There is nothing funny or cool about this at all.  That said, I’ve already sent my resume to TSA, offering my services as an airport security breast checker.  For every Heidi Montag, there are at least 10 ladies who don’t want to admit to having implants.  And how are we to know whether said ladies intend on using our juvenile fascination with grotesquely over-sized bazooms to blow a hole in the side of the red-eye from LAX to JFK?  Gentleman, we must be vigilant in the face of such diabolical plots, and I am prepared to bite the bullet, to feel up every set of sweater puppies (profiling = bad) that walks through an airport.  And if I feel like it, maybe I could report whether or not my hands detect anything fishy.  It’s a dirty, thankless job, but freedom comes at a price my friends.

Persons of Interest:

1. Kelly Brook

2. Sophie Howard

3. Jwoww but not Snookie

4. The female population of Chatsworth (Porn Capital USA)

5. Christina Hendricks

6. …I get the feeling this list will never end

What is wrong with me? How do I not know who this beautiful, heaven-sent ray of sex is already? Something must be up with my hot-chick radar. Man, I gotta get my act together. Oh wait, no, I get it now! It’s because she’s from that show that I have never watched, ever, not once, not even when my girlfriend wanted to, 90210!

Yes, the heat incarnate that is Lowndes plays some dame called Adrianna on that show, and she appears to have no trouble at all taking her clothes off, which is lucky for those of you that are forced to watch the CW by the women in your life. At this point I could bore you with trivia from her IMDB page, like how she apparently uses hair extensions, or how she is an accomplished singer with four hit songs — and how that’s actually sort of surprising and admirable. I could tell you stuff about her, but I won’t. Just look at her pictures. They contain all you need to know.

Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt from a story I was just inspired to write without really knowing anything about Jessica (other than that she’s so purty that I would sell my current gf into a lifetime of slavery just for the chance to use that $100 or so to pay for Jessica’s dinner**).

Here goes:

Antonio Banderas and Mr. Church were relaxing in the parlor, as was their custom on a calm Sunday afternoon, smoking cigars and eating ice cream, arguing about the politics of the day. The gentlemen were joined by a mutual friend, one Miss Jessica Lowndes, whose affections both Antonio and Mr. Church were trying very hard to win. Pouring a scotch for herself, Miss Lowndes suggested a drunken contest to determine which man would escort her to the Jamboree that evening. The gentlemen agreed, quickly finished their cigars and ice cream, and set about beating the hell out of one another. Antonio, poised for victory after smashing a bottle of port on Mr. Church’s face, suddenly suffered an aneurysm, and fell to the now-bloody parlor floor, stone dead. Miss Lowndes helped Mr. Church bury the body under a rose bush just outside the veranda. They skipped the Jamboree, opting instead to smoke a relaxing marijuana cigarette together. Many sweaty hours later, Miss Lowndes offered Mr. Church a high-five before passing out, in ecstasy.

The End.

**If my current gf is reading this, I’m not kidding.

Sooooo many questions left unanswered.  First, how drunk do you have to be to not realize that you are breaking into a bank?  That’s either a real cozy bank or Rip’s interior decorator sucks.  Does his house have a vault?  Also, how is Rip not in jail yet?  This is like the bajillionth time he has pulled something like this.  Seriously, dude has lots of drunken arrests.  I guess old lunatics reeking of booze and firing pistols are not a serious issue in some part of the country.

At what point is someone considered a threat to the public?   Rip’s been crazy for a long time–here he is attacking Norman Mailer with a hammer some 40 years ago.  Get’s good around 1:40.

Last Thursday, President Obama decided he needed to fan the flames of Republican hatred by bowing at another photo op. This time it was to Pam Iorio, the Mayor of Tampa, when the President was in Florida to announce the new high-speed rail system. To recap, first he bows to the Saudi King, which is weird but Bush held hands with the King so whatever. Next, Obama bows to Emperor Akihito, though the gesture isn’t completely unprecedented as bowing in Japan is customary to say the least. Now, Obama bows to the Mayor of Tampa? I’m not sure what’s going on, but the President seems to be bowing to people in decreasing orders of significance. I mean, the King is a pretty big cheese, Akihito is just a figurehead, and Mayor Iorio is just some lady who was nearby. Soon, Obama will be bowing to Joe Biden and every other retard on the street.

Is this news? Maybe not, but then again Kruschev went down in the history books as a dipshit for banging his shoe on a table and that only happened once. It’s certainly a weird move for the President, who can no longer argue that he’s just showing respect to foreign monarchs. Perhaps he’s trying to exhibit his humility, after his State of the Union address was mocked for being too narcissistic. Or maybe Michelle was back in Washington and he heard that Iorio is a cheap date (Barry, you dog!). Who knows, who cares? Whatever the reasoning, it’s sure to send the cable news sharks into a frenzy, so hopefully John Stewart will have something funny to say about it.

The Rodenator…

Or how about the

Varmint Grenade…

“Originally developed for military applications” means Phil will be dead as hell.  This is reality PETA, so pay attention.  If they let Phil loose, he pretty much has nothing to look forward to except being cold and hungry all the time and one day having his teeth blown out his asshole via a “calculated concussive force.”

Before today, I was all for the ethical treatment of animals.  I’m not some sicko who enjoys torturing small furry creatures.  I didn’t murder my neighbors cat when I was a kid or anything.  But so help me  Black Jeebus, if PETA succeeds in actually getting Punxsutawney Phil replaced with some goddammed ro-butt, I am gonna put a Jihad on his entire fucking species.  Just to prove a point.  Not sure what that point would be, but I’m pretty sure it’d piss some people off.

Oh hell, just for good measure.

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Which brings me to my next point. Can we put the last nail in the coffin of angsty little fucks yet? Like most, I enjoyed Catcher when I read it in the 6th grade, but c’mon already. Holden Caulfield was a dick. He was the original useless mope-ster and his example ushered in an era where we encouraged entitled brats to cry about how good they had it. Thanks for paving the way to the wasteland that is youth culture today, Salinger. Now every pimply faced tween shithead has carte blanche to tell his mom to fuck off and throw cold mac n cheese in her face. I for one am sick of kids pretending they feel things harder than any other person in the history of the universe, sick of kids scratching their arms up with razor blades during their nightly cry-gasms, sick of fucking jet-black bangs in peoples faces. That’s right; I hold Salinger accountable for Emo haircuts.

I wish we could somehow restore the go get ‘em ethic of the scrappy little cockney bastard. Imagine an America where nobody aspires to be another rejected douche on Idol, where snot-nosed pukes would feel lucky to work two shifts at the saw mill. So lets retire Caulfield; it’s not like he’s relevant anymore in a world where the best we can hope of any kid is that he successfully graduates ass-clown college and becomes a hipster.
R.I.P. J.D.

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Kinky news update! A man by the name of Hans Kurt Kubus was arrested in Christchurch, New Zealand, for walking around with 44 lizards in his underwear. The maximum number of animals the Kiwis allow you to put in your pants is five, so Hans was seriously over the fucking limit here.

Actually Hans was trying to smuggle the creatures back to Germany where he could fetch around $2000 for each lizard. Had he just been caught masturbating with lizards in his pants, the authorities might have looked the other way, but it turns out they are all serious business when it comes to poaching and smuggling, especially when you are dealing in endangered geckos and skinks. Sucks for Hans, who has been in jail for 14 weeks already, no doubt anxious by now to be deported to the Fatherland.

There are two things about this story that I really love. One is that the best plan Hans came up with was to put the lizards in his underwear. I mean, he’s German, so of course he’s going to have some bizarre fetish, I get that. But there have got to be better ways to smuggle lizards than by letting them wriggle around on your junk. The second thing is that Hans has been traveling to New Zealand almost every year for the past decade, which means he’s been successful more often than not — and that’s just ridiculous.

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Just when you thought it was safe to be Nancy Kerrigan… CHOMP!  The mutant shark of bizarre tragedy bites your life in half at the waist, and your father dies from a heart attack induced by your brother, who goes to jail.  Double chomp!  It’s reasons like these that I no longer pretend to be Nancy Kerrigan, especially not at the beach.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, allow me to clarify.  Woe has once again settled upon the house of former olympic figure-skater Nancy Kerrigan.  Her father, Daniel, and her brother, Mark, apparently got into a fairly heated screaming match which resulted in fisticuffs.  Typically, I support the settling of differences with a spirited throw down, but c’mon, not against one’s own father, and certainly not if the old coot has or likely may have a heart condition.  That’s common sense right?  I mean, look at Daniel Kerrigan’s face.  That’s the face of a man who enjoys bacon, egg, and cheese sammiches.

Well, Mark Kerrigan is a jack ass (re: ex con) who can’t be trusted to make intelligent, rational decisions, because he beat his father senseless until the old man passed out on the kitchen floor.  According to Mark, who was shortly thereafter arrested for assault, he didn’t take his hands off Daniel Kerrigan’s throat on account he thought his ancient, decaying father was merely faking being unconscious and hurt.  Brilliant.  I’ll be sure to use that one next time I drunkenly choke an old man to death because he won’t let me use the phone.  Oh, had I not mentioned that?  Mark Kerrigan grabbed his father by the throat and throttled him into cardiac arrest because Big Bad Mark wasn’t given the phone the instant he demanded it; when the cops showed up they noted Mark’s apparent intoxication, and had to subdue him via mace to the face.  No word on how long it took Mark to kill his father, or when the Brenda Kerrigan, Nancy and Mark’s mother, realized the severity of the situation and called 911.  Admittedly, details are sketchy at best as the only eye-witness testimony is that of Mark Kerrigan himself–because his mother is blind!  Way to go dude, you just widowed your blind and helpless mother.

Now, I know it’s only cool right now to feel bad for people in Haiti (and not, for instance, the domestic homeless folk), but maybe you could bite the bullet and suffer the embarrassment of feeling slightly bad for Nancy Kerrigan’s family on top of all those Haiti emotions.  Her kids are never going to get to see their Pep-Pep again, and it’ll probably be quite awhile before they get to see their crazy uncle again either.  Though Uncle Mark definitely needs some time to cool off and think about what he’s done.  “Mommy, what’s a recidivist?”  Just sayin.

Finally, some advice for Nancy:  January is not your month.  Invest in a bomb shelter and maybe think about living out each and every January in the safety of said shelter for the rest of you life.

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REJOICE!  Today marks the 50th anniversary of the conception of bubble wrap!  If you didn’t get drunk for squirrels on Friday (yeah right), or eat pie on Saturday, then you most definitely have to celebrate today’s useless holiday.  If you work in an office, find your way to the mail room and just go to town on the packing supplies.  If you don’t work in an office, aka you are unemployed, go to Staples and see how long you can “test drive” their various bubbly wrapping wares before they toss you out of the store.  I don’t care if ya’ll don’t have access to proper bubble wrap–burn some friggin Styrofoam packing peanuts as a sacrifice to the gods of fragile packages if you must.  But do not pass up this opportunity to make a spectacle of yourself, because what the fuck else is today for?  It’s not like the 25th has any significance.  It’s all about making a mid-winter Monday slightly less hellish.

Back story: bubble wrap wasn’t invented 50 years ago today, it was just “thought of.”  The 5th Monday in January is just an arbitrary day chosen by Radio 95 of Bloomington, Indiana WAAAAAAAAAAY back in 2001, no doubt shit out onto an idea list/daily action plan by some jaggoff intern routinely wiping his ass with whatever chores he received from the station’s rude morning wake-up crew.  Then somehow the whole thing took off.  At least, that’s how I prefer to envision the inception of this glorious holiday, some pimply teen with a bad attitude, hanging out in the moldy break room, huffing freon, giving a big middle finger to his gay uncle who got him the job.  “Bubble wrap day, that’ll show them.  Who the fuck cares about bubble wrap?  They’ll get the worst phone calls ever when they read this on the air, probably lose all their sponsors.  Gawd, I hate working in radio.  They are totally gonna miss me when I make good on my suicide pact.”  The rest is history (R.I.P. awkward teenage douche).

Clearly I prefer fantasy scenarios to fact-checking.  But it’s bubble wrap day; who cares?  Use today as pretense to get into an uncomfortable bubble popping war with an otherwise unapproachable female co-worker (or nearby female shopper if you are in Staples).  CATHARSIS! SHIT YEAH!

Mild-mannered citizens on-board US Airways Express Flight 3079 fuckin’ freaked when they saw a 17-year-old Orthodox Jewish kid whip out these crazy little black leather boxes and strap ‘em to his head and arm. It was such an ordeal that the flight was taken off its course from New York to Louisville, landing instead in Philly, a city where nobody gives a shit about anything. Well, anything not involving the Eagles. Or the Phillies. Certainly not a plane blowing up, in any case.

Turns out the kid was just doing his morning prayer routine, and those lil’ boxes he strapped to himself were filled with scripture. Turns out those boxes are called phylacteries (or tefillin in Hebrew). Also they’ve been in use for thousands of years. Not that any of that matters, because this is America, where people are justifiably paranoid as hell about anything the least bit sketchy when it comes to planes. Especially if said sketchy business is any sort of religious expression that doesn’t involve a white Christ. The government agrees:

“It’s something that the average person is not going to see very often, if ever,” FBI spokesman J.J. Klaver said.

Basically, if you are a WASP and you feel like shitting yourself at the airport, you have carte blanche to do so as long as there is somebody nearby muttering a prayer in foreign-speak. Reactionary counter-terrorism policies having worked like a charm so far, they really just ought to ban all religions from airports and airplanes, the same way kids can’t pray in public schools. Maybe I’m being insensitive here, but at least we wouldn’t have to put up with those annoying Hare Krishnas shoving “free” books in our faces and then demanding at least a $20 donation.

We finally did it, boys. The ultimate dream of every super villain ever will soon be a reality because we figured out a way to kill the universe. I give you, SPACE GUN!!!! Actually, it’s a cheap and efficient means of launching supplies into orbit, but how fucking cool would it be if we built and and fired the thing and then the sky just starts bleeding everywhere, some booming voice screaming “GOD DAMMIT! What the fuck did you do that for?” I would really love that.

I digress. The space gun itself is a simple half-mile long tube that floats in the ocean. Boring, right? It would be, except the man behind space gun, physicist John Hunter, succeeded in shooting shit at 13,000 miles per hour, which is precisely where my idea for a space trebuchet fell apart. John still fucked the pooch in my eyes though, because his little pet project generates 5,000 Gs, which would pretty much melt you if you happened to try and hitch a ride on the payload.

If you read comics like I never do, you perchance might note that John Hunter may very probably be a fan of artist John Cassaday, and without a doubt you will condemn John Hunter as a plagiarist. That’s because Cassaday has drawn at least two titles where space guns play very prominent roles in the story line, namely Planetary and Astonishing X-men. I attribute the idea of the space gun to Cassaday and not the writers because, speaking from experience, I know that writers don’t do shit. Plus I’ve never heard of Joss Whedon.

By now you have probably heard about Google threatening to shut down their Chinese operation. If you haven’t, pull your head out of your ass for a minute and set your peepers on the following quick refresher. In 2006, Google agreed to censor all of their search results according to Beijing’s requirements, thus granting the Googster access to the worlds largest consumer market (China, doy). Now, after a few years of fending off relentless hacking attempts, Google is fed up, promising to ditch Google.cn and bail if the cyber-terrorism doesn’t stop. Also they no longer want to censor their search results. Hey, as long as we are making ridiculous demands, can I have the head of Wong Kar Wai on a platter? And how bout a pony? Fudge it, I demand you genetically modify a pony of my choosing to have the head of WKW.

Beijing, naturally, doesn’t give a shit. And why should anyone? The only thing unexpected here is that Google apparently grew a conscience. China must treat Google like the dried up whore it is or else besmirch their authoritarian supremacy. The original deal was for Google to bend over for a few paltry yuan, and Google agreed, ravenous for some spicy Red totalitarian action. It seems the internet wizards at Google did not expect Red China to play rough. Pretty stupid, Google; this is a country where dissent warrants execution, and you expect them to respect your boundaries. Like any passionate rapist, Beijing wants its concubine all to itself, demanding to know who else Google goes to bed with, and so The People’s Cyber Army reaches deep into Google’s databases and just hacks the shit out of them.

Let me paint a picture of the ideological climate Google is combating. Porn is illegal and you can be rewarded for snitching. Granted, the reward may very well be a golden bullet that your family digs out of the back of your skull since that information comes from a state run news agency. Avatar was deemed a threat to innocent minds and pulled from theaters. Because giant blue cats having sex is perverse–the cats should be red.  Embezzling THE PEOPLE’S money is punishable by death, but selling a dog for 500 grand is totally cool. Finally, China supports the hilarious exploits of a certain glorious leader. In short, China is batshit insane.

If you have a solid plan for how Google can come out of this situation clean, or if you admire Chinese pragmatism, let me know in the comments.

Is it really time for another Chickolith? Has it been so long? I swear, it was only a day or two ago that I was getting mildly aroused at my desk (Starbucks) on account of that skank in the bikini from that show where tone-deaf retards sing for the un-enthused British guy with the bad hair cut. Granted, I blacked out on Christmas Eve and belligerently stumbled all the way through to the New Year, but, well, I guess time flies, huh? Side note: do not take your laptop into the bathroom with you at Starbucks; they frown on that.

Back to the task at hand, I present to thee: AnnaLynne McCord!

Now, I know what you’re saying, “Who the hell is this hot mess of sex? Why should a non-Kardashian deserve media attention? Dammit to hell that golden shower video is hard to find on the interwebz these days!!!” Well, if you close your eyes and think hard enough, you will probably remember AnnaLynne from her breakout role in Transporter 2 with Jason Statham, where she played “Car Jacking Girl.” If that doesn’t ring any bells then surely you recognize her from that one episode of The O.C. where she played “Hot Girl” and mumbled all her lines unintelligibly.

Also she is on something called 90210, whatever that is. But if you are like me then you don’t watch network bullshit geared towards tweens, and you probably also know her best from Nip/Tuck where she played Eden Lord, a girl whose hymen was broken by a horse. I can’t make this stuff up, people.

AnnaLynne McCord, boys, have at ‘er.

Not since Mallory Lewis decided to carry on her dead mother’s ventriloquist act have I been this disgusted with what a human being decided to force into a sheep. Your favorite semi-legitimate Russian news outlet, Pravda.ru, is reporting that a sheep in Turkey gave birth to a still-born lamb with a human face.  Wait… still-born? Shit yes! Apocalypse averted!

Now, even though it’s obvious that God killed the demon chimera because it was too unholy to be allowed to live, science is trying to pass the beast off as a run-of-the-mill mutation, citing an over-abundance of vitamin A in the mother’s diet. Cripes, science, when were you going to tell me that too much vitamin A can result in horribly mutated babies? Since this is the first time I’m hearing about such a causal link, I’m choosing to ignore it, assuming you made it up.

If you follow human/animal hybrid news–Mr. Hands I’m looking at you–then you probably remember a story from last year about a goat-boy born in Zimbabwe. The residents of the village in which that creature was born were proactive, quick to kill and burn the remains of goat-boy, eradicating its evil from the face of the Earth before science could get its greasy mitts on it and start spinning lies. Kudos, Zimbabwanites.

Whether ol’ sheepy-weepy was sired by demons, space aliens, or a heartbreakingly lonely drunk remains to be seen–the father is understandably reluctant to step forward. I would question what sort of mind could possibly commit such an atrocity, but it seems anybody can fall prey to the charms of a sultry sheep given the right circumstances…

(Photo Via: Feltworks)

Dear Baby Jeebus,

The guy who plays Dexter, television’s cuddliest, most lovable serial killer, has Hodgkin’s lymphoma.  Is this some kind of twisted joke, or did you lose a bet to Satan?  Why do you hate all the things that bring us joy?   I swear, if you don’t fix this man, if you try to take Dexter away from me, I am going Hare Krishna.  You owe me this for killing my dog.  The End.

So apparently the Lord heard my prayer, because Michael C. Hall announced today that his cancer is in remission.  Actually, today was the first anybody knew that he had cancer at all, let alone that he beat the disease and is poised to make a full recovery.  Hall is even well enough to attend Sunday’s Golden Globe Awards where he is nominated for Best Dramatic Actor…

HOLY SHIT.  JC, I think I just caught a glimpse of your master plan here.  With Dexter disclosing his illness, he’s sure to garner the sympathy vote!  Not to mention that he admirably suffered through his affliction in private, and with dignity!  This guy is a fucking shoe in.   I owe you an apology Jeebus; it seems like for once you aren’t going to kill something I love and then rub my face in it.

PS – We still drinkin this weekend, Jeebus?

Because the vanity of a useless fame-whore counts for news these days, I get to tell you about Heidi Montag and her recent trip (back) under the knife. Really, there isn’t much more information needed, except maybe a list of the procedures she had done.  According to USA Today (via People), they are as follows:

01. mini brow lift
02. botox
03. nose job revision
04. fat injections in the cheeks
05. chin reduction
06. neck liposuction
07. ears pinned back
08. breast augmentation revision
09. liposuction on waist, hips, thighs
10. buttock augmentation

At least this explains why we haven’t heard from her and her gay husband in a few months. And here I thought it was because we all wised up and realized these jokers weren’t worth our time. Wrong! Heidi can still move tabloids off the shelves, apparently. Who wants to bet she’ll eventually get a rib or two removed?

Heidi 3.0 makes me hate society more than I thought possible in the salad days of Heidi 2.0. I feel so … dirty. WHAT HAVE WE BECOME, AMERICA? If you prefer the original Heidi, aka Heidi ZERO, let me know in the comments.

At first, this all sounds pretty bad ass. But then you realize the water crisis they are talking about isn’t the one where an angry sea rises up to claim the lives of all who dwell in the lowlands. Nope, climbing a fucking mountain to escape global-warming fueled tidal waves of drowning death is too perfect a symbolic act. Turns out the water crisis they refer to is the one where there is a shortage of clean drinking water. Now, I understand why they couldn’t call it the crisis of people too lazy to move out of the desert, or the crisis of failing to boil your gosh darn drinking water; they don’t want to seem callous and that makes sense. But why not call it the clean water crisis, or the crisis of the thirsty third world, so people at least know what you are talking about? 

Then again, consider this: who climbs to the top of one of the world’s tallest mountains where there is literally no water that isn’t frozen, where the only way to hydrate your feeble body is to try and melt snow by starting a fire in impossibly unforgiving conditions, where just standing around for 45 minutes is so likely to kill you that it renders your search for a drink utterly moot, all to make a point about there not being enough clean water for impoverished peoples who live thousands of miles away and/or in completely different climates? Answer: Idiots, my boy. Rich, vapid, idle idiots. Walking for the cure is one thing, but, like, come on. There has got to be a better way to spend your dime than sending celebrities on a publicity safari.

Still, you have to admire Jessica Biel for at least trying to do something for the good of humanity. After the direct-to-DVD failure of Powder Blue, in which nobody cared that she got totally nude, her career may very well be in the “Lohan Zone.” Public service and charitable acts, even misguided ones, might just warrant staying the hand of euthanasia. Well, if she stays super sexy, that is.

Warm Nude. Cherub Pink. Soft Bile?

So over the past few days there has been this confusing trend on Facebook where ladies update their status with a seemingly random color and leave it at that. You’ve probably noticed context-free posts like “Black” or “Misty Boysenberry” and, scratching your greasy noggin, thought, “There is no way that half of these are colors … Wait, why are all the sexy, hip girls that I am stalking on Facebook talking about colors?” Newsflash: It has to do with breasts. Each girl is telling you the color of the bra she is wearing that day, and, no, “Nude” does not mean she isn’t wearing a bra, nor does it mean she’s completely nekkid either. I know, shit.

At first it just seems like these tarts are trying to give us extra fuel for our nighttime imagination games, but the reality is much more of a downer. They are using their bodies to play mind games with you, just like every other fucking time a cute girl approaches you, trying to sell you something, in this case breast cancer awareness. Because who can be bothered when some concerned lady-volunteer approaches you on the street, clipboard under one arm, pink ribbon staring you down, asking for you to listen to some spiel? Their previous efforts having failed, they are trying to change the image of the disease. No longer shall the face of breast cancer be a woman’s–not your mother’s or your sister’s or that whore’s from the coffee shop you dated last year–the true face of breast cancer is breasts. Some people argue that bra color status updates send a mixed message, but you can pretty much dismiss that as bullshit poppycock. Now I’m not saying that the lives of women are not worth saving, but as a female friend of mine astutely pointed out, breasts are unquestionably worth saving (thanks for the cynicism Swygert).

Bra color protest is genius advertising; every straight man on Facebook is now interested. Plus, increasing numbers of lonely, attention-starved girls are bound to hop on the context-free-breast-cancer-awareness train. I mean, what better way to get your cause noticed than by using a website that exists solely for attention whoring? So lets applaud the ad-wizards behind the recent bra color status update assault. Breast cancer is finally worth getting an erection over. Might I suggest a breast cancer wet t-shirt contest next?

Last Saturday morning, Artie Lange’s mom was dropping off some food at her son’s Hoboken apartment, which is good news for fans of Howard Stern’s radio shenanigans, because Artie had decided to kill himself. So in she walks, good motherly intentions, only to find her troubled lad in a horrible state, probably wacked out of his mind on booze and drugs, but very definitely bleeding all over the place from several serious wounds. Say what you will about Artie, but his mother is a superhero, and you are not allowed to bitch the next time your mom stops by unannounced to force a home-cooked meal down your gullet. This is what moms are for, thwarting the suicide attempts of their wayward sons.

A crack team of surgeons managed to patch Artie up and save his life despite heavy blood loss. Police noted that six of the nine stabs were hesitation wounds, which means that Artie either had a crisis of conscience, or he was too messed up to figure out how to stab himself to death efficiently (knife goes IN, pointy end first, fellas). In any case, it’s sad if not unexpected news, but maybe Artie will finally get the help he needs on account of this.

I’m reminded of a bad poem I heard someone reciting shortly after Elliot Smith killed himself. I can’t recall the whole thing, but the phrase that stuck with me was “stabbing yourself in the heart is art, killing yourself is easy.” Neither is true for Artie Lange, though. May he live long and continue to be hilarious.

This Christmas, as you are unwrapping a pair of second-hand Air Jordans from last weeks funny pages (because your main-squeeze refuses to waste money on actual gift-wrap supplies), take a moment to thank baby Jesus that you don’t live in China, where dogs cost $500,000.

That’s right; a pure-bred Tibetan Mastiff costs almost as much as the Detroit Silverdome. A fucking dog. A pile of hair and slobber whose shit you are legally obligated to pick up off the sidewalk can, in China, fetch more than a white baby on the Black Market. Now, I love dogs–they are awesome–but you have to admit that unless you live on a ranch or never expect to know the love of another human being, dogs are just pets and basically good for nothing. Wait, scratch that… having a dog also makes it considerably less awkward when you hit on girls at the local dog park. But even then you’ll still be sinking significant portions of your hard earned wad on dog food, dog toys, leashes, muzzles, condoms (for the girls at the park), and you’re never going to see a return on any of that. It’s money down the drain. So how do you justify such a price tag? I mean, $500,000 is way too much to spend on Chinese food, no matter how authentic. The answer is so simple I feel like a failure for not having thought of it already: prostitution. One pimp in Beijing charges $30,000 per session with his main earner, a Tibetan Mastiff named Obama. If he’s anything like my dog back home, Obama makes at least $1.8 million an hour.

My advice for the New Year is to start whoring out your dog and to buy yourself some new shoes.

Last Minute Panic Gift Ideas Here!