesus Inc/"corporations are people too" Republicans are the ones who gave capitalism its bad rap in the first place, but why quibble? (aside: if you changed the word "syphilis" to "freedom cooties," every Texan would dash out to bone Jenna Bush).

Be that as it may, our covert band of ninja spies has gotten its mitts on the new Texas-style history book, complete with expurgated pinko commie passages destined for the trash bin. We've provided snippets below. You're welcome.

THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS:

Four score and seven years ago Once upon a time, our fathers Jesus brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty church, and dedicated to the proposition that all men  Baptists are created equal heterosexual, and their wives should shut their yaps and fry up dinner. Now we are engaged in a great holy civil war freedom spat, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure own a fella named Sambo. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. Support our troops! Woo!! It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate...we can not consecrate...we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living  unaborted and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract set the stage for endless civil war re-enactments by alcoholic sociopaths. The world Democrats will little note, nor long remember re-write what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here they're all a bunch of homos. It is for us the living Christian white folk, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced Jesus. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion Jesus—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom Republican fear-mongering—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people Jesus, shall not perish from the earth vote to send a certain uppity Democrat negro to the White House for a second term.

THE FIRST AMENDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech of homo libruls, or of and their homo librul the press except for Fox News; or the right wing of the people peaceably to will assemble, and to petition threaten the Government for a redress of grievances with their guns.

THE SECOND AMENDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES:

A well regulated Christian militia being necessary to the security of a free State the Republican Party, the right-wing of the People to  will keep and bear arms a butt-load of fully-automatic assault rifles shall not be infringed.

DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR'S "I HAVE A DREAM" SPEECH:

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children. Let freedom ring. And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring—when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children—black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics—will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last I'm doin' the hippity-dippity with yo cracker-ass daughters! Sho-nuff, bitches!

xox
WAM

Don McLeroy sez: "Does this blog's feed make me look fat?"

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"

Notes From an Unapologetic Uni-tasker

Some time ago, a teenage girl named Alexa Longueira was blissfully walking the streets of Staten Island (suspicious in itself) whilst texting something earth-shattering, no doubt ("shut UP, Zac Ephron is NOT a homo!"), when she fell into an open sewer manhole. While we wish no one injury, we enjoyed the story as evidence of Darwin's genius. Open manholes, after all, serve two important functions: they allow access to the sewer, and they handily dispose of dingbats like Alexa.

Walking (like driving, flying a plane, luging, operating a lawn mower, skydiving and sex), is an activity that requires one's full attention. Nobody needs to be doing anything else when they're doing any of these things. And if one finds themselves in a position where they simply MUST tweet about Hannah Montana whilst merging their Prius onto the interstate, something has gone terribly awry with their lives.

Take, for example, the curious case of Megan Mariah Barnes. On March 2, the classy Ms. Barnes crashed her Thunderbird into another vehicle because she had her ex-husband (riding shotgun) take the wheel so she could shave her hoo-hoo. Driving and pube-shaving are two activities that need no distraction. One false move doing either can easily result in the loss of something valuable. Heavens, if we're ever driving along and suddenly experience an unforeseen but desperate need to mow the grounds around the Washington Monument, you can rest assured we'd at least pull over. But this is a woman who climbed behind the wheel with a razor. It was planned. Of course this happened in Florida, where they grow retards like oranges.

But let's leave Florida, shall we? Let's go to Japan, the country that gave us hello kitty, kimonos and dolphin burgers. The Japanese are a suspicious lot (enough with the bowing, we're never going to clap). As such, they have a boner for robots. So much so, that they've recently unveiled the dazzling SOM, a portable hands-free whack-off machine (quit yer bitching gals, it also comes in a model for the ladies -- and desperate homos).

It seems to WAM that masturbation is a task one mustn't delegate. Furthermore, our highways are hazardous enough with folks tweeting and texting and facebooking, without adding hands-free chicken-chokers into the mix. After all, at least once a year don't we hear about a frisky couple who engaged in a bit of automotive oral when suddenly their Taurus sailed through a guard rail and down a ravine? We don't need truckers spanking one out with the help of their SOMs as their rigs careen down the turnpike. It's a hazardous distraction.

Want proof? Over the past two years, as America's financial institutions imploded one by one, the good people at the SEC (you know, the dudes we pay to keep an eye on the finance racket) were busily accessing sites like www.ladyboyjuice.com, www.hotgoo.com, www.scatmen.com, www.trannytit.com and www.anal-sins.com. Sitting behind government computers, their sweaty fingers click-click-clicking away, they either gained or tried to gain access to these sites more than 8,273 times. Meanwhile Bernie Madoff was escaping their scrutiny, AIG was playing a shell game with hundreds of billions in non-existent cash, and the strongest economy in the world was transformed into a disastrously precarious house of cards. At least when Nero fiddled as Rome burned, he was fiddling an actual fiddle.

What's more, we are convinced multi-tasking leads to insanity. Exhibit one: a dear friend of ours once had a roommate. One day it was roomie's turn to do the dishes and our friend discovered that roomie had taken the dishes into the shower so she could rinse out her filthy bits while scrubbing the skillets and silverware. That is simply demented, not to mention of dubious hygienic value.

Exhibit two would have to be Tetris Girl. She's a woman we encounter during every morning commute. Her blackberry is constantly running Tetris. She's tetris-ing as she walks, boards the train, disembarks, and totters off on her day. If, on the rare occasion she stops tetris-ing to look you in the eye, one detects her brain making a snap decision on how she must rotate you as you descend, so that you may fit into her twisted tetris-based reality. Tetris is her crack; reality an inconvenient intruder. We sincerely hope she's not tetris-ing whilst crossing the street one day when a cross-town bus sends her to the next level.

No. We are a proud uni-tasker.

It's okay to concentrate on one thing at a time. Really. As a matter of fact, we might all be a lot better off if everyone did just that.

And sometimes, of course, it's okay to do absolutely nothing at all. Sometimes there's nothing we'd rather do.

XOX
WAM

Tetris Girl sez: "If I rotate this blog's feed 90 degrees counter clockwise, it will fit into my life."

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!"

Shall We Vance? (UPDATE: 4 years*)

As devoted readers will recall, last July we wrote a note to a professor we had in college, one Mr. Vance Fulkerson. Vance, a be-wigged reptilian creep, was found to have concealed a video camera inside a clock in his bathroom, where he recorded his students making pee-pee and ucky-poo. He often taught voice at his home and instructed his kids (students of his at UNC) to vocalize whilst pissing; singing, he told them, uses the same muscles as going number one. Really, Vance. That's just tacky.

Upon arrest, he claimed he installed the camera to keep tabs on his aging parents (because nothing says "I love you, mom" quite like spying on her pinching a loaf). Howev, of the many, many tapes of recorded bathroom guests, none were of mumsy or daddums, nor were any of them female. But in his defense some of his candid puerile porn stars were totally of legal age.

Anywho, after our blog post (which received FAR more hits than any other COWA post, and still does), his past students kept crawling out of the woodwork, each with a more harrowing/disgusting story to tell, many of whom emailed us or commented here on COWA.

Flash forward: on January 10, Fulkerson (not-so-affectionately known as "Vanceline" back in the day), pleaded guilty to one felony count of sexual exploitation of a child. In the bargain, 16 lesser charges were dropped. And this Wednesday, he gets sentenced to anything from probation to 12 years in the slammer.

We shall update this post when the sentence is handed down, so stay tuned. But meanwhile, we have a few more things to say to this oily predator. So let's "stop dicking around" (one of Vanceline's fave expressions) and get to it, shall we? 

Dear Vanceline:

It's a strong possibility that you're enjoying your last lungfuls of freedom's sweet air for quite a while, maybe even forever (face it cream-puff, you're 63, and some of our more sensitive convicts tend to get stabby with child molesters). So we thought now's a good time to have a lil' chat.

First, we hate to break it to you, but you need to brace yourself for the eventuality of relinquishing your spectacularly obvious toupee. They don't allow wigs in maximum security. We admit to looking forward to your booking photo, for no one (outside that legendary day in dance class when your rug became un-moored after you executed an enthusiastic fan kick) has ever seen you sans hairpiece. You will also be obliged to remove your high-heeled zippered ankle boots, your maroon tights, and that cute plaid shirt you liked to knot at your midriff like Ellie Mae Clampett.

We wish you the best of luck in your game of cell-mate roulette, for you could be partnered with anyone from a check forger to a psychotic cannibal. At any rate, please be aware that the terlit will be in plain view of your cell-mate and every passerby. We hope you think about your hidden clock-camera every time you undergo the indignity of public pooping.

Next, we feel the need to apologize. Not to you, but to your "pets." It's like this: every year, you'd set your sights on a confused young man. You'd groom him, and laughably claiming to have Broadway connections you'd promise him stardom and cast him in leading roles. The WAM-ster himself could have been so "fortunate," had we not shivered in revulsion and told you to remove your hand from whence it had wandered one day in your office. But in the sheltered sphere of college, your "pets" were routinely ostracized by the other students, ruthlessly torn to shreds behind their backs (and sometimes, regrettably, right in front of their faces).

We see now how miserable they were. Enduring the ghastly carnal attentions of an immoral (and profoundly icky) snake, the ridicule and cold shoulder of their classmates, and the visible destruction of their self-esteem. Eventually, a new semester would bring fresh meat, and they'd find themselves cut loose. We wish we'd seen what was really happening instead of being blinded by our shallow teenaged ego/rivalry/resentment. And we hope your long overdue incarceration brings them some kind of belated cold comfort.

And finally, you classy tub of rancid Crisco, know that we take no real pleasure from the thought of you being inevitably beaten to a pulp for pirouetting in some prison cafeteria; no more pleasure than we derive from the fact that you oozed from your mother's thighs to begin with. Your victim's scars endure, regardless. 

XOX
WAM

* The Judge has sentenced Vanceline to 4 years in the slammer (check out his hollow video mea culpa, complete with fake crocodile tears). Your sentence, Vancy-poo, is equal to the four years we spent in the college in which you taught. At sentencing, you said: "I am ashamed of my secretive fantasizing."

Well, Vance...it's like this. Everyone has weird fantasies. Not everyone acts on their fantasies by concealing a camera in their bathroom to record underaged guests going pee-pee and poo-poo. So you're going to the big house for four years, and were led from the courthouse in cuffs. And you'll be 67 when you emerge. Sorry bitch, we can't cry for you.

Because when you're released, the world, for 4 years, will have been blissfully, a little bit less slimy.

Bon voyage. 

Vance sez: "I wouldn't have been so creepy with the kid if I knew he'd grow up and write this blog and invite folks to subscribe to his feed."