Hillary Clinton Pelted With Tomatoes...

...which is a waste of perfectly good produce, if you ask me. Don't they have bricks in the Middle East?

Secretary of State Hillary "the Hildebeest" Clinton was greeted in the new "Moderate" "democratic" Egypt this weekend by a hostile crowd of people-who-wouldn't-dream-of-voting-for-the-Muslim-Brotherhood with taunts of "Monica!", "Monica!", and a shower of airborne salad components.

Couldn't have happened to a nicer person! One wonders if there was also a complementary Islamically-approved vinaigrette served with this humiliation.

Guess all that Smart Diplomacy is paying dividends, eh?


I applaud this "Moderate, modern, democratically-inclined, Islamic youth". They certainly seem smarter than our own!

UPDATE: Word has it that George W. Bush has been quoted as saying "At least they weren't throwing size-12 sandals, still covered in goat shit from the last orgy. Count your blessings, Little Lady! Welcome to my world, Bitch! Not so funny now, is it?"

Sorry, But Leslie Marshall Did Not Leave Her Tits Here...

This is to the anonymous doofus who keeps typing “Leslie Marshall Tits” into a search engine…every day for the last ten days, by the look of it…and somehow, keeps arriving at this blog, only to be disappointed:


a. Give it up, already. I too would like to see Leslie Marshall’s knockers, but alas, she’s yet to accidentally-on-purpose hit me up with a Twitter sext, and I doubt that's ever going to happen.

b. You will not find Leslie Marshall’s hooters here. I have no pictures of them, and I have never even made as much as a passing reference to Leslie Marshall’s Bra Buddies on this blog in the last seven-plus years…until now. If, by some strange chance, I ever did manage to acquire a photograph of Leslie's cans, you'll be the first to know (even before Brietbart), and then you can Grease the Pelican all you want to it, promise.

c. You would think that after being directed here at least 10 times, and upon arrival, finding absolutely no evidence of Leslie Marshall’s Rib Balloons, you might give up this Quixotic quest of yours and find something more worthwhile to do with your time…like maybe take up a search for Maureen Dowd’s snatch(apparently no one else has found that in about 25 years or so, to judge from her demeanor).

d. By the way, I happen to know that you’re the same dude who’s been searching here for ‘S.E. Cupp in a bikini”. Dude, I admire your taste in ladies, but really, how many times does it take until the message gets through? You’re not going to find what you’re looking for here.

e. Get some fucking help, you degenerate. One might get the idea that you're masturbating to the entire FoxNews female contributor line up.

Oh, and while we're on the topic of degenerates; it seems my peeps in the Middle East are back again in force, because the top search terms that led you to this blog this past month are “Pakistani Ass Sex”, and our perennial favorites 'Donkey Sexe’ or 'Donkeye Rape' (those are not typos: it’s how our masturbating bestiality aficionados in the Middle East manage to spoof the Islamic internet filters. And these people built nuclear weapons?).


Now, I’ve remarked on this phenomenon before, but what’s really disturbing is that it has persisted for over a year now. There’s an awful lot of horny Pakis out there, huh? What’s the matter bub? I know; it gets bitterly cold and lonely in those caves up in the Northwest Territories, or maybe it’s become unbearably hot and sticky in your cell at Gitmo, and you’re just up for a shag – but not the usual kind, because your five wives haven’t, as Howard Stern used to say “Shaved That Thang” since Allah was in knee socks – and maybe release has become problematic without all those turn-on barnyard sounds, or maybe you and the boys in Sana’a have simply worn out the local goats, but you won’t find donkey rape videos here, either.

If there’s anything more disgusting than the thought of Muslims, then its Muslims looking to rub one out over one of those shows you see in Tijuana on Spring Break. Note to Rep. Peter King: next time you hold hearings on the causes of terrorism and ‘radicalization’, you might want to line up a panel of psychiatrists to explain the Muslim penchant for sick sexual fetishes that involve animals.

You people are sick, you know that?

The Sexiest Woman in America...

…just would have to be a fictional television character. By the way, that photo is obviously Photoshopped and I didn’t do it: I simply found it on the web.


Flo the Progressive Insurance chick is, without a doubt, the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. This is both exciting and a crying shame…and maybe a little disturbing, too.

Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something about that perky, quirky babe in her 1960’s up do, and 1950’s eye makeup, but if you’re a red-blooded ‘merican male, after a while you start to wonder just what is underneath that hospital-white apron and the ‘tricked-out nametag’, and what the Unicorns and Glitter girl just might be like in the sack.

And herein...ahem... lay (sorry) the genius behind Flo: She’s cute. She’s lovable. She’s so goddamned girly. And a far cry from what's available to the Average American Male.

It’s a pity that in Modern America most women fall into a category somewhere between ‘rabid piranha’ and ‘wounded wolverine with cramps’. Nearly fifty years of feminism has made your average babe about as approachable as a bear trap with a hair trigger. Women today are nasty. They are suspicious. They have a chip on their shoulder that causes a good many to consider anything with a beard and testicles to be a rape just waiting to happen. Where feminism hasn’t destroyed the natural affinity between Men and Women, it has fed the Modern Female with a great deal of other nonsense with which to clutter their brains; a Woman, they say, can do anything a Man can do, only better. And maybe this is true under certain circumstances, unless, of course, it requires brute strength, an ability to whizz standing up, or squashing spiders. It has also created a mindset wherein Men are often seen as dangerous, unnecessary, or, at best, an accessory.

Feminism has also dictated that wherever possible a woman should feign to think and behave as Men do, which is kind of a screwy idea since no Woman can think and behave as a Man does, if only for the simple fact that they’re not Men. Instead, women get their ideas of how they believe Men Think and Behave from the worst possible sources – the media, some book written by a half-baked therapist, or Cosmo, and until recently, Oprah. Nothing like getting advice on how to act like a Dude from another Chick. This has produced what I like to privately call “The Bruno”; a woman who goes out of her way to behave in a most unladylike manner, usually laboring under the deluded belief that she's ‘liberating’ herself. This sort of woman is combative, she uses foul language casually, has tattoos, tells dirty jokes that might even make me blush; she probably takes up a trade that once was the sole domain of Men (usually something to do with power tools, because they are a symbol of masculinity, and in a pinch, vibrate a lot).

Bruno doesn’t want you to come near her. You can tell from her demeanor, and the puss on her face that could curdle used motor oil. She bares her fangs and threatens to kick your ass if you do come near her, and if she decides that she will, indeed, have you, she reserves the right to be the aggressor. She's learned the Art of Wooing Men from watching re-runs of Oz. If you ever try to turn the tables on her, or can't figure out her convoluted system of when to treat her like a woman, and when to treat her as whatever the fuck she wants to be treated like at this very second, she gets pissed and tells you to fuck off.

That’s when you don't find one from the other end of the spectrum: the complete, sperm-burping sluts who never met an STD they didn’t enjoy passing on, usually out of spite or stupidity.

Flo, on the other hand, seems infinitely approachable. She seems friendly. She’s so naturally feminine. If you aren’t turned on by that then there’s something wrong with you, Homeboy.

But, alas, Flo isn’t real. She’s the invention of an advertising agency and a rather talented comedic actress. I’m almost positive that a ‘real’ Flo must exist somewhere in America (there had to be a role model, after all), but I have yet to find her. This is the greatest tragedy of all…for Men all over America.

If there were a million Flo’s, there’d be a million more happily married couples, I should think.

Why, if Anthony Weiner had had a Flo to go home to he wouldn’t have to momentarily stop rubbing one out to type “Baby, that feels sooooo good…” into his Blackberry, and trying exceptionally hard (shit,I had to go there, didn't I?) to make it sound convincing, and perhaps never daring to put his Congressional career at risk. If Arnold had a Flo to go home to, he wouldn’t be banging hideously ugly domestics…or hideously ugly Kennedys (sorry, that’s redundant), either, for that matter.

And before someone (usually some frigid, trailer-trash, diesel-dyke-bitch with a Community College Sociology Degree) starts accusing me of harboring some sick male fantasy of wanting to return to the ghastly days of the pre-sexual revolution, when Women were mere kitchen slaves and baby-makers, mere objects to be put upon a pedestal and fawned upon, I want you to think about just how liberated Flo truly is:

She has an important job. One, incidentally, she seems to enjoy immensely, and one in which she appears to have a great deal of responsibility. One gets the impression that Flo runs the entire operation there at the Progressive Store, and in some of the commercials she’s seen training her male colleagues in the in’s-and-out’s of the insurance business (oops, shouldn’t say ‘in-and-out’ in reference to Flo, someone might get the wrong idea), and sometimes giving them orders and directions. She’s obviously the leader of All Things Progressive Store.

Flo dances to the beat of her own drummer. She can be flighty, but is always serious about the business of insurance. She’s funny and witty, and in her own way, as sharp as a tack. She appears to be one of those ‘people persons’ I keep hearing about but never seem to actually encounter. Flo talks to everyone in the same friendly and helpful manner, regardless of race or sex. She doesn’t seem to notice such petty distinctions in any way whatsoever. Flo is never judgmental, she’s never harsh, and you can never imagine a four-letter invective flying out of her mouth.

One almost believes that Flo never uses a bathroom; when she has to answer Nature’s Call, you imagine a flock of snow-white doves and little pink elves descending from the skies to take it away for her.She's sweet, she's pure, you could never in a million years attribute anything dirty, unseemly, or disgusting to her.

But Flo has a rebellious side, too, you know; She knows and loves her motorcycles (she rides a 950 V-twin, in case you’ve forgotten), and yet somehow she always manages to pull that helmet off with her exquisite and meticulous hairstyle completely unruffled, with nary a bug in her teeth, her make-up undisturbed, and her virgin-white apron showing proudly beneath her leather jacket.

Flo is simply an awesome chick, in all respects. If all THAT isn’t the true Feminist Ideal – without the perpetual and figurative water retention – then I don’t know just what the fuck is. No man in his right mind would even dream of cheating on Flo. If there were more Flos, there'd probably be fewer homosexuals, too, and if not, then they could at least share eyeshadow.

You can keep your Miss Americas; you can have your surgically-enhanced “Real Housewives”; you can forget every Supermodel (except Kathy Ireland or Brooklyn Decker, maybe?) that has ever graced the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions, and I’ll take Flo over them every goddamned time, hand’s down, and twice on Sundays.

One of these days, when the Japanese finally perfect the Companion Robot, they could do far worse than to use Flo as their template and then mass produce the shit out of the sucker. The American Market for a robot that’s based upon a facsimile of a fictional woman that is far more appealing than most real live ones is a guaranteed money maker.

It might even save the Japanese economy.

You couldn’t produce a Flo Robot in this country, primarily because the Indian and Chinese Engineers we’d have to import know jack shit about Sex and girls, but mostly because the mere suggestion of it would send some Femzilla into a hissy fit for the ages (mostly out of jealousy), complete with lawsuits, boycotts, crying, and the withholding of sex….from someone….assuming someone would want any from a woman like that.

I’d like to see that potential Feminazi Champion hop right up on her Menstrual Cycle and challenge Flo to a bike race, if only to see Flo leave the bitch in the dust.

The Sorry Tale of Anthony Weiner…

The most aptly-named man in Washington, D.C. finally admitted to what the even the dumbest amongst us already knew, yesterday, and made a crying spectacle of himself on national television. Anthony Weiner did, indeed, shoot little beefcake photos of himself all over the internet to various women (he says six, but that’s probably no closer to the truth than his insistence that he was ‘hacked’ by right-wing hit squads was). He also admits to some telephonic heavy breathing, which is a vision that has firmly burnt itself into my mind's eye, much to my distress.

The entire apology/self-crucifixion production became surreal when Andrew Breitbart , the man accused of being Weiner’s ersatz hacker just happened to be in the neighborhood, and at the behest of the drooling press took over the event, demanding an apology while informing us that he has even more pictures of Weiner in even more compromising positions. This suggestion makes me fervently hope that my infected mind’s eye will do me a great favor and go blind before those are ever released.

There’s much talk amongst the flapping rectum class on television about Weiner’s ‘political future’. Only in America, and most annoyingly, only in New York, could a Congressman so obviously mislead the public, dissemble so unbelievably brazenly about the facts of his misdeeds, make a public penance in which he has to follow the man who’s been wrongly accused of wronging him, still consider it possible to have a career. Only in New York could such a man, who has a Congressional Ethics hearing or two in his future, probably an irate wife who can’t wait to rape him in the divorce trial (if she doesn’t divorce him after this, even if there’s no actual sex involved, she’s a retard), be considered worthy of having a Political Future.

Sadly, Congressdouche Weiner stands a better than even-money chance of being re-elected as things are now, barring some new revelation that one of his phone/e-mail playmates was underage, or a foreign spy. If it should turn out that one of Weiner’s phone friends was another man, the people of his district – where IQ is measured by that quaint expression ‘room temperature’; after all, they’ve already voted for the most insufferable asshole I’ve ever seen in my entire life six times, so they must be the cream of the crop, stupid-wise – even that wouldn’t stop them from voting for Congressman Chronic Online Masturbator.

Some would see it as an opportunity to vote for the first apparently bi-sexual member of Congress (so far as we know). That’s how liberal they are; voting for Weiner is a badge of courage.

Besides, here in New York we’ve come to expect that out elected officials are criminals, serial adulterers, or sexual deviants, vis-à-vis Rudy Giuliani, Eliot Spitzer, David Paterson, Eric Massa, Chris Lee, and now Anthony Weiner.

Hell, Charlie Rangel never met a tax he didn't write the regs for that he wouldn’t happily dodge, and he’s still in office.

I watched this sorry spectacle yesterday, and wanted to puke. The first vomit-inducing portion was the part where Weiner said “I will not resign”, which I thought was absolutely outrageous. Just a few weeks ago, a New York Republican (Chris Lee) resigned from office after being caught doing the same exact thing that Weiner has done, and there was no week-and-a-half of lying involved, there were no false accusations against a journalist, there wasn’t a ten day ordeal of press conferences where we’re arguing over the meaning of ‘certitude’, and the man in the crosshairs flounders in lawyerly language like Shelley Winters floundered in the flooded ballroom of the Poseidon Adventure.

The second thing that made me want to expel my lunch at terminal velocity was the use of the word ‘apology’. Weiner said ‘apologize’ or ‘I apologize’ what seemed to me to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 times. He apologized to his wife, his family, his staff, his ’constituents’ (i.e. the brain-dead legion that would have pulled the lever for him so as to keep the hot-and-cold running food stamps and Section-8 housing flowing, unless he’d admitted to child rape or tossing puppies into a wood chipper), Andrew Breitbart, but at no time did it ever appear to me to be sincere. Perhaps that’s because I have an instinctual dislike for Weiner that rivals the hatred between cats and dogs, or maybe it’s a by-product from having to listen to him lie out of both sides of his mouth, and his rectum, simultaneously, on ever subject under the Sun for a decade-plus.

Weiner claims to take ‘responsibility’ – another word he used profusely and unbelievably -- for what he’s done, but he truly hasn’t. Had Weiner a responsible bone(r) in his body, he would have resigned yesterday. That’s what responsible, truly sorry people do. Then again, he’s a democrat, so there you go; democrats are neither responsible, nor hardly ever sorry about anything.

Anthony Weiner didn’t ‘apologize’ profusely yesterday because he’s genuinely sorry. He’s apologizing and paying lip-service to accepting responsibility because he’s been caught. He’s apologizing because he got caught in such a stupid way, doing such a stupid thing. He’s apologizing because it’s part of a ’damage control’ operation, and the public relations experts told him that it’s time to come clean and at least appear to be contrite (note, however, that Weiner only ‘comes clean’ after irrefutable evidence is suggested of his guilt. Without it, he would have continued this charade for years to come). That series of apologies you saw yesterday was not of a penitent man, baring his soul to the world, begging forgiveness.

That was a man who’s come home drunk at three in the morning, smelling of perfume, lipstick smeared on his collar, and the used condom still stuck in his zipper, begging his wife to unlock the door, pleading ‘Honey, can't we talk this over?’.

Men, as a rule, do things because they can, or because they want to. Scale Everest, split atoms, fly to the Moon, or fuck the secretary with the big tits, and many of them never actually stop to consider the implications or consequences of their actions, especially where the sex drive and ego are concerned. We are biologically hard-wired to take risks, to ignore doubts and fears, and screw everything that moves. Nature made us this way, and it’s only a very smart or dedicated man who is able to control his baser urges.

When you look like Anthony Weiner, the very poster child for birth control, and have the arrogance that comes with power and the fawning adulation of the press – perhaps the laziest and dumbest class of people yet discovered -- that intelligence and dedication quickly flies right out the window. Add the possibility of sex to ego and poor impulse control, and you’re headed for disaster. Facilitate the roller-coaster-to-Hell with a medium that provides (some think) a measure of anonymity and distance, and you’re talking a sure-fire atomic explosion of stupidity.

Weiner’s first mistake was to get full of himself. His second mistake was to fail to engage his critical thinking skills (being a liberal democrat, we may question as to whether he possesses any). His third mistake was to choose mediums where the possibility of getting caught was somewhat remote (although, as we all know, nothing is private in Cyberspace, and even phone bills can be quite instructive). His fourth mistake was to make a habit of it. The final mistake was to believe that he could scrub the record clean, after the fact, brazenly lie about the entire…ahem…affair…and then, after the dust settles, continue life much as he did before, maybe taking a few extra precautions but not much more.

I can promise you: even after being put in a delicate, to say the least, position by the initial discovery of Weiner’s underpants pictures, Weiner would have gone right back to Greasing the Pelican and sending dick pictures online just as soon as decently possible. It’s a compulsion; a mere routine, it all becomes a part of Life, just like the morning commute, the tuna-salad-on-whole-wheat for lunch everyday, the three-martinis after work, the evening newscast, and brushing your teeth before bed.

No, Anthony Weiner was never sorry enough to realize just what he was doing and then stop doing it; he’s only sorry that we found out what he does with his Blackberry, and the thought that the public might believe he’s Yankin’ his Crank While Texting finally got that long-forgotten-and-suppressed shame reflex to kick in.

So, what’s next for Congresscritter Weiner? Well, to judge from past sex scandals (this may be the first where no actual sex, only the suggestion of it, took place. See how the Internet and social networking are changing our lives? When a politician says “I did not have sex with that woman…” and a computer is involved, you can actually half-way believe him! Weiner might give a whole new meaning to the term ‘Palm Pilot’.), the step after admission is usually, and oh-so-painfully-predictably rehab.

Congressman Weiner may be the first famous (or is it now infamous?) Internet Sex Addict. When Weiner makes that announcement -- I'm a sex addict -- his wife will be standing right next to him (somehow, the wives must always be seen as standing by their man, even when their man is a complete douchebag. Although her absence yesterday was telling); there will be the usual rigmarole about personal reflection, ‘my Faith in God’, and ‘coming to terms with the realization that I have a problem’, but dickhead still won’t resign, naturally.

There is a Congressional Ethics Committee investigation coming. Considering that democrats usually don’t find anything wrong with deviant behavior by one of their members, it’s merely a formality. It’s a kabuki play intended to lull the public into the false belief that, indeed, Congress can be trusted to police itself, which is complete and utter bullshit given the history of Congressional Ethics Investigations of the last 40 years. Weiner will receive but a light tap upon both wrists and told to sin no more. If they’re smart, they’ll take his Blackberry and Smartphone away, and cancel his subscription to AOL (people still have those?).

Despite all the public mea culpa, despite the coming-soon orgy of putting all his psychoses on public display, despite all the talk about ‘responsibility’, deep down in what passes for his black soul Anthony Weiner still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. He still believes he’s a victim…of something…but not of hubris or stupidity. Somewhere in his tiny little mind, he still feels justified in what he has done, and can’t believe people would make such a big deal out of such a little thing (I mean the scandal, not his Little Thing, per se). He’s wrong.

We’re the victims here. A sitting Congresscritter making a casual mistake with his send options on Twitter has just told everyone in the Solar System that he’s dumber than dogshit, and ripe for blackmail. He’s just told the American public that far from his usual insistence that he’s ‘fighting for the common folk’ he’s instead spending a great deal of time taking pictures of himself in the buff, e-mailing them hither-and-yon, hitting up women half his age. His subsequent actions – trying to delete the incriminating photographs, inventing a weak conspiracy theory cover story out of whole cloth, accusing an innocent man of potential criminality, stonewalling, misleading the public and press, lying to his wife, and the Staff or other members of Congress who may have defended him – show the character, or rather, lack thereof, of the man. If he’s capable of lying about this, what else has Anthony Weiner lied about? If he’s capable of going to these extreme lengths to avoid having the truth come out, what does that say about the benefits or veracity of anything he’s ever voted on?

And finally, his Twitter Bunnies are going to be exposed to public scrutiny. Two already have. I wonder if either will make an attempt to find Monica Lewinski and ask her how her career and life have gone after she was identified as the paramour of a once-powerful man. Everywhere she goes, men probably ask her to do her famous ‘Cigar Trick’, and automatically assume she’s up for a little ‘Executive Action’ at a moment’s notice. Monica had at least one saving grace in her favor: the Internet was in its infancy, and public memory is often short. For these women, once they’re publicly identified, Weiner’s Weiner will be permanently stapled to every job application they ever fill in.

They might as well have actually done the deed for real, because for all intents and purposes Anthony Weiner has shackled each with a permanent, electronic, Pearl Necklace.

And the Happiest Man in the World Today is Arnold Schwarzenegger, because Anthony Weiner just took the spotlight off of him, at least for the foreseeable future.

Professor Hanson on Wrapping That Rascal...

Safe Sex and Taxes Are For the Little People.

I always go to The Perfesser for my Sexually-Deviant-and-Morally-Reprehensible posting needs. But he has a point, or three, here.

He usually does. He might be the smartest Man in America.

Good Lord, Make it Stop!

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Newt Is In...

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"Whore" Is Never A Good Career Choice...

There's two sorts of trollops in this world: the ones who end up decomposing on a beach on Long Island, and the ones who willfully, blindly, and unconsciously choose physical and mental serfdom because it's easier than getting a real job, while laboring under the false impression that they are 'empowering' themselves.

A Playboy Bunny complains about her Sexual Serfdom. Yawn. You have to give her points for this belated observation:

"Little did I realize that by moving into the mansion I was losing all the freedom I associated with the Playboy lifestyle."

Well, DUH!!!! What do you think happens in a whorehouse, Dipshit? It might be a fancier, better-decorated whorehouse, in a ritzy zip code, but it's still a whorehouse all the same!

It's also good to know that there's plenty of STD's, unwanted pregnancies, and dog shit floating around Hef's digs (allegedly) to make the place a Disneyland of the Disgusting. It all certainly must provide the proper ambiance.

Not to be a jerk, but some women can be monumentally stupid, even after 50 years of 'Feminism', and probably BECAUSE of 50 years of Feminism, if you ask me. The 'Why" is not all that difficult to understand: Feminism tells women that they posses a weapon more powerful than a nuclear warhead -- a vagina -- and then instructs them on how to use it to their supposed advantage, using it liberally in this case, judicially in others, as the circumstances dictate.

It never tells them that while Men might be grateful for sex, and thus -- for a time -- behave themselves in a way the Woman requires for so long as she sees fit to bestow her graces upon him, it singularly neglects to inform them (because then this would cause the entire mentality that underlies Feminism to collapse under it's own (water) weight) that Men are perfectly capable of going someplace else for a little Belly Bumping when you won't oblige.

Feminism, -- much like Communism and Barack Obama Economic Schemes -- discounts human nature and reality, when it doesn't obstinately refuse to acknowledge the existence of either completely. Any serious study of biology will tell you a simple truth about Men: we're Opportunists, and we're hard-wired to fuck everything that moves. If you won't, then surely someone else will, and if the basis of our relationship is you using Sex in order to profit(materially or professionally), then we'll, eventually, figure it all out and head for greener pastures rather than continue to be played for suckers.

You want to know how I know Feminism is a complete failure? Because I've never met a HAPPY Feminist, and they all have the same complaint about Men: they're all Sunshine and Skittles when you're giving it up on a regular basis. but as soon as you ask for that Promotion, the better grade, or the Diamond tennis bracelet, they're out of there so fast they leave a vapor trail behind them.

Feminism conveniently forgets to tell them that Men are Masters of Manipulation. Offered as proof: it has been (mostly) Men who have invented things like Psychiatry, Marketing, Mass-Media and Propaganda, which are all often concerned with feeding you the biggest plate of bullshit you've ever seen in your life, while making you eager to scarf it all up with a tablespoon and then ask for more. In one of the greatest ironies in all of History, it's apparent that without Men to lay the groundwork (political, ideological, scientific, legal, communications, moral, etc) for it, Feminism could probably never have existed in the first place!

It's enough to make you wonder if Feminism wasn't always some nefarious plot hatched by an evil genius with overactive gonads.

Hell, even at my advanced age and expanding waistline, I still have a phone book (relatively) full of booty calls, fuck buddies and hump-and-a-hot-dog dates, and the only reason there isn't a steady supply of hot-and-cold running vaginas here at Lunatic Central is because there's no challenge in it (we do still enjoy The Chase, and forming the intellectual and emotional bondsnecessary for a committed relationship, even if we never say so), and because I've (mostly) outgrown the Easy Conquest. And even if I didn't have such a resource at my fingertips, there's still enough low-hanging fruit available on a daily basis to ensure that the problem of where to park a boner for an evening when the usual, ready supply is unavailable is not an insurmountable one, on par with climbing Everest or splitting the atom.

Thank you, Feminists!

(Ed. Note: Rule of thumb, Gentlemen: the more divorces a woman has on her record, the easier she is to get naked. I personally know two who have three or more to their credit who screw like minks without you having to buy a mink, first).

Hugh Hefner simply recognized a set of circumstances that these ladies didn't, or which they already knew but wouldn't/couldn't admit to themselves -- they're all looking for a free ride in life; they've discovered that their looks open a lot of wallets, they've been trained to give it up with little thought by Feminists as a means of 'personal liberation' for the last five decades, and most people lack the same critical thinking skills you'd expect to find in an armadillo. These women (Hef's Harem) are basically trading their bodies for a nice place to live, a measure of fame, unlimited plastic surgery, and a thousand bucks a week. And some of them are so desperate for even that questionable bounty that they're willing to further degrade themselves and fuck an 80-yr-old cardboard cut-out hopped up on Viagra.

Because it beats working for a living, doesn't it?

Predictably, the dumber ones find themselves grateful for the opportunity, and the ones with at least two braincells to rub together eventually become bitter when they finally realize they've been had. When we reach that stage then someone has to be blamed for this bitterness and feelings of being taken advantage of -- but not to worry, Feminism has an answer for that one too -- it's called 'Victimhood'. The idea that someone who's made a bad life choice and doesn't like the consequences isn't really complicit in their own descent into crapitude is the hallmark of Feminist Thought (contradiction in terms).

It's always someone else's fault, and someone is always being taken advantage of. No one is ever responsible for anything, unless of course, it becomes convenient that they should. Like when you file a sexual harassment/discrimination suit.

Hefner simply discovered the metaphorical equivalent to an Arms Control regime in the War of the Sexes: You may have a pussy, Sunshine, but it's always been for sale. It's just that some come with a lower price tag.

And before I get nasty e-mail: yes, Pussy has always been for sale. The only differences between prostitution and marriage are a license, a bunch of legal/social protections/obligations, and the fact that The Man has made a choice to forsake all other vaginas because he likes your's best. And the Scarlet Woman doesn't get to have a judge dispose of your house and property and hand half the proceeds over to her, just because you left the toilet seat up. This is not just me being a sarcastic dipshit, either: it's biology at work. Don't think so? Read The Naked Ape and The Human Zoo. Those books are far more informative and a better investment of your time than that Jacqueline Suzanne or Jodi Piccault shit you all seem to read these days, and it won't give you a migraine and make you all menstrual, like Oprah does.

They're also an excellent How-To guide on picking up chicks. But, I digress...

As for the Bunnies: I have no sympathy whatsoever for any of them. Choices -- especially bad ones -- always have consequences. You break it, you bought it, as Colin Powell used to say before he became a moral coward.

Remember Ladies: if you wish to be valued and respected, then value and respect yourself, first. Then assholes like Me and Hef will be forced to treat you accordingly, and then you won't have to complain about being obligated to blow a rapidly-aging adolescent on a tight schedule.

"Titty Bars Are Evil..."

It must be Blast from My Past Week. Some higher power (probably FoxNews or Microsoft, but definitely NOT God, because She doesn't exist, and if She did, She would have been far more subtle, contradictory, and incomprehensible) has decided that this particular week I should have to be inundated by a slew of unpleasant memories, solid reminders of my past failures, and thrust into a series of circumstances where some of the people who have disappointed me (or I them) the most in life should all suddenly renter my little world at the same time, and conspire to drive me absolutely insane.


It's like my life this past week has just leaped out of a Lifetime Made-for-TV movie. They (whoever the fuck 'They' are) say that things happen in threes. Part 1 was the by-chance encounter with an old girlfriend who bored me with her religious douchebaggery, and Part 2 of this unfathomable journey began late last night with a phone call from a someone I had wished, at the time, would be a girlfriend, but who had other ideas (and probably a whole lot more sense).
 
I have not seen nor spoken to Jenny (not her real name) for, oh, I gather, seven or eight years now. When last we met, she had just gotten married, popped out a kid, and moved in with her male-model husband (Joey Squadooch, not his real name, either) into a 4,000' square-foot suburban Art-Deco monstrosity in rural New Jersey. The romance had been whirlwind, the wedding a hastily-organized operation, and I'm beginning to think Jenny might have already been pregnant when they took their vows.
 


Jenny used to live in the same apartment building I did, in the unit directly above mine, and we became friends because we used to commute into Manhattan with one another, and then usually meet each other on the way home. We were the two youngest people in our building, and so this, naturally, entailed that we would hang out a lot together. In fact, there was a signal we used to have when one of us had nothing to do, and just wanted to hang out, assuming we hadn't come home together; Jenny would stamp her high-heeled boot on the hardwood floor above me three times in a certain place, or I would go out on the terrace and give a whistle. What usually followed was take-out and Sangria on the terrace, and a bunch of laughs. I made a killer Sangria in those days.

Anyways, Jenny and I never became an item, mostly because I wasn't her type. She liked the pretty boys, and although I was cute-as-all-hell when I was younger and thinner, I wasn't quite up to her standards (to give you some idea, Joey always reminded me of a young Andy Garcia. How the hell do you compete with that?). Oh, I think we might have come close a time or two to actually doing something both of us might have regretted later, but it never happened. Oh, and Joey was super rich, and stood to inherit his father's (probably Mob-connected) business, despite the fact that he was dumber than a fucking stump. If you took an x-ray of his skull, all you'd find would be a nomad camel caravan fighting through a sandstorm to make it's way up the next dune.
 
An original thought and a cold drink of water might have actually sent him into a coma. Now, before you start assuming that this disparaging of Joey is due to jealousy, let me set you straight; it isn't. he was actually a pretty nice guy. It's just that you instinctively knew after 30 seconds of close personal contact that his parents had mostly wasted their money on that expensive Catholic School Education, and that every D-minus was probably followed with an expensive gift to "build his confidence". Joey didn't really need to be smart, as he stood to inherit his money, and besides, they paid others to actually run the company, I'll bet.
 
Be that as it may, I was genuinely pleased when Jenny and Joey married. They made a nice couple, and they were obviously happy. Good people deserve to be happy, I've always thought.
 
It wasn't long afterwards that I fell into the real depths of my madness, which caused me to cut most ties I had to old friends, leave my hometown, and seek a peculiar sort of solitude wherein I chose who to associate with, and just how much of them I could stand, and then withdrew -- often for long periods -- when I'd had enough of them. Things were going to get progressively worse from there, but that's another story. I lost touch with Jenny and Joey, and truth to tell, it wasn't as if they went out of their way to maintain ties, either. I figured I'd never hear form either again, and that was just fine.


And then I get this phone call. Don't know how she found me (Jenny, if I recall, was some sort of telecommunications specialist before she became a mother-housewife, so that's probably how) because this number ain't listed, and it ain't even under my name. After the initial "Wow, imagine hearing from you? How are you, Sunshine?" bit was all over, the real reason for Jenny's call became all too clear.

Jenny and Joey are getting divorced. That's too bad, I say, not really meaning it, and truthfully, not really caring. She had looked me up, I think, because she needed yet one more person to vent and cry to, and having exhausted the ears and drenched the shoulders of her family, circle of friends, casual acquaintances, business associates, people she met once on a Carnival Cruise, her Congressman, Pastor, Dentist and Pool Cleaner, it was time to dig really far into the past and relate the whole sordid tale to someone who hasn't been in her life for almost a decade. Everyone must suffer Jenny's pain, and there's still one more human being on this planet who hasn't heard the whole, sordid story.

Where people get the idea that I'm the one to unload their burdens on is beyond me. Maybe I used to be good at this sort of thing, but not anymore, I don't think.

Anyways, it seems the central factor in the soon-to-occur demise of JennyJoe, LTD is a... titty bar.

Ah, finally...an area where my monolithic expertise comes into play! Now it all makes sense!
I'm not proud of this. In retrospect, it was probably one of the first and earliest indications that something was wrong with me, and that those issues needed to be faced and fixed if I was ever to become a halfway decent human being. I cannot tell you how many evenings, or how much money, I've lost inside those places, but I was young, and stupid, and an alcoholic back then. Suffice to say, eventually the whole experience just grew tiresome, boring, predictable, and lost its allure, eventually. It always does. It has to.

Women, especially married women, do not understand the attraction the Jiggle Joint holds for some men. It's a combination of all of our baser desires, a one-stop-shopping experience for the braindead. Under one roof, a man with no impulse control and more cash than brains finds everything he could want: booze, naked chicks, the anticipation of sex, but mostly, the illusion of control.That's what brings 'em in, you know; it's a place where Men exert control over a woman, and usually in a way that he would never think of doing with his Good Lady Wife or significant other. Its a simple transaction: I have money, the Dancer (misnomer) has tits, and there is no obligation. She becomes, for a short while, your trained seal. That this unnatural arrangement is all a farce goes unrealized -- the one with the real power and control in this situation is really the Whore. She's there to separate you from your wallet, and you'll be happy to let her do it. Especially when you're drunk.
 
Even if there is...ahem...association outside the confines of the bar, it's almost never serious. It can't be: you know what She is, and She definitely knows what you are. While this suffices so far as one-nighters (and maybe even serial one-nighters) are concerned, it can never, ever be the basis of a lasting relationship because the basic foundation upon which that is built upon -- trust, respect, truth,mutual goodwill -- doesn't exist. It's wholly a physical and mental exercise. It's really about two simple things; you get a fuck buddy when you need one, and she gets an ATM machine when she needs one.


Ladies, here's a simple truth; Men are stupid. Oh, we can design spacecraft, fly airplanes, build skyscrapers and invent a variety of labor-saving devices, but when it comes to Mr. Winkie and our wired-by-biology urge to fuck (or to at least THINK we can fuck) everything that moves, all bets are off. Most men go through a stage in life where they would willingly and eagerly slither naked on their bellies over broken glass and hot coals, with the American Flag jammed in their asses, to get to the Titty Bar. Most men will grow out of this stage by about age 25-28, or so. Some take a little longer, and some, sadly, never do. When men in their later years (say, mid-30's to early 50's) start frequenting Topless Bars, it's almost never about sex -- it's always about reestablishing some measure of control over their lives, or about reliving their Glory Days (although what's so glorious about getting pants-shitting drunk, dropping a couple of C-notes to NOT get laid, and then waking up in a puddle of your own vomit smelling like the perfume counter at K-Mart, and risking multiple STD's is beyond my capacity to remember).  
 
So, Joey is frequenting Titty Bars, and Jenny caught him. Or rather, Jenny caught Joey doing the nasty with some skank he met in a Titty Bar. This requires a divorce...and my advice. After all, I'm the Titty Bar Expert and I can, she assumes, tell her exactly why it happened, and then have the courtesy to sit still long enough to have my ears ravaged by her plaintive wails of "I was a good wife, wasn't I? Didn't I give him everything he wanted? What's wrong with me that he has to mess around with sluts? Titty Bars are Evil..."
 
Like I know what goes on in your house? I haven't talked to you in eight years. But, Jenny was a good friend, and I wouldn't mind if she re-entered my circle of friends, so I can't let her down. I tell her the truth; your husband is a dipshit. He's done what he's done for reasons that are easy to explain, but the initial urge came from somewhere that only you can figure out. Somewhere, he's lost his ability to manage some aspect of his life, probably with you, and the reaction was not to talk to you, or work out your differences, but to go to a place where he was (falsely) assured that he could reestablish control over a relationship, and pork a scifooza with no strings attached. In a convoluted way, he's reestablishing his manhood, or at least what he thinks is his manhood. The sad part is that this ain't the way to do it.
 
This sort of sin is unforgivable. Even I, a person lacking in anything you might consider normal human feelings, even I understand that a Line Has Been Crossed. Honestly, if I were married, even with all the shit I've done in my life behind me and knowing that I've often given into my more ridiculous impulses, even I wouldn't cheat on my wife. I figure if I had wanted to marry you, I couldn't find it inside even this iron-bound heart to actually do that.I figure that having asked for your hand in marriage, I must have really respected you at some point. There's some places even this jaded Lunatic just won't go to.


So, I told her to go get her divorce, and to make certain that her lawyer rapes him for what he's done, but never for a second believe that you did something wrong (unless, of course, you actually have!); The Boom-Boom Room is just Men being Boys being Pigs. That's not an excuse, it's just a truthful observation. We're sick, sick, sick animals who often need strong (not domineering, just strong) women to keep us on the straight-and-narrow. That is, after all, your job.


Women are right in this regard (Damn, I can't believe I actually wrote that!): Men don't communicate their feelings enough. And by that, I mean they don't talk to their bitches when they really should, and even if they do, they aren't always honest and free with their feelings. Because Men don't talk, they usually end up speaking with their actions, and as we all know, Actions Speak Louder than Words.

And are far more hurtful. Especially when your actions are played out in a public parking lot in front of your wife, and the mother of your two kids, who has had to hunt you down because you didn't come home. She's been publicly humiliated. This is the absolute worst thing you could ever do to someone.


Oh, and one final note to Men everywhere: Never, ever buy a vehicle with a GPS-tracking system that your wife can access from her iPhone. Yep, there's even an app for that.

Another Tree Hugging Dickwad Dumps Wife, Film at 11...

This time it's a Kennedy, and there's a lot of alcohol involved, as usual.

What the story doesn't make clear is why Mary Kennedy drinks (probably because that would be too obvious a question to ask: what is it with Kennedy women and booze?), and of ocurse, they leave the best part for the very last sentence:

"Bobby and Mary married on a ship on the Hudson River in April 1994, just a few weeks after he divorced first wife, Emily Black."

I'm surprised that it lasted this long, and amazed that she didn't try to continue a long-standing Kennedy family tradition, and make arrangements for her sanctimonious douchebag of a husband's head to be ventilated. How hard could it be? Kennedy men practically attract bullets, when they're not Alpha-maling themselves into trees at high speed, or into the drink.

If this story follows the predictable track, we'll be hearing about the mistress or the alleged sexual assault within a fortnight.

Iowahawk Should Be Bronzed And Placed in The Smithsonian...

If you don't read Iowahawk, you're probably a retard. You don't know what you're missing.

This is a Classic.

Words I'd Thought I Would Never Type...

"Al Gore" and "Sex Scandal". In the same sentence. Allegedly.

Though I struggle not to form some mental picture of the Goremeister wrapped in a towel, rivulets of white, doughy flesh hanging over the tuck, my inner eye has just such an image burned into it. The very thought is profoundly disturbing, and if I don't keep my guard up, it pops, unbidden, back into my tortured mind and activates the gag reflex. I've thrown up into my own mouth so many times in the past week that no amount of toothpaste or Scope will wash away the lingering taste of involuntary bile. Even Cayenne and Jalapenos have not scoured the residue of nausea away.

The scene my subconscious insists on creating has me on the verge of committing a violent act, as if the release of all that pent up disgust and rage will somehow scrub the grey matter clean of the mental version of ring-around-the-tub. I shan't link to any of the stories floating on the Web because they'll only make you projectile vomit, but all the highlights of this sordid..ahem...affair (allegedly) are included. It's always the same unwanted vision running through the diseased landscape of my inner mind:

"...His swollen, puffy, corpulent body lay stretched out upon the masseuse table, face-down. A towel covers his flabbier parts, but he's still clenching his butt cheeks together in an attempt to leave the impression that there's still a few remnants of sinewy youth there beneath it all. His manly back, covered in a thick, Brillo-like fur, was glistening with scented oils and lotions. Somewhere in the background, Barry Manilow was softly playing; the Muzak of the Rutting Bore. Manilow knew how to make chicks cream. Al had selected it exactly for this purpose. The masseuse, a vision of early-middle-aged American womanhood -- thrice-divorced, a stray hair protruding from the mole on her chin, face frozen in a mask of permanent surprise from the combination of poor eyebrow-pencil skills and Botox, the Low-End-Store-Brand-Danny-Kaye-Auburn dye job -- leaned over the Beached Whale of an ex-Vice President in that starched, institutional-green smock that always turned him on because it reminded him so of the Good Old Days of Soviet Communism. She was rubbing away the knots and strains of the rough-and-tumble universe of The Sanctimonious Bullshit World Tour, and the absolute Roman-Coliseum Fishbowl that was the Modern Indulgence Selling that used to characterize much of pre-Reformation Christianity, but which still smelled slightly enough of capitalism that the rubes hardly even noticed.

Her strong hands, much like her donkey-like Slavic ankles, swollen from so much water-retention that she had been unable to file the Last Wedding Ring from her finger -- even though her last divorce was finalized five years before -- found a tender spot. The Gorebot winced momentarily, and then relaxed as her expert digits rubbed the tension away. He sighed, a sound that was almost half-seal-bark-half-phlegmy-rattle. She paused to pluck an errant, wire-stiff back hair or two from under her fingernail, and in that moment, the former Vice-President-in-Litigation made his move. With a great deal of grunting but less struggle than usual he had turned over on the table, and a hint of his manhood became visible as a bump under the hospital-white towel, like a miniature Washington Monument caught beneath the the thick, cold layers of another Ice Age. But that was an illusion: were it not for the triple-layered rolls of belly fat that slid past his waistline and sloughed off between his spongy, varicose-veined thighs, there just might be a whole whopping four, perhaps four-and-a quarter, inches of pulsing Inconvenient Truth lurking beneath that linen.

She was taken aback. She caught her breath, a staccato-sigh of surprise, nay, perhaps even fear. She tried not to look, but couldn't help herself; for even laying down the Vice-President's boobs were strangely bigger than her own, with great, fleshy, earth-toned nipples and the same thick, stiff hairs pointing out of them. They strangely reminded her of Sputnik for a moment, and she was caught in a web of confusion, embarrassment...and lust? She flushed and appeared faint, the first sign of the coming glow of perspiration began to darken the smock beneath her armpits. Her slightly fried-onion-y underarm scent aroused him further -- but this hunter liked to play with his prey first.

"They all react that way...at first", said Al. His dark eyes looked into hers. They were hypnotic, but she could not decide if it was because he was such a magnificent specimen of Old-Money-Hypocrite-middle-aged pork, or because even when he spoke in short sentences he was still such a dashing figure of bone-crushing boredom and banality. She stepped away from the table, but he grabbed her wrist -- gently-yet-firmly and still somehow clammy-and-slimy. She was strangely aroused and repulsed, all at once.

" You know", Al begins., "I was the Inspiration for Love Story..."

Her Drug-store false eyelashes fluttered, her face reddened, and she nervously licked at her lips. Al knew that he had her now; they all fell for that line. Tipper fell hard for it --- that and the inherited Controlling Interest in Standard Oil. So did that Naomi Wolff, that little vixen. He began to remember fondly the six...no...seven whole minutes he had held Naomi in the sodden grip of flop-sweaty passion. It had been his crowning achievement, and had infused him with a sense of manhood that he had not felt since the days when he was writing for Stars and Stripes and pretending to be fighting the War in Vietnam until Daddy could pull enough strings. He remembered the blazing fire of the assault upon Tipper's head on the campaign trail, when he appeared so passionate and devoted to her that he almost sucked her into his being as if he were sucking the Bavarian Cream from the center of a doughnut.

Yes...panting feminists and women in prisons everywhere around the world mailed him their soiled underwear for months after that. Not even Clinton got that sort of love. But that was all in the past; the future, for at least the next three-to-five minutes -- more if he could manage to contain the raging Beast Totem in the Towel -- was now there before him. She was panting now, her chest ( with one breast hanging four inches below the other, and the thick, reinforced underwire of her brassiere became visible beneath the fabric ("Steel-Belted Radials", All liked to call those. He wondered, "Front-loader or back-loader?) was heaving like the stormy North Atlantic.

The Goremeister had caused a Storm in her Maidenforms. She was dead in his sights now.

"Don't be afraid, Yummymuffins. I may have invented the Internet, but no one will know of our passion. It will be OUR guilty secret...".

She wilted at that, delivered as it was with a slight Southern drawl and that sibilant-yet-slightly-effeminate "s" of his. She was now all his. He pulled her closer and began to negotiate the towel so that his throbbing, massive-relative-to-your-average-cocker-spaniel Pelvis Bazooka -- the Green Hornet, as he liked to call it -- could be unleashed in all of it's glory. Yes...she was well-and-truly his, and She would be yet another notch in his ever-expanding belt. There was a flash, like lightning. A quick stirring in his loins, an explosion of ecstasy that caused white-hot spots to float before his eyes, and which made him slightly dizzy thanks to the Watered-Down-Canadian-Healthcare System Viagra he had been taking, and he had marked her forever with a hot load of Environmentally-friendly Man-Milk...all over that sexy-as-a-Phony-Carbon-Credit-Sold-Under-False-Pretenses (allegedly) starched smock. "Mark your territory well", Bill had always told him. It was a valuable lesson. He held her gaze for another seven, maybe ten seconds, so that she could bask in the afterglow. All women needed to bask. Al knew this, being the quiet, passionate, unselfish type who always saw to a woman's needs.

"I'll bet you keep that smock forever, Snugglelumps. No one does it like ManBearPig". She sighed, and was about to speak. "No...not another word about it", he said as he pressed his thoroughly-gooey finger gently across her lips. "We must part now, and keep our Runaway Passion a secret, for those parts of the planet that manage to avoid being flooded by sea-level rise, de-forested by the Inhumanity of Mankind, the shores piled waist-deep in drowned polar bears, all destroyed in the Name of the Internal Combustion Engine, burned to the ground by Acid Rain, or frosted over by the Next Ice Age could never understand what passes between us...".

With that, Al Gore, The Love-em-and-Leave-'Em Ambassador of Mother Gaia, wiped his sexed-up hand upon her cheek, hitched his towel back into place, and in a motion that was reminiscent of a crippled walrus trying to refloat itself from a shingle beach, swung the massive U.S.D.A. Grade-A hamhocks he called legs off the table, and waddled to the door, leaving a tangled mat of greasy back hairs on the smooth, vinyl surface of the table. An Oil Slick of Romance. He paused to give her one last, piercing come-hither look from his watery-yet-still-somehow-smouldering eyes, that bulged out from beneath his Just-for-Men-treated eyebrows, only to find that she was vomiting copiously upon the floor.

It was always the same. Al always had that effect on women; he made them all sooooo fucking hot -- hotter than a rapidly-heating atmosphere burdened with the excess carbon dioxide of a civilization intent upon it's own doom -- that their bodies just could not withstand the onslaught. Now that his Inner-Beast had been Unleashed, he set about seeking more nubile prey. There must be a sixty-plus-year-old T.V. satirist's wife just dying to be Gored by Gore...."

And now you know why I've been puking for a week...

Me and my goddamned imagination! I won't sleep for a year.

T'was Only a Matter of Time....

...before the porn-star Baby Mamas started coming out of the woodwork. Warning: some of this might not be safe for work. As if the man didn't have enough problems in his life, the Daily News goes and publishes 92 selected photos of his boot-knockin' partners in sexy poses.

If I were Tiger Woods, I'd be running back to the Fortress of Solitude that is rehab.

And if that wasn't bad enough, it only begins to get infinitely worse: there's more than one porn "actress" involved. and allegations are flying that some of these...ahem...choice conquests ...were given hush money, probably to keep quiet about the fact that -- off the golf course at least -- Tiger might swing both ways. Allegedly.

Now, I have no sympathy for Tiger Woods because his pain is mostly self-inflicted, and his oh-so-carefully-selected menagerie of paramours makes it crystal clear that he has (or had) a serious drug problem (people who aren't under the influence or insane do not make these sorts of choices, or attract this particular class of women). At some point, though, this could all end if the man would just disappear-- he has the money to do so -- but he just won't go away. The cost of that kind of ego is that his peccadilloes will be made public -- drip-drip-drip -- like a Chinese water torture.

You would expect that at some point common sense (and a sense of shame!) would kick in and Tiger would fade away, because the longer he stays in the spotlight -- or struggles to get back into it -- the more we'll be seeing this endless parade of pathetic gold-digging sluts, many with a reputation for deviant sexual practices involving unnatural violations perpetrated by multiple partners, which brings us all one step closer to the Apocalypse.

I'm a guy and even my "fuck-anything-that-moves-male-sexual-reflex" is repulsed by just the thought of some of the...festivities...these women have done to in order to "earn a living" in the porn "Industry"(yeah, like none of you has ever seen a porn video, right?)

You wonder who will win this race; will Tiger's perseverance, stubbornness and sense of entitlement, his steadfast belief that his "image" (and therefore, his fame and fortune) can be rehabilitated eventually be overtaken by the flood of embarrassing activities -- and personages -- that got him into this mess in the first place? Or are we watching the slow death-spiral of The Man Who Had it All But Threw It Away?

Who gives a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? I have my own problems to deal with, thank you.
This is still funny as hell, though.

UPDATE: Link to Tiger's Rogues Gallery of Tawdry Encounters fixed.

Obama The Philanderer?

Yeah, yeah, I know. Nothing has been proven, and as I've said earlier, I couldn't care less if Barry strayed from the marital path. In the grand scheme of things, it's not really that important an issue to me. Whenit comes ot sex, some men need leashes, some men are swayed by the trappings of power and the curse of ego, others are mere opportunitists, and the vast majority are just completely stupid.

However, the American Thinker this morning asks a much more important question (paraphrasing in my own, inimitable style):

"...why do we concern ourselves with who Obama may have fucked, when we never answered the fundamental question about who He was in bed with?"

In other news, the Obama Love Affair may be reaching it's...erm...climax.

Did The National Enquirer Catch Barry Doin' the Dirty, Too?

The report from Mediaite (disclaimer: I've never heard of them!) is a bit skittish, and pretty much hems and haws between "they have the goods on him" to "they might have the goods on him, but don't count on it", and was later updated to reflect a statement by the Enquirer that it doesn't have a tape that someone said they might have had.

At this point, third-hand-rumors of a second-hand story, BUT, the Enquirer did have the dirt on John Edwards, and nailed him a dozen-ways-to-Sunday with it, so who knows. Then again, it's not like John Edwards was very smart.

I will personally take no joy from it if this turns out to be true, if only because a) I have my own problems, thank you very much, and b) I would feel badly for the Obama daughters. My take on it is that I wouldn't be surprised if the rumors/reports were true, but does that mean they should be reported? I know, some of the more panty-bunched of the public (especially those with political axes to grind, or who may be awaiting the Rapture) will say "Hell, yes! A man who can't keep his marriage vows can't be trusted to run the country honorably!" to which I reply: at what point, exactly,did you expect him to? When you aren't calling him "Socialist" or examining his birth certificate under a microscope, you're probably laying awake at night wondering when The Almighty will finally deliver America from Obama's evil clutches with a well-timed sex scandal. What evidence has Obambi given you to this point to indicate that he's an honest man to begin with? I'm still waiting for shit to turn up on C-Span and the Stimulus website which proves that he truly is running the "most transparent Administration in History".

Of course, I'm still waiting for Bill Clinton to fulfill his promise to run the "most ethical Administration in history" , and for Nancy Pelosi to "drain the swamp of Washington, D.C." and Teddy Kennedy to fess up about drowning Mary Jo. I think I have a better shot at hearing from Teddy than from Bill. I don't want to hear anything more from Nancy.I expect my politicians to be scumbags, liars and sexual deviants, this way I won't be disappointed when they turn out to be just that.

Then there's the "This could potentially leave the man open to blackmail, and a President who can be blackmailed is bad for America..." argument, which is true, up to a point. JFK was open to blackmail on an epic scale, Nixon, too. We survived. I rather doubt someone's going to tell Obama "either you go public or we nuke you!" or "I'll spill the beans if you don't sign this bill...". Of course, anyone who tried to blackmail a President could probably expect a visit from the Secret Service or FBI, so without solid proof that he's done something illegal, as opposed to something unethical, I rather doubt anyone's coming forward, or asking for cash or a quid pro quo.

Perhaps I'm just too cynical to really care, unless, of course, Barry got a Monica in the Oval Office. Then it becomes a different ballgame altogether. Then whatever he's doing is on My Time. But something which appears to be old news, with dubious proof (if there's any at all), is nothing to get all excited about. I don't like the man's politics, but I don't think it necessary to tear him to shreds over rumor and innuendo (and yes, I know that's the American way going all the way back to Aaron Burr, but still). I would still give no credence to the rumor without proof.

And besides, I'm not one of those Obama haters who wants the man destroyed, I just want him replaced, preferably by means of an election rather than a resignation under duress. I mean, if you think Obama is bad, just look who's lined up behind him, ready to take over should he have to go.

HIllbuzz refutes the Obama Affair rumors with the following (paraphrasing) "we know the woman well, like her very much, and just don't think it's possible or even likely....and besides, Obama is gay...".

Oh, well, that explains everything. Then again, if anyone knows who's gay in Washington, it's Hillbuzz.

All This for Only $4,000 A Night!

The five minute interviews are bad enough; attempting to avoid telling the truth about your addictions (and they ain't limited to "sex", are they?) by denying anyone the opportunity to ask those questions -- maybe because the truth would shatter whatever image and destroy whatever goodwill you might have left -- and to create some artificial "buzz" about your return to golf. It's torture watching this, not only because you know how this story eventually ends, but because there's someone under the impression that we give a shit about golf, and that scandal will make us care more.

I don't claim any special knowledge of Tiger's problems or personal life; I'm just sayin' I know a guy who has some secrets that he really, really, REALLY wants to keep hidden, when I see one. His secrets, however, are going to destroy him if he doesn't get his ass off TV. $4,000 a night porn star/hookers are the least of his issues.

We're witnessing the destruction of an individual in the media, minute-by-minute, and the worst part is that he's helping them. In fact, he can't help but help them. Tiger Woods is the media's creation, so I guess they have that "right" to tear him apart -- or more likely what's happening, they're helping him tear himself apart. That sometimes happens with people who have done bad things; they have to punish themselves in the worst and most public ways, and are often unaware of how they do it. The two, Media and Woods, are symbiotically-linked. Tiger can no more go without the media, even a media asking questions that he refuses to answer, than the media can go without setting fire to their own creations. He is, in effect, committing suicide in public with the very tool that made him a public figure.

It's how the game gets played.

I'm now feeling bad for Tiger Woods. I can't condone his adultery, nor the cowardly retreat to a "sex addiction" clinic -- which is complete and utter bullshit. There's no such thing as "sex addiction"; men would screw 24-7 if they had the opportunity and the means -- stopping only for Buffalo Wings, the Super Bowl and other urgent bodily functions. And even at that, if it wasn't considered bad form to pinch a loaf while you're making the Beast With Two Backs, many would probably not even stop for that. We're baboons, you know. We're biologically-wired to fuck everything that moves or makes itself available. So, the idea that there's "sex addicts" out there is a false one; every human being is a sex addict, in the strictest, biological sense. There'd be no human race, otherwise.

What many of the people who mental-health "professionals" call "Sex Addicts" are , are usually the victims of severe sexual abuse; they can't separate acceptance by others, or certain activities and events, from the sexual act because of some trauma related to that abuse.

Tiger Woods is no "Sex-Addict"-- he's just a super-rich guy who decided to take advantage of everything his vast fortune could buy him, which is NEVER a good thing. He's no victim. He's maybe also suffering with a few other, real addictions in the bargain (probably booze, and maybe even prescription drugs, but that's speculation on my part). Fame and money often combine to make people a) stupid, and b) weak enough to give into their worst impulses.

You know how I can figure this out? We go from $4,000 a night porn stars all the way down to the Night Shift Waitress at the Waffle House. We're not even talking consistency, here. There's no pattern, no logic, no reason. We're talking pure opportunism, and no means of restraining the impulse; a clear sign of drug and/or alcohol abuse. In the current climate of sports scandals, Tiger Woods the Drug Abuser is far worse than Tiger Woods the Adulterer. That's the story his "handlers" want you to focus on, because the other one utterly destroys their client.

Tiger, of course, maintains that we should just forgive him (not that I care, really. I only write about this because it's funny as hell and because I'm pathologically-wired to stand there and point) and let him go about his business. I think the man has every right to go about earning his living, but I don't think he has the right to do it without having to answer the questions he's been dodging so clumsily. He's made his cash on the back of an adoring public, and he has a responsibility to them.

Because Tiger Woods was sold to America as a paragon of virtue, a true family man, a shining example to the black comm-uuunnn-it-taaaaay. We were told that no black people ever played golf before Tiger did, EVER, and that he was he was a "true pioneer". A shining example of what skill, determination and character coming together can do to produce the consummate professional, and the very example of what those virtues could bring you, wealth and fame, a Beautiful wife and adorable children. That's when he wasn't portrayed as a steely assassin on the greens, a monomaniac with a driver, who's focus was "legendary", a deadly opponent in the rough-and-tumble world of competitive pastimes, and a man who was on his way to becoming the Greatest Golfer, Ever. Tiger the Athlete is all marketing. The Greatest Golfer Ever...what the hell does that mean?

Greatest Golfer Ever is a distinction on par (if you'll pardon the pun) with being the Greatest Croquette Player, or the Greatest Race Walker, or the Greatest Yachtsman of All Time. No one really gives a shit, except fat, rich white guys who believe that any form of mild physical exertion that they engage in should automatically be considered a "sport". It's not a sport if you wear slacks, ride in a motorized cart, and have another guy to carry your equipment for you. That's not athletic at all. The funniest part of this scam is that those rich white guys buy golf clubs like democrats buy votes, and Tiger was the Hank Aaron of Golf, --so he made a lot of people a lot of money, with a hefty cut for himself.

I guess Tiger might be desperate to strike while the iron is still somewhat-warm, to keep his cut if he can, before all of his bullshit is finally made public. To get that one last score before that public image is finally gone forever, and on some level, to convince himself that his former life can be reclaimed, whole or in part. It's sad, because the man needs help. I think he has more problems than we know about. You can see it in his face, and he's now in the "denial" stage where he believes that he really has a good grip on his issues and can just go about life. Except that he really doesn't and isn't aware of it. We should all just leave him alone and forget this ever happened and all move forward now, he says. Except he's moving forward too soon (they almost always do). The cameras, the media, the notoriety are just another aspect of his overall addiction -- he can't do without it, all the while protesting the "intrusions" into his personal life.
He doth protest too much; he wants it every bit as much as the heroin addict wants the spike.

Tiger, take a powder, Dude. Get help and get better, because this doesn't look likely to end very well.

Please, God, MAKE IT GO AWAY!!!!

Would you toss your career away for this woman?

You might if your name is John Edwards.

Now, I know I've said it a million times on this blog; I won't talk about John Edwards anymore...except this one, last time. Truthfully, I think I just enjoy the schadenfreude, and I'm getting a good belly laugh just imagining how Edwards must be feeling right about now that his paramour and baby-mama has spilled her guts to GQ, complete with photos (via The New York Post).

I guess she might as well make some cash while she can, right? Because considering Johnny-boy's actions to date, if he could get out of paying child support by killing himself, he just might do it. More likely, he'll get another douchebag political hack to kill himself and then claim the body is John Edwards....really.

Anyways, I think I'm just enjoying the thought of Edwards squirming. He's been exposed for the cad and liar that he always was, and you'd think that after some reasonable amount of time, his public embarrassment would end and we could be well-and-truly done with this piece of shit.

But no...The Baby Mama has to have her fifteen minutes, too.

On some level, I think this woman is laboring under the misapprehension that "Johnny" (as she calls him) is actually in love with her. That once that old battleaxe, Elizabeth Edwards, finally kicks the bucket (who gets no sympathy from me; she's just as bad as her husband), that she and Johnny will live Happily Ever After. Perhaps that might even happen, in some Bizarro Universe, but what's more likely to happen is that he'll find some way to weasel out on her.

I mean, look at that picture; He actually fucked that. And more than once, obviously. That woman has a look in her eyes that fairly screams "Glenn-Close-Full-Menstrual-Fury-Batshit-INSANE". I mean, I've even looked at the GQ pics that accompanied the article, and quite frankly, she's not that hot. I rather doubt the attraction was physical.

It was more like she was convenient. Busy men -- especially those trying to lie their way into the White House with fake Andy-Griffith-Like-Aw-Shucks-Populism and tales of Two Americas which apparently don't apply to the man in the 32-room mansion who somehow believes he still feels the working stiff's pain -- will stick their willies in anything that hold still long enough. And if you continue to make yourself available n this fashion, they'll continue to take advantage of the convenience. There's no emotion in it for these guys, no attachment. It's a purely physical act.

And then, as always, it becomes inconvenient for them to continue the routine. Then they do stuff like try to hide you from public view, deny anything about affairs, claim they're the victim of some slanderous campaign, get their flunkies to lie for them, pay bribes to keep you silent, shut you up in someone else's mansion, and ultimately, try to steal dirty diapers so as to game the DNA test for the coming paternity suit.

I mean, really, Gentlemen; would you do the horizontal mambo with THAT? Without a drink or seven? Personally, I wouldn't hit that with a stolen dick. Not only do I get the distinct impression that the sex would suck, I KNOW this broad would probably be so incredibly grateful that I even talked to her that she'd suddenly be everywhere -- in my hallway banging on my door in the small hours, outside my place of business laying in wait for me, begging my landlord to give her a set of keys, and then eventually, committing a very messy and dramatic suicide on my doorstep -- but that's only because I wasn't home in time to make it a proper murder-suicide.

(Note: I've been through a similar little drama before....Except for the messy suicide part!).

Trust me: I know crazy...that woman looks Manson-family crazy.

Now, I know I'm not being completely fair to Ms. Homewrecker...errr...Hunter. But as much as John Edwards disgusts me, she disgusts me just as much, if not more. She knew he was a married man with a family and sick wife at home, and she's not exactly a sainted figure because of it, either. But anything which continues to expose both of these losers for the petty, narcissistic little assholes that they are is welcome, even if it is annoying, because every time both show their faces somewhere, it reminds us just what a turd John Edwards always was and that some misguided douchebags thought that turd would have made a great President of the United States.

Now THAT truly would have been crazy!