Can O' Whup-Ass

South of the border (plus, bonus commentary from Aunt Betsy, the universe's most irresponsible advice columnist)

Hola, trash. You've missed us desperately. In our absence, natch, the world went down the toilet. Debt ceilings and ratings downgrades and stock sell-offs and scary fundamentalist hoote-nannies. The economy is smoking crack with Whitney Houston in some bathroom in Pocatello.

What's America to do?

Might we suggest heading south? Get off your knees, trash. We meant to say if we could all just pile into a jet and dash down to the tropics where the locals are brown and our drinks arrive in coconuts, it might just reawaken the spring in our step. You know, just like in those Corona commercials.

Why? Because, as illuminated through the magic of infographics, the average penis length of an American male is 5.1 inches. Whereas our firey Latin American amigos are packing chalupas averaging 7. It is Ecuador, as a matter of fact, who's spiderman underoos are straining most. Those little dickens weild the largest average shame hoses in the world.

P.S. We'll vouch for that. We've known an Ecuadoran on the right side of the bell curve. Poor thing could barely walk (nor could we, after making his acquaintence). But he could foxtrot like a pro.

But who cares about the heft of one's wee donnie doblin? We're rich, bee-yotch. Right?

Yes, comparatively. In fact, we have our relatively runty pants sausages to thank for our economic bounty.

Whatchoo talkin' bout?

Well, infographics strike again and prove beyond a doubt that the bigger the collective pants viper, the lazier the national economy. Plainly, if you live in a place where the menzes are smuggling anacondas in their froot-of-the-looms, your chief exports are reefer and coconuts. ExxonMobil owns the deed to your five acre coca farm and you live with your 75,000 children in a sewer-front refrigerator box. But if your 2xists are lair to a shy and diminuative earth worm, the world is your oyster and you're flying business class. For now.

See, suddenly the fastest growing economy in The Americas is Peru, and Brazil's economy is bigger than the rest of the continent combined. Brazil, in fact, is growing so fast and is in danger of overheating. And it used to be that overheated Brazilians lead only to triplets, ghonorreah, and naked samba gangs.

So now the world is rapidly waking up to the fact that enormous endowments are a safe haven investment. While our CEOs were obsessing over the size of the yacht moored in Palm Beach, they should have been more concerned with the size of the schooners they dock regularly at the shame cove marina.

Proof? Increasingly stringent immigration laws have crippled the agricultural industry in Georgia and other states.

The moral, of course, is don't hesitate to hire Carlos to trim your hedges, regardless of the authenticity of his papers. Heck, real American businessmen don't care about pesky legalities. For not only is Carlos schlepping a delectably juicy encherito grande, he'll make you rich. He's like a leprechaun that way.

The End.

And now, our esteemed contributor Aunt Betsy (the universe's most irresponsible advice columnist), has a word or two for Jason and Andrew Cobb, the two nice boys from Alberta, Minnesota who strangled their mother to death because she wanted to play Yahtzee. Aunt Betsy, infamous Yahtzee Nazi, felt compelled to respond.

Take it away Bets!!

***

Thanks, WAM.

Well hi-dee-ho-dee-diddle-dee-dee! I find myself reclining on my aqua and chartreuse Broyhill chaise with magic fingers, a half-drunk pitcher of singapore slings on my House Beautiful Deluxe Daniel Boone Wagon Wheel side table.

Truth be told,  Aunt Betsy needed at least half a pitcher of singapore slings for this. I have several things to say to you, young masters Jason and Andrew Cobb.

First, satan looks forward to eff-ing you up the A until glory brings us home. Apologies for stating the obvious.

More to the point, our nation's youth are fat little abominations, playing world of warcraft, sexting congressmen and sassing the crossing guard. Our school system must immediately force all children to play Yahtzee, non-stop, at least every Tuesday and Thursday.

For Yahtzee is a cornucopia of life lessons, such as you best fill the top part of your card first, before you take a Chance. Full House is for homos. Don't roll too many Yahtzees in a row or your Yahtzee league might deem you a witch and beat you to death with a swiffer handle. And perhaps most important, should you find yourself engaged in a regulation sudden-death tie-breaking knife fight, keep your teeth clinched on the bandana and go for the throat. But I digress.

Jason, Andrew, your mother wanted to play Yahtzee so you put a plastic bag over her head, strangled her with a belt and put her in a trash can out in the garage. Heavens to Mergatroid, whatever would you have done had the wretched woman invited you to play Scattergories? Slice open her abdomen and sell her spleen to Korea?

So instead of experiencing the inspiring rush of shaking five dice in a cup and hoping for four of a kind,  you'll be wearing your ankles for earmuffs while Tyrone fills up the bottom half of your card, if you catch my drift. 

Enjoy that, dears.

xox
WAM

Jason Cobb sez: "I'd totally rather subscribe to this blog's feed than play Yahtzee."

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

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."

A Letter to Tanya C. Butz, Outraged Virginia Woman

Dear Outraged Virginia Woman,

First, since your name is missing from every account we could find, we've decided your name is Tanya C. Butz.

According to the story, early one morning you were walking your sensitive son to school when you decided to cut through your neighbor's yard. Naturally curious as to what was going on inside his home, you spied Mr. Eric Williamson standing all nekkid and stuff in his kitchen. Then, to be sure you saw what you saw, you crept around to another window and sure enough, there this pervert stood, making coffee in his kitchen, shame hose and filthy bits on full display.

Naturally, you called the cops and Mr. Williamson is now charged with indecent exposure. And we have a few things to say about that.

It seems a gal can't take her young son tiptoeing through the bushes of a neighbor's yard these days without having her eyeballs raped in the butt by all manner of lascivious nakedness. Back in the day, good Christians could go a-peepin' and be greeted only by images of God-fearing folks who had the good taste to remain fully-clothed in the privacy of their own homes. Ms. Butz, we congratulate you not only for keeping your sights trained on Mr. Williamson's swarthy exposed personage, but for circling his house to get a better view, thereby giving your impressionable son a good lesson in spying on our heathen neighbors.

And now, we'd like to address the distastefully exposed Eric Williamson. As scripture tells us, when God made man (and subsequently yanked a rib from his chest to fashion his serpent-fraternizing, fruit-coveting baby maker), He was immediately disgusted by His creation. And that's why Jesus invented the polyester house robe.

You claim when you arose from slumber and ambled to the kitchen to brew some coffee, that it was dark outside and you had no idea a God-fearing neighbor might be skulking about your property. Spare us, sir, your pitiful excuses. For the gentleman who engages in naked coffee-brewing is precisely the sort to download she-male bukkake porn, sacrifice goats at the altar of Beelzebub and sass his mother.

Furthermore, Mr. Williamson, Jesus gets fidgety and nervous when our sin viper isn't safely tucked away within our aquaman underoos. He only allows us to drop our drawers when making uckie-poo or rinsing our oopsie zone (and only when it's absolutely necessary, for although cleanliness is next to Godliness, excessive lathering of one's flesh flute is next to something else entirely).   

So next time you spring from your sweaty mattress after a night of wet-dreaming about pooping on our Christian sensibilities, you'd do well to remember the audience of outraged townsfolk camping outside on your lawn. Put the jewels back in the vault and look into pajamas. Man-pajamas, pervert. Your next door neighbor and her son hardly expect to see you in a see-through Victoria's Secret teddy next time they traipse through your flower bed, peering anxiously through your kitchen window.

xox
WAM

Eric Williamson sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed so I could read it nekkid."

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."

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."

A Letter to Mr. William Kaluf, Snappy Dresser

Dear Mr. Kaluf,

We read with interest the item on Action 3 News regarding your recent interaction with law enforcement personnel.

As the story goes, you decided to enjoy a lovely spring day in the dazzling metropolis of Lincoln Nebraska. So you got all gussied up in pink fishnet stockings and a bra. Then you went for a lovely stroll through the hilariously named Wilderness Park with your toddler son in tow, during which you sat on a park bench and started reading some porno. Apparently, some nosy passers-by found this rather disturbing. They phoned the police.

When the police arrived you picked up your son, dashed to your car and went for a high speed drive with the police in madcap pursuit. They finally caught up with you and discovered your ride was a virtual porn-mobile, stuffed to the gills with naughty videos and magazines. This led to the cops thoughtfully extending an involuntary "come as you are" invitation to the local precinct and returning your lil' tot to his annoyed mommy.

So, Billy (may we call you Billy?). Spring is busting out all over, ain't it? It always revives the spark in our loins. And while most dudes might react to spring fever by whacking off and/or watching some baseball, it seems there are a few like yourself who dress up like a Tuscaloosa pole dancer named Tammi and go tiptoe-ing through the tulips.

We applaud your sincere effort to bring a little desperately-needed spice to Nebraska. What's more, we appreciate your desire to be Auntie Mame to your toddler son, exposing him to eccentric fashion and obscene literature. You've also generously provided the lucky tyke with an amusing anecdote to suppress so that it can resurface during hypnosis during his ninth year of psychotherapy.

However, we feel compelled to suggest that the next time you feel an irresistible urge to take a walk on the wild side, it's a good idea to live in a city that has one. Because while the sight of a tarted up daddy reading porno to his son in the park might cause the citizens of Lincoln no small alarm, the same sight in New York would likely cause its citizens to think it must be Tuesday.

xox
WAM 

All the sexy bitches subscribe to this blog's feed.

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Florence Henderson

Um...Florence? Flo? Mrs. Brady?

Hi. Over here.

Carol! (snapping fingers in her face).

You seem a little distracted. What do you say we barricade ourselves in the green room and whip up a pitcher of Brandy Alexanders? Sound fun? We thought so too. But let's wash our hands first, groovy?

Okay, this must be said: happy friggin birthday. You are 75 years old as of Valentine's Day. You are almost twice as old as Courtney Love and you look like her lesbian kid sister. We grew up admiring the progression of your aerodynamically unstable hairdos on The Brady Bunch and were constantly hypnotized by the LSD-inspired prints on your flared pantsuits and mom-minis. As Carol Brady you were a relatively strict matriarch; one recalls how you practically ripped Cindy a new one for being a tattle-tale (we always secretly wished you'd yank a ringlet from her scalp for excessive lisping). But we always suspected you were something of a super-freak, a suspicion confirmed by subsequent tell-alls penned by various washed-up Brady kids. Apparently, the Brady house was an incest-tastic den of depravity, and Greg frequently shampooed your shag carpeting between takes (which explains why Carol insisted that Greg have his own bedroom, and sheds light on Greg's psychotic Johnny Bravo episode).

Speaking of episodes: remember when Peter tossed a basketball at Bobby and it sailed right past him and smashed that hideous vase? What did we learn (other than Carol's taste in vases was flat-out atrocious)? The moral was "Mom always said, don't play ball in the house." Which brings us to this photograph.

You filthy old broad (that's a compliment). We commend you for boldly displacing our unhealthy obsession with celebu-crotch. And by the smoldering look you're exchanging with that tall twink of water, Carol Brady is fully prepared to waive the rules and let a certain naughty boy bounce his balls in her house. And why not? Grandma/teen hippity-dippity has been all the rage since Demi started picking up Ashton after cub scouts.

We know that it's much more than a hunch. This chicken has a certain Wessonality.

In fact, looking at this picture, we ponder the following:

1. Is your post-menopausal Wessonality still Wesson-y enough? Perhaps you might need to add a certain KY-ality into the mix.
2. If we were into F-ing GMs, you'd most definitely be a GMILF. 
3. Exactly how did Jan Brady grow up to look like she's your mother? Do you bathe in the blood of virgins? 
4. Speaking of which, if indeed Carol Brady was wont to get a little "molest-y" it explains why Marcia had lesbo-sex with Jan and got fat, Peter turned into a reality-show disaster, Cindy went on to do barf-a-riffic radio interviews and Bobby found a career as a mugshot model and DWI hobbyist. 
5. It must be said that the Brady Hour Variety Show was the most retarded television show ever. Seriously. It made CopRock look like Masterpiece Theater.
6. Our inner child is hoping Carol Brady is simply giving a PTA lecture on "good touch vs. bad touch" and you are demonstrating the latter, which inevitably leads to the "touchee" pointing at the crotch of an anatomically correct teddy bear in the brightly-painted office of a child psychologist.
7. The last time we saw an old broad fondling a man's meat in such a lascivious manner, Alice was at Sam's butcher shop whispering something disgusting about warming his kielbasa in her lady-oven.
8. Pssst! He is wearing tight pants and his ball cap is jauntily reversed in regulation blow-job position. Need we spell it out for you? He's a homo, Florence. 

xox
WAM

Here's the story. You need to subscribe to this blog's feed.

Troy Hammerthall: Virtual Butt Bandit

Derby, UK -- Sometimes the virtual world collides with flesh-time in the oddest ways. Submitted for your approval: meet John and Lisa Best. Two months ago, John discovered "Second Life," a virtual role-playing universe in which the flatulent, obese and generally repulsive can reinvent themselves as sexually desirable, socially adept avatars. Since then, Ms. Best took note of the fact that husband John no longer seemed all too interested in riding the Lisa-bull around the mattress of their marital rodeo. And one night not so long ago, she stumbled upon a possible clue as to why.

In the wee small hours, Lisa awakened to see John (in bed, beside her), pajamas 'round his ankles, tappety-tap-tapping away at his laptop whilst logged onto SL. His avatar, homo-erotically named Troy Hammerthall, was apparently engaged in the sort of Leviticus-defying ass-wrangling that makes the Pope nervous and causes Republican senators to tap-dance in public toilet stalls. 

After eye-balling John's icky on-line behavior for a few minutes, Lisa sat up and demanded an explanation. John slammed his laptop shut (hopefully not on his engorged joystick) and insisted it was all for giggles and grins, not to be taken seriously.

The next day, Lisa embarked on a snoop mission by opening John's laptop and poking about. She soon discovered that Troy Hammerthall had a black belt in poking about in a most unseemly manner. There were screen shots of Mr. Hammerthall sashaying about at the rudely named Bondage Ranch, whip in-hand, participating in acts so vile they promptly drove Ms. Best to demand a divorce. This, in spite of John's dubious (and spectacularly Freudian) assertion that he hasn't "a gay bone in his body" (a situation one strongly suspects he wishes to correct).

As  you might imagine, we have some things to say about this.

First, to Ms. Best: Although filing for divorce was probably wise, forgive us for suggesting that when your husband started taking his laptop to bed, that really should have sent up a few distress flares. And despite the fact that you look like a jaundiced manatee who's been hit by a shovel more than once, hubby John is unlikely to be belle of the ball at the next White Party foam dance. Neither of you are pin-up material. Perhaps the smarter move would have been to invent an avatar of your own. We might suggest an obscenely hung leather daddy named Mister Fister. That way, you could at least get your cyber-freak on. We can visualize romantic evenings, side-by-side in bed, frantically typing with one hand as you...actually we don't want to visualize that at all. Ew. Never mind.

And now, to Mr. Best:While we are loathe to plaster labels on folks, this really must be said. You need to make the following purchases, post-haste: a tribal tattoo for your ass, a subscription to Vogue, a butt plug, a shih-tzu and a Miata. Because bitch, you're gayer than Ted Haggard on Tony night.

That is all.

xox
WAM

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Clownsex Enthusiasts Rejoice: The 2009 Naked Clown Calendar is Here at Last!!

SAN FRANCISCO -- The subject of clown porn, while near and dear to our heart, is nevertheless difficult to raise in mixed company. It's hardly ever appropriately interjected into a conversation about the weather or the Yankees, and clown-on-clown hippity-dippity is typically a room-clearing non-sequitur. However, on this glorious Friday, when the nation is all a-twitter because of tonight's presidential debate, clown porn seems suddenly apropos.

It seems that a bunch of kids who stuck knives in their parents' hearts when they announced their intent to attend clown college have decided to twist the handle by appearing in a naked clown calendar. Like those virile hunks of Latter Day Butt-steak before them, the intent is to comment on, and demystify, the general feelings of terror that grip our hearts when we see a Mormon or a clown (or a Mormon clown) approaching.

Below, we've thoughtfully provided a preview, introducing you to three grade-A specimens of sumptuous clown-meat:

Meet Pickle-Pants: When he's not terrifying toddlers at circuses and birthday parties, Pickle-Pants enjoys knocking clown shoes with buxom clowntresses behind the trained seal cage. His favorite sexual proclivity is tying his trouser-balloon into the shape of a dachshund. Pickles' turn-ons include walks on the beach, fine wines, scintillating conversation, and squirting his seltzer in some clown bitch's face. Turn-offs include uppity trapeze artists who think they own the g*ddamned universe, mimes (like clowns but smelly and French), and fat kids.

Meet Bobo and Porkbelly: The most sensual female clown porn duo since Mary Kate and Ashley, Bobo and Porkbelly are pioneers in the art of lesbian clown acrobatics. When they're not loitering nude in public parks and striking primal fear in the hearts of passersby with their creepy deathmetal medleys, they can be found back at the big top, rehearsing a new twist on a time-honored schtick: they spread their legs and see how many cars they can fit inside a clown. So far Bobo can fit three mini-coopers and a smart car, while Porkbelly is up to nearly twice that. Turn-ons include candle light suppers, the novels of Ayn Rand, the music of the Indigo Girls, and boobs that make honking noises when squeezed. Turn-offs include prudes that think menstrual blood isn't hilarious, golden confetti showers and fat kids.

Meet Butzo: Butzo is a typical, happy-go-lucky clown. He enjoys slipping on banana peels, taking a pie in the face, and visiting children in their dreams so he can suck their souls dry through his retractable razor-sharp clown fangs. His long time companion is the bearded lady at the Coney Island sideshow, who in reality is a long-haul trucker named Max. He carries a midget in his rectum who frequently pops out to do card tricks and hand out exploding cigars. Turn-ons include Mozart, a nicely aged brandy and anally fixated oompa-loompas. Turn offs include clownophobes, drunken carny bukkake parties and fat kids.

Subscribe to this blog's feed, or these clowns will haunt your nightmares.