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."

Album review: Heidi Klum's "Dead Inside: Beloved Christmas songs translated from English to German and back into English"

Review: It's that time of year again, when salespeople are trampled, Grandma gets groped by security, and our little darlings are traumatized by fire-spewing demon dolls. It's also the season when the Klum-Seals gather around der tannenbaum and Heidi tells her darling brood of fashionable mulatto accessories that "In Christmas, one day you're in und der next day you're out."

It's time to rejoice, all right. Ms. Klum's singing debut is certain to become a holiday favorite. Wrapping her monotonous, mildly tone-deaf voice around many Christmas favorites we thought we knew...that is, until they were translated from English to German and back into English.

PLAYLIST
Polka 'round der Tannenbaum
Dead inside/Still Nacht*
I saw Mutter schtupping dicker red elf Klaus
Ein Kleine Schwartzer Drummer Junge
Freude at zur Welt*
Tragen der Frau in Gay Apparel (Deck the Halls)*
Haben Sie Not Unpleasant Ein Kleine Tiny Christmas
All I want for Weihnachten is my two big white things in front
Die Songspeil About der Glocken (Carol of the Bells)
Ach, Kommt all ye Superstitious

*SAMPLE LYRICS:

Dead Inside (Silent Night)
Dead inside, dead inside
Christ was born und then he died
From der Judenfrau Jesus Ker-plops
Spike der egg nog with peppermint schnapps
Howl on how silent the night was!
Caterwaul silent ein nacht! (cont'd.)

Tragen Frau in Gay Apparel (Deck the Halls)
Tragen Frau en Gay Apparel, auf-auf-auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf-auf
I would rather wear a barrel, auf-auf-auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf-auf
From the out-take footage we know, auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf
Michael Kors once shtupped Santino, auf-auf-auf-auf-auf, auf-auf-auf-auf (cont'd.)

Freude at zur Welt (Joy to the World)
Freude at zur Welt, sieg heil at Christ
Let ich receive mein bling!
I'd like this necklace iff'n he
Had purchased it at Tiffany
Seal, did you save der receipt?
Seal, did you save der receipt?
Did has-been schwartzer balladeer save the receipt? (cont'd.)

xox
WAM

Seal sez: "My wife says if I don't subscribe to this blog's feed, I'm auf'd"

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."

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"

New Hampshire State Representative Nancy Elliott Would Like Us to Consider Shame-Hoses and Poo Holes

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

My fellow Americans and New Hampshirans. That doesn't sound right. New Hampshirese? New Hampshipharians? Dear flannel-clad syrup suckers, it has come to my attention that someone rudely posted a video of me on the webbynet. It shows me talking at a hearing about what we can do to stop the homos from mincing down our church aisles to Beyonce's "Put a Ring on it." 

And now all the homocratic pundits have taken my words completely in context and are repeating it over and over like it's funny or something:

"We’re talking about taking the penis of a man and putting it in the rectum of another man and wriggling it around in excrement. And you have to think, would I want that to be done to me?"

Yes. And...? Why are you all snickering? Have you thought about it? Well, you should. In fact, I think every God-fearing American would do well to think about it every day. When you're pouring milk over your Cheerios every morning, think about an engorged pants-worm barfing baby paste up your oopsie hole. While you're tucking your little angels into bed at night, consider being given a tube steak enema by a muscle-bound fanny-riding butt-buckaroo.

Because ever since our legislature legalized fairy nuptials in 2007, ass-sexing has replaced ice fishing as our state's most popular man-on-man pastime. That's hardly the New Hampshire I've grown to tolerate. Homos would do well to remember option number two in our state motto, "live free or die."

Consider this: between 2000 and 2005, our state went from being 98% white Christians to 97% white Christians. And that was without any legislation whatsoever! What would have happened if we actually passed a law LEGALIZING negros and wetbacks? Now, not only is our fair state one percent negro-er, we actually bless the unions of negro boys who want to ride fat black ponies in the mandingo ass rodeo.  

You know, last night I succumbed to perform my bi-monthly wifely duties for my infinitely fortunate husband. Usually when I lie there surrendering my lady cave to his pee-pee, my mind goes to a happy place where babies ride unicorns and everything's made of chocolate. But this time all I could think about was how our state is kind of shaped like an erect groin sausage. And then I thought about what would it be like if hubby suddenly shoved my ankles behind my ears and used his goo-gurgling battering ram against my back door? Could I bear the indignity of having my back 40 plowed by a poo farming skin tractor? Those two minutes seemed to last an eternity, and so repulsed was I, that afterwards I dashed out to the garage and vacuumed my Hyundai.

It's all Vermont's fault, you know. That similarly phallic state, pressing lasciviously against our backside, started this whole mess when they legalized civil unions back in 1999. Which goes to show how contagious this naughty game of poo-billiards really is. Soon, mark my words, we will awake to the day where we can't tell why folks are wearing flannel; are they a backwoods yokel or a lesbo? And come to think of it, we should also think about lesbo stuff. Like we don't know what they're up to! All that muff-punching scissor-queefing lady-pie-eating fiddle-faddle!! Goodness! I think I need a glass of water.

Wait. What was I talking about? I lost my train of thought. Unicorns. Chocolate. Buttholes. Pie. Oh yes. I remember.

In closing, remember to keep thinking about penises and recti. And on a personal note, if my heterosexual husband thinks I'm going to hike up my dress tonight and slide down his flesh pole like a fireman...well...he's just going to have to go looking for it on Craigslist like every other decent, opposite-married family man in our God-fearing state.

Nancy Elliott sez: "I subscribe to this blog's feed to take my mind off of ass-sex"

The Stoopidest Winter Olympics Events Medal Ceremony

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

But some of them are.

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

BRONZE: FIGURE SKATING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luging is retarded.

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

GOLD: IT'S A TIE! BIATHALON/CURLING

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

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

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

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

Medaling in snow angel-ing sounds no less legitimate.

That is all.

xox
WAM

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

The "12 Days of Christmas" Project

Just as found footage documented the unfortunate demise of three obnoxious film students in "The Blair Witch Project," our demented band of covert ninja spies has discovered a diary of pure Christmas terror to rival the icy dread of Baby Party. Found in a blood-stained apartment in Manhattan's Turtle Bay, the following journal documents a diabolical series of Christmas tribulations that haven't been seen since Wal-mart ran out of Tickle-Me Elmos. Below, witness the terror of the most dastardly acts of Yule Tide treachery ever recorded. Read at your own peril:

Day 1: Dear Diary, what a wonderful evening. My true love (I can call him that now that he tested negative of all major STD's), treated me to an evening so romantic! Opera and a carriage ride. I'll remember it forever. At the end of our date he had me cover my eyes for a "surprise." I was certain he was going to give me a cruise to Aruba and a new pair of Uggs (I've only been dropping hints for six months now, LOL). Instead, he presented me with an odd looking bird and a fruit plant. I was disappointed not to have my new Uggs, but he swears there's more where that came from. What a darling he is!!

Day 2: Dear Diary, I had a lovely evening playing putt-putt with my true love, after which he gave me a gift of two pigeons and another one of those odd looking birds in a fruit tree. I suspect he's over-estimated my fondness for birds. Yet again, he swore there were more gifts in store. Come on, cruise to Aruba! Mamma wants a new pair of Uggs!!

Day 3: Dear Diary, had surf and turf at the Olive Garden with my TL. It was nice enough, although my salad was slightly wilted. After sharing a rather too rich chocolate torte, he had the waiters bring out three chickens. He said they were French, but a chicken is a chicken is a chicken, in my book. Then he gave me two more pigeons and yet another odd looking bird in a tree. I told him I loved the birds but they're starting to poop on my furniture. And I have more pears than I know what to do with. I want a cruise to Aruba. And some Uggs. Quit playing games, dude.

Day 4: Dear Diary, saw the new Sandra Bullock movie with TL. It was boring. I hate Sandra Bullock. She looks trashy. Any-who, TL gave me four new birds that won't shut up, three more French chickens, two more pigeons and ANOTHER retarded bird sitting on a fruit plant. Maybe he's joking. Maybe he's toying with me. I have a headache.

Day 5: Dear Diary, TL took me to a tractor-pull in Scranton. Hated it. Afterwards, sensing my foul mood, he gave me five beautiful 24 carat gold pinky rings! From Cartier! I love them! Then he had to spoil it by giving me four more chatty-cathy birds, three more frog hens, two additional pigeons and ANOTHER retarded fruit bird. My kitty cat Mr. Purr-fect Pants is acting nervous. Where are my f*cking Uggs?

Day 6: Dear Diary, what's-his-name cooked manwhiches and we ate them while watching CSI Miami (is it just me or is David Caruso really creepy?). During the commercial break he gave me six gooses. When I screamed in horror, they all pooped eggs onto my Martha Stewart "floral explosion" area rug. Noticing my displeasure, he promptly gave me another five gold pinky rings (how many pinkies does he think I have?), four additional loud-mouth birds, three smelly-ass French chickens, two more pigeons and another goddamned retarded bird in a fruit tree. Is he aware that my lease only allows one cat or one dog?? I think he sensed my displeasure, because he promised his gifts are going to get better. I want to go to Aruba. I want some Uggs. Now.

Day 7: Hey Diary. Okay so today we split a chalupa and played ping-pong. When he brought me home at the end of our date, I was shocked to find seven f*cking swans in my bath tub. Besides the swans, I now have twelve excitable geese, fifteen gold rings, fourteen of those loud-ass birds (two of them were decapitated when they flew into my ceiling fan), five of those snotty french chickens (I sold ten to my local butcher), nine pigeons (Mr. Purr-fect Pants has killed three) and seven asshole partridges sitting in seven fruit trees. I've had to hire stanley steamers twice this week. I found bird poop in my cheerios this morning. I'm never going to Aruba. Jesus, why can't a nice girl like me just get a new pair of Uggs for your birthday? I've decided I'm going to break up with TL tomorrow. He's working my nerves.

Day 8: Yo Diary. Went to the mall and had a small Orange Julius with TL. I told him it wasn't working out, that I needed some space. He just smiled and said I'm going to need even more space soon. I called him a butt-wipe and ran home, only to find eight farm bitches milking goats in my kitchen. There are now twelve swans in my bath tub. I have eighteen geese laying eggs in my living room. Twenty f*cking pinky rings. Seventeen loud-ass birds (one of those goat bitches killed one when it was squawking on her milk stool and she sat on it), six french chickens (last night I had a hankering for McNuggets), eleven goddamned pigeons and eight asshole partridges on eight ass-licking fruit plants. Why is he doing this to me? I've decided to call my friend Patsy who works at the Police precinct and run a background check on TL. I think he might be mental.

Day 9: Dairy. Wassup. Bad day. Came home from work today to find an eviction notice on my door. Went to hang up my coat and there were nine bitches in my closet doing the macarena. Almost gave me a heart attack. There are now sixteen milk whores in my kitchen surrounded by a growing pile of goat poo. I have twenty-one swans in my crapper, two-dozen geese laying eggs all over my new couch, twenty-five pinky rings, and twenty chatty-cathy birds. The butcher took all but one of the french chickens today, but I now have fourteen pigeons (although I've taken up training them to be carriers, it's more fun than sudoku), and eight partridges in pear trees (turns out partridge fricassee tastes good on toast). Oh and Patsy from the precinct said that TL has done this before. Many times. Two of his exes committed suicide. One became a nun and nine formed their own Roller Derby team in Tuscaloosa. It's all to much to cope with. P.S. I made a quiche tonight using goat milk, goose eggs and pears. Wasn't half bad. I want my Uggs.

Day 10: Oh yeah. Diary. You again. Here's the latest count: eighteen whores doing the macarena in my hall closet. Two dozen goat-milking sluts in my kitchen. Twenty-six swans in my loo (I traded two of them to a budding taxidermist friend for a bottle of Frangelico). Twenty-eight geese in my living room (the goat sluts cooked two of them for dinner last night). Four hundred goose eggs in my refrigerator. Thirty pinky rings. Two dozen calling birds (I wish they're shut their yaps). Zero french chickens (I promised butcher three more tomorrow), sixteen pigeons (ten of which show real promise for carrying notes, it's even more fun than texting), and ten f*cking partridges and ten asshole pear trees. Oh, and I now have ten dudes in tights jumping and prancing about in my bedroom like a bunch of homos. Good times. On the upside, Whole Foods put in an order for 100 goat milk, goose egg and pear quiches. And I'm selling them for 10 bucks a pop! Ker-ching!! Come on, Aruba! Woooo!!!

Day 11: Yo Diary, bitch. When I was getting ready to head to work, TL texted me and said "carpools are car-cool!" I went out to find eleven stinky dudes playing panpipes in my Prius. When I got home there were twenty-seven macarena sluts mounting an assault against the thirty-two milk whores while twenty leaping homos were having an ass-sex orgy on my tempurpedic bed. There are thirty-four geese in my living room, 600 goose eggs in my fridge, thirty five Cartier pinky rings, and twenty-eight calling birds (I hate them). On the bright side, butcher took every french hen and my pigeons have been old-style spamming every bakery on the east coast, and orders for my goat milk, goose egg and pear quiches are going through the roof! I can't find my kitty cat Mr. Purr-fect Pants anywhere. Hope he's okay.

Day 12: Diary. Dude. Worst. Day. Ever. It started off well enough, when I pawned my forty cartier pinky rings for a pair of Uggs and a cruise to Aruba. It quickly went downhill from there. Twelve dudes playing bongos are taking turns date-raping the thirty-six macarena whores while forty milk sluts have gone on the warpath against the thirty leaping homos who stole the goats for a bestiality orgy in my bedroom (note to self, buy new sheets). The swans gave bird flu to the geese and butcher is suing me because the french hens gave his customers salmonella. I was arrested on charges of animal cruelty (I thought killing the partridges in the microwave was merciful and instantaneous, swear to God), hiring non-documented workers (I never paid those milk whores a cent), running a prostitution ring (who knew the macarena sluts were whoring themselves?), creating a nuisance to public health (turns out most of my goat milk/goose egg/pear quiches were infected with e coli by all that goat poop, resulting in the deaths of three people in Buffalo), and harboring known terrorists, as thirteen of the twenty-two dudes playing panpipes in my prius trained with Al Qaeda in Pakistan. My carrier pigeons (apparently they're actually "turtle doves," whoop-de-friggin-do) were all sucked into the engine of a 747, causing 257 people to perish in a gruesome, cartwheeling ball of fire. But as serendipity would have it, my true love was on board, intent on hijacking the plane to Aruba with bombs in his Uggs.   

xox
WAM

Jesus sez: "It is more blessed to give than receive, but it's freakin BITCHIN to subscribe to this blog's feed."

Introducing: The Confess-o-Matic!!

Confessing is in. It's the thing to do (rehab is SO 2007!). These days it seems you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some celebrity, politician, or chat show host in the midst of a very public mea culpa, dazed spouse at their side, disclosing sordid details about their private lives (which is precisely why we gave up dead cat-swinging for Lent).

It was fun at first; Jimmy Swaggart's tearful I-paid-a-$50-hooker-to-pee-on-me-in-a-Motel-6 "I've sinned against you" speech was hilarious. Likewise, Jim McGreevey's I'm-being-blackmailed-by-a-Jewish-boytoy-and-now-it's-time-to-come-out-to-my-stunned-wife "I'm a gay American" press conference really should be set to music and recorded by Clay Aiken.

But now it's quickly becoming tedious. David Letterman, Mackenzie Phillips, John Ensign, Mark Sanford, Sam Adams, Elliot Spitzer...the list grows daily. Everyone's jumping on the bandwagon without giving the slightest thought as to where the bandwagon's headed. Nor do they seem the least bit concerned about that last shred of good taste being crushed under the bandwagon's cruel wheels. It's like Crocs. 

Cathy-licks, who have never been accused of good taste (see: The Blessed Virgin's frequent appearance in chalupas, the pope, et al.), at least confine their confessions to where they belong; in a dark closet, whispered to a cross-dressing pedophile. We're begging future confessors to reconsider the press conference. We'd really rather not be subjected to the inevitable, constant loop on CNN.

Instead, why not simply fill out our New Confess-o-Matic™ form below and fax it to Wolf Blitzer? The world will thank you.

THE CAN O' WHUP-ASS CONFESS-O-MATIC™

I, (your name here), after a great deal of:

1. prayer,
2. crying,
3. advice from my attorney,
4. gonorrhea,
5. subpoenas,

Have decided that the time has come to disclose:

1. The woman trapped inside my body.
2. The eggplant wedged inside my rectum.
3. My torrid affair with sensitive yet virile Brazilian florist named Cadela Feroz.
4. The subterranean lair I've constructed under my house, where I keep a growing brood of albino incest babies who feed on worms and were born without eyes.
5. My Celine Dion record collection.

The burden of keeping this horrible secret for so long has led to a shame-spiral, culminating in an unfortunate incident where I:

1. Eloped with a cocker spaniel.
2. Banged a retarded broad.
3. Ran naked through the Piggly Wiggly singing "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" from "Hello, Dolly!"
4. Subscribed to Esquire.
5. Got wasted and repeatedly screamed "F*GGOTS!" during my keynote address at a GLAAD-sponsored convention of Liza Minnelli impersonators.

I would like to apologize to my long-suffering:

1. Wife
2. Fans and/or constituents
3. Breasts
4. Pet leprechaun
5. Stable of randy rent boys

For causing so much:

1. Pain.
2. Embarrassment.
3. Bowel obstruction.
4. Sperm stains.
5. Fibro Myalgia.

I hope everyone will find it in their heart to:

1. Forgive me.
2. Re-elect me.
3. Put my publicist on speed-dial.
4. Overlook my hobby of giving hand-jobs to passed out alcoholics under the viaduct.
5. Give me one last rusty trombone in the men's room, for old-time's sake.

In the meantime, during this time of healing, I ask that you respect my family's privacy so that we can:

1. Prepare for our appearance on Oprah.
2. Ink a book deal.
3. Bicker and hurl expensive breakables at each other.
4. Consume the last of the human flesh still cluttering our freezer.
5. Have one last S&M felching orgy before setting things right with The Lord. 

Thank you, and:

1. May God bless America.
2. Does anyone have any crank?
3. Signed copies of my memoir are available in the lobby for $35. 
4. Remember to follow me on Twitter.
5. Seriously. Does anyone have any crank? Just a little bit? 

xox
WAM

David Letterman sez: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is 1 through 8 on my personal top ten list."

A Sex Prayer for Catholic Couples (PLUS: A Letter to Miss Lisa Newsome)

As we all know, Cathy-lick priests are experts on everything sexual. Of course they're all celibate (wink-wink), so hippity-dippity is pretty much all they ever think about. So who better to write a charming book called "A Prayer Book for Spouses," which includes a Catholic sex prayer that opposite-married heterosexuals can say together before getting down to the unpleasant business of spousal coitus. Just prior to part where the wife does her duty by bending to her husband's will and allowing his spitting sin-serpent to spelunk in that place "down there" where Cathy-lick babies shoot out with alarming frequency, the couple gets down on their knees for a Jesus-approved orally-delivered prologue. 

This is a sticky wicket, natch, as The Bible gives little reason to believe that God wants to listen to us praying about S-E-C-K-S. So as one might imagine, the priests who wrote the prayer went through many drafts before getting it just right. Thanks to our underground cadre of ninja operatives posing as sensitive altar boys, we were able to get our hands on an early version. You're welcome.

Dear Lord,

We ask, in Your Infinite Grace, to guide us through the proceeding ickiness. May the miracle of Viagra pull a "Moses" by transforming the limp snake into a staff. Let us not enjoy it, for a grunting middle-aged alcoholic's pasty rump piston-pumping a long suffering cellulite-afflicted baby factory is hardly an occasion celebrate. Have mercy, O Lord; for although You instructed us to "be fruitful and multiply" we've multiplied quite enough, having been blessed with eighteen insufferable children who sass us and smoke pot. To that end, please make the army of sperm about to spew forth get lost in the shame cave and wander about like a bunch of Jews in the desert. And speaking of being fruitful, while the husband has found many opportunities to defy Leviticus by placing ads on Craigslist for randy truckers into watersports, help us to avoid the temptation of using a condom. For as the Pope said, condoms spread the AIDS, which is our punishment for answering the urges you put in our heads to test us. And please help us wrap it up during the commercial break so we don't miss any of CSI: Special Victim's Unit. In Jesus Christ's name we pray,

Amen.

***

Dear Lisa Newsome,

We were enchanted by the heart-warming story of your recent brush with the law.

As the story goes, one day it occurred to you that you might enjoy a nice cold beer. So you sauntered into a liquor store in the dazzling Louisiana metropolis of Zachary, hiked up your house-dress, and stuffed a twelve pack of Miller Light up your tuchus.

We appreciate the kind of gal whose hair pie doubles as an ice box. Moreover, it's the only way you could conceivably compel us to reach betwixt your thighs. However, while we always like our brew with a nice healthy head, that's hardly what we had in mind. And although we shudder to contemplate where you might have stored the pretzels, we'd be much more impressed if you did the same trick with a keg.

At any rate, thanks for the suds. You can pull your dress down now. By the way, do you have a bottle-opener? Oh. We see.

Nevermind.

xox
WAM

WAM sez: "Have a great Labor Day Weekend! And subscribe to this blog's feed."