I Attend My First Teabagging Party

I found this bit on an old flash drive. I wrote it back before I had a blog or when my blog was strictly baseball. I'm sure it has since been done better by the Daily Show but given it requires almost no effort by me, I'll submit it for your enjoyment.

Last night I attended my first Teabagging party and I have to admit that it was a lot of fun. I've been teabagged many times before and I've even done some teabagging myself. Here's a photo of me teabagging the Wall Street Bull statue after a three martini lunch.

The idea of a Teabagging party was pretty damn exciting. I shivered with anticipation as I rode the elevator up to a conference room in the New York Hilton.

How did I find out about the party? I was walking down Seventh Avenue minding my own business when I noticed a ruckus. I thought there was a demonstration going on but it turned out that these guys were party recruiters. This nice guy told me he was proud to be a teabagger and a Veteran of Foreign Wars, and that he loved Jesus.

Fundamental Christians usually don't inflate my dinghy but this nice lady was willing to do it for Jesus instead of the $50 it normally costs over on Lexington and 39th Street.

This kid convinced me to blow off my plans and go to the party.

No, he's not my type. He's more Pope Benedict's type. But he did tell me that Elisabeth Hasselbeck was going to be one of the celebrity teabaggers. I'm as liberal a dem as there is and these guys were aiming to please. Elisabeth Hasselbeck can provide the milk for my teabag anytime!!!

In the unlikely event that you are unfamiliar with the slang of today's youth, here's a screen capture of Elisabeth Hasselbeck and Kristi Yamaguchi demonstrating proper teabagging form during the Republican National Convention's Teabagging on Ice extravaganza. Teabagging is very difficult while fully clothed, on ice. Leave this fancy stuff to the professionals.

When I got to the conference room I was a little worried. There seemed to be way more tea "bags" than there were tea "cups." Not a great recipe for a kick-ass teabagging party in my opinion. On a positive note, most of the teabaggers were old enough to be collecting social security. There's nothing like an old, saggy, leaking tea bag to leave a bitter taste in your mouth -- just ask Larry King's sister-in-law. I figured I'd be able to hookup with more than my share.

First, there was a whole lot of talking and a lot of chanting involving Obama, socialism and other boring stuff. Newt Gringrich went on forever. The thought that I might be squatting next to a naked Newt was not helping the turgidity of my dinghy.

But then Elisabeth took the podium. Here she is showing off her significant teabagger skills. I think that's Elisabeth's mom in the pink straitjacket. I know she looks all uptight and grumpy but it turned out that mom was a bit of a go-er if you know what I mean. Nudge, nudge, say no more.


I'm not one to teabag and tell but...

Elisabeth gave me this free t-shirt!


And Pinky gave me this free t-shirt!

It's good to be a liberal democrat!!!

Is It True That I Beat Up a Midget?

I have never done this before but because of all the attention this is getting throughout the internet (especially on facebook), I am going to address these stupid rumors about me.

I did not beat up a midget in a bar on Avenue B over the weekend. The truth, if anybody is actually interested in the truth, is that the midget beat me up.

Anybody that knows me knows that I played hockey against Gordie Howe and that I have this weird affection towards "humans of short stature." Not the kind of affection where I want to have sex with one. The kind of affection where I appreciate their difficulties and genuinely like hanging around them in a manly drinking-buddy-sort-of-way. I also respect the fact that most of them do not like the m-word so I always use more acceptable terms like dwarf or little person.

So last Friday night there happens to be this dwarf in the bar that I'm in and I'm inching my way closer until I'm only one stool away. Then this really attractive woman sits on the stool between us and I get distracted from my pursuit because while I have this unhealthy dwarf thing going, I have a much stronger and much healthier trying to get laid thing going, too.

She looked so much like Alyssa Milano that I thought she was Alyssa Milano. After studying her carefully, I determined that she was probably not Alyssa Milano but she was close enough for me. This provided a great opening line and the potential for a conversation.

Turns out I'm drunk and she's drunk. I'm friendly. She's friendly. I'm clever and funny. She's clever and funny. I'm flirting. She's just being nice. I'm horny. She's not. I ask for her number. But before she can reply, the little guy notices me hitting on her. Apparently, she's the guy's wife/fiance/girlfriend/sister. I'm not sure of the actual relationship because things got crazy fast.


I know what you're thinking, "How the hell did a midget beat you up?" First, this wasn't one of those cute and fuzzy little people that are determined to make it in the big people world by being pleasant and charming like all those guys on the cable shows. This was a bitter, steroid-induced, crazy dwarf that wanted to show his woman that he could kick the 6 foot tall skinny white boy's ass like those other guys on the other cable shows.

Did I mention I was drunk? After he cursed at me and poked me a bunch of times in the thigh, I jokingly agreed to a fight and to much laughing and scattered applause got down on my knees to "make the fight fair."

In addition to ruining my best pair of khakis because of the absolute filth on the floor, I quickly came to realized that I am fairly immobile on my knees. And did you know that it is impossible to kick at someone or defend yourself from kicks? It's no wonder that Dorf guy was so bad at golf. Kneeling is a totally non-athletic position.

After his little boots found my face a few times I came to the conclusion that if I stayed on my knees I would lose badly. I also knew that if I stood up before I lost consciousness I could win. I'd have the leverage, and the reach, and look like a real douchebag, and I'd almost certainly never have a chance with the guy's sister/girlfriend/wife.

So I stood up, I apologized, I bought the guy and his buddies a round, we laughed about it and then I got the hell out of there. And now me and Bill Cosby, will forever be known as the guys that gave a midget a beating.

I did get the wife's number. We're meeting up this Friday. Different bar. Come on, she looked just like Alyssa Milano!

Monet, Picasso and Burton: I Play Hookey From Work at the Museum of Modern Art

Yesterday I blew off work and headed up to the MOMA to immerse myself in modern art. You laughed. You imagined that if I were to blow off work I would likely end up in a peep show, or a baseball stadium or passed out behind a dumpster.

I have an artistic bent. I wanted to be an artist in high school until my teachers convinced me that I sucked.

Monet

I had time to kill before they would let me into the Tim Burton exhibit so I checked out Monet's Water Lilies. Unfortunately, these paintings have really faded over the years -- I mean you can barely make out the flowers in a painting that is as big as a house. Probably caused by the tens of thousands of flash photos that everyone was taking despite the numerous signs forbiding it, and the useless guard watching everyone taking the photos. It's too bad.

Picasso

A Picasso exhibit was across the hall so I stuck my head in. I like Picasso. The Picasso Museum in Paris was my favorite part of that trip. These were etchings for magazines and books. Never seen an etching before. Still don't know what the hell an etching is. Am now amazed that an etching could ever be used to entice a woman up to your bedroom.

Burton

Tim Burton easily kicked the other guy's butts. The exhibit had hundreds of drawings, some models, and some movie props. I really liked the drawings. When Mr. Burton draws something he takes the time to ink it and paint it with watercolors. The stuff was great. There was this diorama that was way better than a shoebox. It had a kid killing his dad but you can only see the bloody gore when the light changed color.

My three favorites were this panel from a Nightmare Before Christmas storyboard.

A drawing of skeleton reindeer with Wite-Out on black construction paper and a huge polaroid of a blue woman hammering nails into a blue baby. That's the woman and the baby but this photo must have been taken before her home improvement project.

My Dick Discusses Tim Burton at the MOMA
The following review was written by a frequent contributor of insightful posts and unsightly stains, my dick.

This exhibit was filled to overflowing with people. There had to be at least 100 models from France and Italy enjoying Tim Burton. And when I say models, I'm not talking about little three dimensional figurines of skeleton boys. I'm talking about incredibly beautiful women.

I was queued up behind two gorgeous, young women from France that found every cartoon, no mattter how obvious, to be out loud funny. Damn, French is an appealing language when spoken by amazingly attractive women.

Are the Fashion Houses of Milan and Paris closed this week?

Also, and I commend the exhibit curators for this decision, the space was way too small for the sold-out crowd, resulting in uncomfortably warm conditions. All the hot art babes were hot so clothing was minimal.

After an exhaustive internet search that took 5 minutes I have found photos of the two French models that were my inadvertant "companions" at the MOMA.

So, if you are a rich, handsome stud muffin, get to the MOMA and get laid. If I qualified, I'd use the old "wanna see my etchings" line.

The Last Staff Meeting

Actual page from my notebook with notes from staff meetings on 11/12/08 and 12/3/08.

The first meeting we were forced to use the new video conferencing equipment because it cost something like $100,000. It consists of two 48 inch screens. On one screen you see the poor saps that do exactly what you do only better, about 100 miles away. On the other screen, you see yourselves.

We looked terrible.

They also arranged the conference room especially for us and lined us up so we could all be seen. I felt inspired so instead of writing useless notes I drew a useless picture. It ain't DaVinci, but it ain't bad. Frank, the network guy, got the pimp spot, the halo, and got called My Personal Savior for a week after the meeting. Tony, the guy second from the left, fell asleep and looked so pale on the monitor that I thought he died. I yelled, "Hey Tony, are you dead!?!" which woke him up and got a laugh.

I really should be writing for The Office.

Okay, that was the promised whimsy, here are the marigolds.

Ready for more halfassed DaVinci? Believe it or not, I have pissed the Mona Lisa (that's another DaVinci painting).

Another Example of Why Work is Sucking the Life Out of Me or Writing those Dilbert Cartoons is the Easiest Job in the World

Let's start off with a picture of my coffee mug and the following words, I love my boss (wink). So, while it is true that I hate my job with a passion worthy of Mel Gibson, and it is true that my job is mind-numbingly boring, unfathomly useless and demeaning in ways that only a piss bucket boy from the 1700's would understand, it does pay the bills and I love my boss (wink).

You saw the wink, right?

THE REST REMOVED BY ME

Somebody I trust, somebody way wiser than me, told me to delete this post. If you missed it, you didn't miss much. It was an email from my boss that was so unbelievably stupid, it was funny. Like that doesn't happen everyday, everywhere, everytime, to all of you.

My boss and everyone else in charge work very hard -- to make the rest of us feel small and insignificant, and miserable. But as someone else much wiser than me also has said, "Work is work. If it didn't suck worse than Karl Rove with a mouth full of broken glass, it wouldn't be work."

Standby, I plan on another post about work that is safe, and full of whimsy and marigolds.

Another bit about My Boss the Douche Bag.

Sandra Bullock's New Boyfriend

A friend at US Weekly slipped me a past-up of next week's issue -- featuring a Sandra Bullock exclusive. I have a good feeling about this guy. America's Sweetheart really deserves better. Let's all cross our fingers.

The girl does like her ink!

---

More Sandra Bullock

My Dick Explains Why The Blind Side is So Popular
Sandra Bullock Wins Oscar, I get More Traffic!

My Boss Thinks He's God or Rain, Rain Go Away

Rainiest March, ever. In New York City, it has been raining. Not your run of the mill rain. Rain of biblical proportions. Flooding. Power outages. Bronx River Parkway closed. I'm talking significant inconvenience.

But just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, God showed up. He told me to build an ark 300 cubits by 50 cubits by 30 cubits. I told Him that Noah Shapiro worked three cubicles down near the Women's Room -- which would be a primo spot if we had a few decent looking women working here which we don't.


God said watch that talk, He doesn't need another EEO incident and that I was the point person on this. I told Him I had a lot on my plate, could I get some overtime. He said no overtime, but give it top priority, goofing off on my blog would have to wait. I said what about my weekly progress report that was due every Monday whether or not there was any progress? He said shut up and listen -- and He said it very loudly.

I took notes on a yellow sticky pad: 1- build ark 2- gather pairs of every animal 3- prepare for a long journey with lots of mouths to feed 4- humans will need to procreate so find a mating pair or a suitable mate for myself.

I ask when it needs to be done. He says ASAP. I say ASAP? What kind of crap is that? Fiscal year ends in June, I don't have a budget in place. The best I can do is a feasibility report by September 30th. God says He'll shove the report up my ass, just get it done -- but HR gave a talk last month about how all deadlines should have hard and fast dates that are reasonable.

I know what you're thinking. Monday's suck. But there is an upside. The big Dope didn't leave a paper trail. No e-mails, no voice mails, just a lot of yelling. And wouldn't you know it, I wrote sloppy because I was stressed and then I misplaced the sticky pad.

I know the drill. What seems important to the big shots gets forgotten when the newest crisis bites them in the Holy Ass. I'll do just enough to pad my weekly status report and get a bullet or maybe two in the departmental monthly.

So now I have to build an ark of some reasonable dimension, gather a boatload of animals and a mating pair of humans. Or do I?

A pair of every animal? That's crazy talk. I only have three pairs of shoes ferChristsakes, work shoes, running shoes and basketball shoes, and I get by. What is this Guy? The Imelda Marcos of animals? He must have meant a pair of my favorite animal, I'm thinking golden retrievers, female so I don't have to deal with puppies.

A mating pair of humans... Shitno, I'm not traveling with a mating pair of humans. "Honey, my temperature is up today, do me now but I have a skype with my sister in Germany at 10 so please keep quiet."

Lots of mouths to feed? This has to be one of those management class bullshit things He learned about in one of those training classes He always gets to go to while I cover for Him. I'll display initiative. My yearly review included this gem in the section on Needs to Improve: Bob should proactively display initiative instead of always reacting retroactively to critical situations.

I figured I'd show Him proactive so I got a ticket on this weekend's Carnival Cruise Line Bahamas Getaway -- all the food is included, booze, too. Instead of Golden Retrievers (too big) I got two land snails at WalMart.com. They are going to arrive by overnight tomorrow morning.

I'm as golden as a retriever. The whole ordeal took ten minutes and now I can just pretend to be busy until Friday. Mating pair of humans? If God is going to bust my chops about that, I'll score me a tipsy MILF whose husband has abandoned her for the casino.

Looks like it's Annie Oakley Night on the Fiesta Deck! I don't think I'll have any problem restablishing our species with this bunch.

Life is good.

36 Hours in Phuket, Thailand: A Travel Guide*

*Not associated with the New York Times article that pissed me off and there are going to be a lot of Fuckit jokes so get over it. I know how it's pronounced but you're reading it not listening.



Last week, when the editors at George Magazine asked me to write an article on Phuket, I said, "No, go ahead, pitch the assignment." They said Phuket. I said, "No really, I have 36 hours to kill this weekend, I'll go anywhere you want me to go." They said Phuket. I said, "Phuk you!" stormed out of their offices and went to Starbucks for a latte with one muddaphukingly itchy trigger finger. If my barista cluckingly corrected my use of the word large, I was going to introduce the dude to Mr. Luger and Mrs. Hollowtip.

Then I got the text message, "phuket, you phuktard." Phuket? I spent most of 1982 in Phuket wearing nothing but a tie die tank top and a huge Thai-stick-smoking grin. I still get Christmas cards from a sweet, Laotian pool boy named Sammy that I only faintly remember.

A weekend in Phuket! 36 phun philled phours! I left JFK on Friday at 10:15 in the morning on Cathay Pacific Airlines. I arrived in Hong Kong 16 hours later, waited an hour and a half and then boarded another plane for Bangkok -- just a three hour flight, I can do that in my sleep and I did. A short one hour and fifteen minute wait for my one hour and fifteen minute hop to Phuket. Halfway around the world in only 23 hours and 20 minutes! This is a fantasy so the planes were always on time.

My agenda was ambitious so it was time to get started. Except it was 8:35 PM on Saturday night and I had to leave in 10 minutes so I could be back at work Monday morning. Phuck it! "Scotty beam me to Phuket and ready the transporter for a return on Sunday at 5 PM."

5 PM Friday

Head straight to the beach at Kamala for some well deserved relaxation. Rent a metal detector at Sammy's Seaside Shack (23 bahts) and see if you can find any remains of the tourists swept off this exact beach by the tsunami back in 2004. Nervously scan the horizon for rogue waves and the deadly undertoads.


7 PM

If you want to feel good about yourself, head up to Mount Nagakerd to gaze at the Phrapdavehuttcunninghamingpetermongkeefehfrancisomarottal-akenmuffyagatuppermankhiri Buddha -- his friends just call him Big. Enlightment ain't gonna happen so in order to reach some semblance of contentment, find the 147 foot Buddha's carved to scale penis and realize that, even if you're white, you still have three inches on the Big Guy.
9 PM

Forgo the clean, well-lit, touristy restaurants that are in actual buildings and head over to the abandoned lot near Robinson's Department Store. Find the stall, upside down crate or dung heap with the shortest line (because you still have ladyboys to fondle) and order the fried fish balls (44 bahts). Artfully arranged on a pile of bright green, fish pubic hair, these delightful mouthfuls are the perfect compliment to some locally brewed beer (6 bahts if purchased from the guy with the rusty 55-gal drum).

10 PM
Thailand's national sport, beating the living crap out of each other, is now available back home nightly on six different cable channels under slightly different names so, unless Jean Claude Van Damme is fighting Mr. T as the main attraction, skip it and go to sleep. Phuket basically shuts down at night anyway, you won't be missing anything.

9 AM Saturday

There's more to Phuket than hostess bars, go go clubs and ladyboy liasons, (You went to bed early? That was a joke, dude.), how does brunch in the jungle sound? The most unique way to get there is by orang taxi (247 baht). Africa has the almost human-like chimpanzee but only Thailand has gibbons and orangutans. The gibbons are native, the orangs are shipped in from the Malay peninsula to work in the burgeoning "green" tourism trade. You can't ride on the back of an endangered species back home, even at the Bronx Zoo, it's worth the extra baht.

Enjoy the floor show at the Gibbon Rehabilitation Project provided by the giddyingly, gregarious gibbons, over a bowl of steaming elephant trunk stew (45 baht).

Elephant does not taste like chicken. Served in ornately carved ivory bowls, elephant is reminiscent of the worst venison you've ever been forced to eat by your crazy hunter uncle, you know, the one that would get really pissed if he caught you spitting Bambi into your napkin. Chewy and dry, stringy like nylon, not cotton, elephant is like gnawing on a steel-belted radial only not as tasty. But it is illegal to eat in 137 of the 146 countries in the UN, so enjoy.


2 PM

Today is all about preparing for tonight. Elephant trunk? The Chinese swear it's great for ED although I'm not sure how they got that idea. You'll need to be loose because it's going to be strenuous. Time for a special Thai massage. Called the Satay Special (2397 baht) and available only at the Lemongrass Grill on University Place, it's a tantalizing mix of curry, honey and sand.


5 PM
Phuket is famous for all you can eat dinner buffets and some of them are located in actual buildings. The best bang for your buck is at Dennys on Route 47.


The pad thai is excellent.
7 PM
There are two things the Thais do better than anybody on the planet, 1. grow rice and 2. dress their boys up like girls. The Japanese have a proverb that roughly translated goes, "Not really gay if ladyboy not bigger than you." We're not talking height people and despite your apparent victory over Big Buddha, you need work. The elephant trunk soup is a good start but before you go partying stop by the cart of Madame Miraclegrow for a double shot of yadong, pronounced "yeah! dong!" (4500 baht). It's not called yadong for nothing, and while it may contain larger than trace amounts of mercury, lead, arsenic and cyanide, this stuff is like putting a Pinocchio nose on Karl Rove. You're going to need a snake charmer for Mr. Happy (a decent snake charmer 14 baht).




9 PM
Pick out a cute ladyboy and have some fun (66700 baht). How do you know if the woman you meet is packing? Well, if she hits on you, she's a working girl. If she hits on you and is a knockout supermodel that looks like that smoking hot token Asian on the Disney Channel? She's a man.

11 AM Sunday
Sweat out the cheap alcohol, bottomless guilt and suicidal tendencies on a beautiful beach where Leonardo Dicaprio made a movie nobody saw and James Bond frollicked with his own katoeys. Get some rest, you have 26 hours of travel ahead of you and a pile of work waiting when you get back to New York on Wednesday morning.
Other Wasted Weekends
36 Hours in Mexico City
36 Hours in Rajasthan, India
36 Hours in Zagreb, Croatia

I Like Me Some Eyebrows

Today's guest blogger is a frequent contributor of insightful posts and unsightly stains, my dick.

Last night I was watching an old French porno art film starring my new favorite actress of all time. The setup was perfect. It involved an old chain-smoking French guy with a big belly and a beard and the young, supple nanny from some quaint, provincial town, maybe, how the hell do I know, I don't speak French. An excruciatingly long pan from her high heels past her nylons, garters, frilly things, taut little belly, large natural conservancies, over her long slender neck framed by her golden locks to her classically gorgeous face without any eyebrows. No eyebrows? Okay, no prob. Except it really bothered me. Turns out I need a face to have eyebrows.

That's a photo of Brigitte with eyebrows.

This fascinates me. According to a guy on Wikipedia, who may or may not know anything about eyebrows, the main function of an eyebrow is to protect the eyes from salty fluids and rain. So unless you are into godzilla bukake, these particular body parts are not required for procreation.

I found this example of a woman with an outstanding pair of eyebrows, full, and nicely shaped.



No, but seriously, there are many famous examples of sex symbols without eyebrows including Queen Elizabeth I and these two:

None of these women have ever done anything for me. What the deuce? Another function of eyebrows, specifically in humans, is to facilitate the expression of emotion. I can see that being important in an actual relationship but we're talking old, French art films here. Brigitte is like 70 today. Why should I care if a few pixels in a streaming video are lighter than they should be?

So I tried an experiment. Here's the beautiful Cosmo covergirl with and without. "Yo, Tony, I'll take the one on the left, youse can have a go at her friend."


She's still attractive but there is a significant drop off. So, I tried it again, with a woman with small, perky delicate eyebrows.

I like me some eyebrows.

More Wall Street Journal Humor - Global Warming Wine-ing

Another Post Courtesy of the Wall Street Journal - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

The Wall Street Journal has a daily cartoon called Pepper and Salt that I really, really don't like. Apparently, rich Wall Street scumbags have their own unique form of humor that is not funny. Here's today's cartoon.


Stop the presses!!! The Wall Street Journal has finally admitted that global warming exists. Has Dick Cheney noticed a lessening in quality of the fine French champagne he swills by the bucketload? I know nothing about wine. My wine of choice right now? Prosecco, because it's as close as you can get to a soda that will give you a buzz -- not counting rum and Coke. The OpEd page of the Journal is full of articles about the climate change hoax but when they are going for a laugh, those suits are willing to push it straight to the edge.

When you first read these cartoons you think, oh no, they're just like the cartoons in the New Yorker, I'm just too stupid to understand them. But after weeks of analysis, I've come to the conclusion that we're smart enough, they just suck, and they almost never have anything to do with business, or the right wing agenda of the Wall Street Journal.

This is the part of the post where I attempt to write funnier captions. Don't forget, this is a "business" comic for Wall Street Journal readers that is officially housed in the collections of the Harvard Business School Library assuring that future generations of MBA assholes will have no sense of humor. If you are the president of a major university and want to house a collection of my work, e-mail me.

And today's winner so far is:

As always, I will continue to add captions to this post all day until I think of something funny. You are invited to help but you won't because leaving a comment is too much damn effort, bitch. Note: There are a bunch of these cartoon rips so just scroll on down.

A Quick Note on Sandra Bullock's Buttocks

Because of a bit I posted back in December (called something like My Dick Explains Why The Blind Side is So Popular), when someone goes to Google in search of Sandra Bullock's buttocks, Google offers up me.

Type in Google Image Search:

"Sandra Bullock ass" and I'm Number 1

"Sandra Bullocks ass" and I'm Number 1
"Sandra Bullock big butt" and I'm Number 2.

Why do I know this? Sunday night Sandra Bullock won an Oscar and the world's great unwashed went in search of her ass. And found me.

The traffic is off the hook, yo...

The Ball-Busting Beauties of Conservatism

Mr. Brian Morehead
Senior Youth Coordinator
Young Republicans for Freedom


Dear Sir,

I am writing to you because I have a major problem. I am 17 and I think I'm a good conservative. I have attached a photo of my bedroom. You can see that I have decorated it exactly like Bill O'Reilly told us to in his O'Reilly's Factor for Kids Survival Guide.

At the recent Conservative Political Action Conference, you guys were handing out these really big posters of Sarah Palin and Ann Coulter. The nice young women told me that I should hang them up on the wall of my bedroom or office. Then she said I should imagine that I'm married to a conservative lady that looks just like Mrs. Palin or Mrs. Coulter. I shouldn't pretend that I'm actually married to them because Jesus says you shouldn't covet your neighbor's wife.

I always pick Mrs. Palin because she's hot and Mrs. Coulter is so skinny I'm afraid I might hurt her if I try to do sex with her. Then I imagine that the lady that looks like Mrs. Palin and I are in bed and we are trying to make a Christian baby. Usually, another lady that looks like Mrs. Coulter is sitting in my desk chair watching us, while she examines herself for feminine problems.

Then the weird stuff always happens. Mrs. Palin's identical twin sister starts moaning about making the baby "Now!" and then President Ronald Reagan shows up and he's naked. I push the nice lady away, President Reagan teabags me and I splooge into his Brill Creamed coiff. Finally, President Reagan bangs both the broads, steals my wallet and gives my mother an abortion.

Does this mean I'm a liberal?

Sincerely,


Lance Straightntrue

---

Dear Lance,


Please don't worry. You are still a fine upstanding conservative. Your episodes are caused by Borrack the Muslim and the Jews.


However, if you don't seek help from your local minister soon, you may become a Lincoln Log Conservative. "Lincoln Loggers" are conservatives but not very good ones. I have included a photo of Ann Coulter signing her poster to use as cannon fodder. Please try to imagine her fine ass whenever President Ronald Reagan's ass interrupts your imaginary baby making.


Stay the course, Lance. We are planning on releasing an Elisabeth Hasselbeck poster in the near future.



United for a Stronger America,



Brian Morehead
Senior Youth Advisor

Curling Been Berry, Berry Good to Me

Come for the hot women of curling, leave when you realize that this is a comedy writer's blog. It was a good run while it lasted and its lasted way too long.

Madeleine Dupont, Nicole Joraanstad and the rest of the Curling Cuties sent approximately 11,000 hornybastards to my blog. But now that the olympics are over, I'm going back to my raunchy skewering of sports, Rupert Murdoch and whatever else tickles my bone.

So here is one last photo of our favorite Dane, Madeleine Dupont:

Damn, how delicious is that? I wanna nibble on that mole until her toes curl...

Yup, no more photos of curling women -- unless my dream comes true and I become a Mormon, marry Maddie and Nicole Joraanstad and start posting photos of my incredibly blonde family all over my blog.

Doesn't grandma and little Melon-y look happy! I know what you're thinking, you own a jacket and a shirt with buttons? Nah, they're loaners.

Or maybe, ESPN will stop showing the nightly World Championship of Poker and show us some curling now and again!!! I got a better shot at being the king of a small european country.