Weiner, Spitzer..There's a Blowjob Joke in There, Somewhere...

I would like to post an open letter to the voters of New York City.

I'm quite worried that many of you will do something so unthinkable, so mind-bogglingly stupid, so counter to your own interests, and actually take seriously the candidacy for public office (or should we say Orifice?) of one Anthony Weiner, infamous Twitter Dick Pic distributor, and one Elliot Spitzer, notorious Sex-with-a-hooker-while-wearing-black-socks aficionado.

Japan Needs Another Nuking, Methinks...

Apparently, two were not enough.

Now, I don't mean to pick on the Japanese. I have spent a great deal of time with many Japanese people (I once worked for two Japanese companies) and have found the majority to be regular Joes and Janes, and only a few would be what one could charitably call "eccentric" on one end of the scale, and "full-blown, wild-hair-up-their-asses insane" at the other extreme.

And let's face it; you have to admire a country that has soldiered on successfully in the wake of multiple earthquakes, tsunamis, utter defeat in war, and Lord only knows how many visits from Godzilla and Gamera.

Between the B-29's, Pacific Plate, atomic radiation-produced freaks of nature and at least one visit from the Top Gear guys, Tokyo has probably suffered more and worse disasters than the Carter and Obama Administrations, combined.

However, in recent years, it seems the Japanese have collectively gone batshit insane.when it comes to the subject of sex. And one need no more proof of this than a quick thought about the newest sexual fetish to strike the Land of the Rising Sun.

Eyeball licking.

Men Are Pigs...

Contrary to Einstein’s theories about the speed of light, this simple formulation is, without a doubt, the true Universal Constant.

I was reminded of this time-honored rule of thumb by a snippet of conversation I heard between two pimpled guidos of approximate high school age in the local Dunkin’ Donuts just yesterday.

"Fake, But Accurate" Was Good Enough for Dan Rather...

I can just see some guy standing before a Sharia Court exclaiming, "But Your Honor, it was the only time she would hold still..."

Whoops! The whole "Muslim Necrophilia" thingy that I blogged about yesterday might be some kind of internet hoax.

Handy Herman...

Boy, it's sure beginning to really suck to be Herman Cain!

Let's put this out here right at the top: I don't believe, based upon the scanty and mostly anonymous evidence presented so far, that Herman Cain has molested or sexually harassed anyone. I believe, in much the same way the lamestream, libtard press believes, that is, sans incontrovertible evidence, that Cain is innocent in much the same way as his political opponents would like you to believe that he is guilty.

Herman Cain and Sexual Harassment...

By now everyone should have heard about Herman Cain's little trouble with some allegations of randiness. I won't recap the whole, sordid...ahem...affair, because the facts are still in question, as are the circumstances, and the story still needs some time to play out fully before comments are made by me.

A Lunatic in Love?

I haven’t been blogging recently because I’ve been rather busy. You see, here I was doing some research for a post last week when I came across something I most certainly did not ever expect to see.


An obituary.

And not just any obituary; this one belonged to the father of a young lady I once dated at the tender age of 19, or at least it was someone with the same name. So, I checked it out, and sure enough, he was survived by a daughter who had the same first name as this old girlfriend. It gets worse, because her name was cross-referenced several times.

In three other obituaries.

The girl had lost her father, a sister, a brother, and her husband, all in the space of two years.

Something was awakened in this Lunatic, an emotion that he vaguely remembers from the very distant past. I think they called it ‘sympathy’ once. It’s not something that comes to me naturally in my Old Age. There’s been too much damage done, too many miles have been put on this ancient mental engine. But I did put my absolutely freakin’ awesome internet skills to work and tracked down this poor unfortunate woman, who coincidentally, lives less than 5 miles from my own front doorstep (and has for some time. Itmight have been dangerous had either known this previously). He made that call to say “I’m truly sorry…if there’s anything I can do…” and…

…The Lunatic and The Lady met three days later. It was the first time they had seen each other in nearly 14 years, and they were almost instantly transported back to a time when they were 19, couldn’t keep their hands off one another, and could get completely day-you-were-born naked before you could say “John Smith”.

That was the problem the first time around, you see.

Youth, they say, is wasted on the young. You could say that was never truer than in the case of The Lunatic and The Lady. We were so young -- and stupid. The courtship was whirlwind, it was passionate, and it was all-too-short. It burned too bright and far too hot, way too soon. This young buck was an immature doofus, completely ruled by his emotions; possessive, demanding, obsessive, jealous. In some ways, she wasn’t a Girl; she was a fortress to be stormed, relentlessly, until the walls all came tumbling down. I frightened her with sheer intensity; She became my drug of choice, and I did actually think I might die if I didn’t at least hear her voice every few hours.

I was convinced that this was THE ONE, but in retrospect, that decision was made by a horny, needy, clingy, 19-year-old who knew nothing about the realities of Life, and even less about True Love.

When she did the sensible thing and suggested that we see other people (we were about 20 at the time), this Lunatic was devastated. He became vindictive and took her up on her offer with a little trollop who made no bones about what she intended to do, which was to stake her claim upon me. Not to brag, but as a young dude, I was damned cute, I had a job that literally showered me with cash, and I could do The Nasty for hours on end.

I was a catch, as they say. But my heart lay elsewhere. No amount of consequence-free sex was enough to overcome that feeling that I should be with a special someone else.

I then did perhaps the dumbest thing any young man driven crazy by love and all-consuming passion could do; I told The Lady – who was on the verge of changing her mind about the status of our relationship at the time, unbeknownst to me – the truth about my indiscretions, and worse, who they were with (The Trollop had a reputation, built upon the scrawls found only on the finest Men’s Room walls in all of Brooklyn, and by salacious word of mouth. We (my group of male friends at the time) used to say of the Trollop that her greatest ambition in life was to screw her way through the White Pages).

But what can I say? Men are dogs, even in the best of circumstances, and drunk 19/20-year-olds with an erection and a broken heart are perhaps the biggest hounds of all.

In some strange way, I think, it (telling the Lady of my dalliances) was even an expression -- a mentally-deranged one, though it may be -- of love and loyalty. Or at least I may have thought it was at the time. Really, it was more a case of guilty conscience; I was a rotten (in the sense of not being a good one) liar at the time, a skill I unfortunately would acquire as the years went on and mental disorder crept in, and could never hide anything. Besides, we were bound to bump into the Trollop at a later date (we did, and it wasn’t a pretty scene, long story short).

The Lady and The Lunatic continued to see each other on and off for a while, lingering in some sort of relationship Limbo, until IT happened.

IT was an unplanned pregnancy. It almost always is.

We were 20, we were pregnant, and despite The Lunatic’s (totally genuine) proposal of marriage, The Lady was having none of it. She was too young to be a wife and mother, and who the hell knew what sort of husband/father I would have been? In retrospect, I most likely would have been absolutely lousy in both roles. I would have tried my hardest, but these are two areas in life where “A For Effort” just doesn’t cut it. You either succeed or you fail spectacularly.

And here I was, a heartbroken, emotionally-insecure-and-immature drunkard (I had already begun drinking heavily by this time, although I was managing to be the absolute best functioning alcoholic you ever did see) when the decision was made for me; The Lady would have an abortion.

She would have done it without me, but I couldn’t let her face that by herself. I didn’t want to do it, either, but what choice was there? I took her to the clinic. I waited for her. I tried my best in the days after to comfort her, but I was hurting something fierce, too.

We formed what psychiatrists call a trauma bond after that. We could never truly abandon one another, but we also couldn’t be together in quite the way we used to. This sad state of affairs went on for nearly 10 years. We would see one another occasionally, we would even…you know…but things were never quite the same after that. I wanted her, and I hated her. I loved her, but couldn’t forgive her. I could not let it go. She did. She couldn’t have survived otherwise, I think.

Me, on the other hand, I need my wounds to remain raw, to wallow in guilt, shame, and pain, if only because without that agony I will simply forget what not to do and become that which I hate the most; Your Average Male.

We finally said goodbye about a week before she was married. And then there was nothing for 14 years until I had accidentally found an obituary searching for information on someone else. Serendipity. Or was it?

I haven't told you about The Dream…

Three days before I had found that obituary, I’d had a dream. It was one of those dreams that occurs just moments before you awaken, and you don’t know where the original premise came from, or how it started, or even how it ends. You seem to have been just dropped into the dream at some random moment with no idea of what came before, what it’s about, or what you’re doing there, and somehow, you manage to just get swept up in the action before you get pulled out abruptly at yet another random moment. And then you’re awake.

In this dream, I found myself having to explain to my nephews just who The Lady was, why they never knew her, and where she might be now, and finding myself with no answers for their questions.

I don’t believe I had even thought about her for at least a decade before then.

I don’t really hold with that whole “dreams as a predictor of the future” nonsense, but this is the second time in my life -- that I’m aware of -- that I have dreamed something and then had Real Life throw me something directly related to the Dream. Both times it was about a woman from my past, and both times I got the impression that they needed me, or wanted something from me, at the time. Why can’t I dream winning Lotto numbers, instead?

We’re 44 now. There’s been a lot of growing up done in the interim. I’m determined to be a better person nowadays (yeah right!), one who isn’t ruled by his feelings (or his privates), who looks very carefully before he leaps, but that plan was blown to smithereens almost in an instant. In a sense, we’ve become 19 again, you see, transported back in time and space and what felt right and natural then feels very much the same now, and it all seems to have happened seamlessly and quite accidentally. We fell into our old bad habits almost immediately, but this time around, it’s somehow better.

Maybe now we actually know what we’re doing? Or rather, perhaps there have been some boundaries established even if we haven’t actually talked about them, as such.

I don’t know where this all eventually goes (two dates with your Ex from the Iron Age does not The Rest of Your Life make!), but I don’t seem to have the usual supply of venom to put on the page these days. I haven’t felt much like blogging, or railing against the stupidity of my fellow bags of protoplasm, and truthfully, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything else this past week, either. I seem to be a bit preoccupied, so excuse me if you come here expecting your daily dose of caustic word vomit, only to leave miserably disappointed.

I’m trying my best whilst laboring under some very unusual circumstances, so please bear with me.

I’m positive that in the coming days, someone will do something so completely stupid that it simply cannot be allowed to pass without comment and all will be right with the world again.

Cure for the Jihad? More Sex...

A Good Wife is a Sex Worker To Her Husband.

So sayeth some Muslim Women's group or other. There's two ways to intepret this story:

a. Women are the cause of all the evils of this world. Best they should just shut up and become somebody's willing slambag.

b. If these women actually succeed, you might just see the Jihad disappear overnight.

Because one of the primary, motivating factors in the Global Jihad (apart from Muzzies being uncivilized little ignoramuses) is sex. The Islamonazi just can't get enough, and he lives in a sewer of a culture which denies him outlets outside of marriage...unless we're talking livestock.

Or the other boys in the cave.

What the woman in this article seems to be describing is what we in the West would refer to as the Madonna/Whore Complex. The crux of this complex is that a woman must fulfill two, often contradictory, roles, simultaneously: she is to be the very model of the 'Good' Wife and Mother. Obedient, pious, meticulous in her care of children and household, publicly respectable, in all ways an extension of her husband, who should never be embarassed in public.

But behind closed tent flaps, she'd better have all the sexual skills, adventurism, and morals, of the A-list porn star.

I know several women south of the Mason-Dixon who would fall into this category; the church-going, well-known pillar of the community kind, maybe of a prominent family, who become a completely different chick as soon as someone's naked and the lights go out. Northern women don't even wait for the lights.

You know, these Muzzie chicks just might be onto something. If Abdul is too busy watching his wives perform oral sex upon one another while the third one performs a nasty upon him, he might stay home more often. Men up to their armpits in pussy tend to be too busy to build roadside bombs, plot terrorist attacks, or snipe at American troops.

Think of it this way: while Hassan is busy porking (doh!) his Good Lady Wives, we could...ahem...pull out...of Afghanistan and Iraq, and nobody would notice.

It's a good sign that in at least one backwards place on Planet Earth, some women are actually suggesting something positive in the efforts to stem the worldwide Jihad. This suggestion is a far cry more useful and doable than anything that has come from the mouths of Western Feminists, who incidentally, don't really give a shit about their oppressed Muslim sisters unless they can attack a Republican by feigning concern and outrage.

If the terrorists are too busy busting a nut, they ain't hijacking anything. And getting your rocks off in this life sort of takes the 'can't wait' factor out of thepromised 72 virgins in the afterlife. Besides, don't you want some chick who knows what she's doing? There's nothing worse than a woman who can't cover her teeth...unless she's chipped one, then that's far worse.

It's also for damned sure a much simpler view of male/female relationships than the one we've evolved here in the West, which has gotten so complicated, so full of extraneous bullshit, and which simply drips with the greatest stupidity and aggravation that the female mind can contrive. Dating is damned difficult nowadays, Ladies, and you made it that way. Don't think so? Then read this:

18 Things All Men Need to Know That Women Won't Tell Them.

My, how helpful you are. We need information, but you won't give it to us. So much for the vaunted 'communication skills' of women. But then I read the article, and no wonder they can't tell us these things!

The article (despite it's glaring grammatical and spelling errors -- someone actually got paid to write this?) is basically devoted to s single premise: women want a Metrosexual. Be the best damned  Metrosexual you can be, young man, and you'll soon be swimming in snatch, yesssiiirrreee!

I think this was once covered in an episode of South Park, truthfully.

At least one third of the article is devoted to hair care and hairstyles, fashion, and...hand lotion. I especially loved this line:

"You need to have the right amount of sex, money and career in [your] hairstyle."

Really?

Just what the fuck does that mean? No wonder you haven't told us, girls! You'd probably be ashamed to utter that in public, wouldn't you?

And people wonder why divorce rates are so high, why consumption of porn is at an all-time high, and why the Japanese are busy devising the sex robot: how the fuck -- as a Man -- do you relate to a shallow dingbat who demands the 'right amount' of 'sex, money and career' in your fucking haircut? By what standard are such things measured? Gentlemen, doesn't shit like this just drive you insane?

It's no wonder I find this fake woman to be the sexiest in all the world!

A Trip Through My Mailbox, Part V...

And then we come to this lovely bit of stupidity, courtesy of someone named Alyssa, in reference to this weekend’s assertion that Flo the Progressive Insurance Girl is the sexiest woman in all of America.

Alyssa writes:

“…I find it strange that you should ideolize (sic) such an old-fashioned notion of American Womanhood. Flo might be an independent woman at first blush, but the subtext of Flo’s character is that she’s still the patriarchy’s ideal vision of the stay-at-home wife and mother, and this is because of how she looks…Admit it, you love Flo because she her retro look reinforces your negative and outdated notions of masculinity…”

Alyssa has probably just finished her freshman year at one of our finest Community Colleges, and took Gender Studies as an elective course. The rest of the screed made just as little sense, too, and one gets the impression that young Alyssa did, indeed, pass this course by simply re-puking Professor Pantybunches’ pablum.


A friendly word of advice to you, Alyssa, just in case you ever return: I sincerely hope, for your sake, Sunshine, that you learn to make biscuits, and have great big hooters and practice your oral sex technique often, because if left to your own devices one gets the distinct impression that you would most certainly starve to death – regardless of whatever degree you manage to scrape up in that school of yours -- without a husband to support you.

If you ever wanted to know why it is that Men find the ‘retro subtexts’ of Flo so attractive, maybe it’s because we can’t stand being lectured to by women who use the word ‘patriarchy’, and who are clueless enough as to deign to attempt to explain 'masculinity' to us in a condescending manner. And by the way, learn to spell “idealize”. Don’t you have a spell-checker on that computer?

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?

Weiner Steps on the Weiner...

You knew this was coming. It was unavoidable.

Police question 17-yr old girl who had contact with Weiner.

Gonna resign now, Douchebag, before the cops haul your ass off to jail?

In one of those delicious ironies, as Ipost this, I'm watching Special Report with Bret Baier on Fox, and Kirsten Powers, an ex-girlfriend of Anthony Weiner who's part of Bret's panel this evening, has just been asked to comment on this tidbit. She dodged it nicely,but you could see that she wanted to go home and scrub thoroughly with Brillo.

(H/T JammieWearingFool)

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.

This Is Why You Should Never, Ever, Donate Bodily Fluids...

...unless there is a deep level of personal commitment. I wouldn't even think of giving mine to someone who wouldn't, at the very least, make me breakfast before she left, and then didn't make the effort to forget my address or phone number.

And if you can't make the delivery yourself in the time-honored fashion, then you don't want anything to do with being a sperm donor, either. It's not worth it if there's a turkey baster involved. If your recipients are a pair of lesbian chicks you wouldn't fuck without a steel-reinforced concrete condom and a fifth of Johnny Black, then you probably don't even want to be in the same house with that womb. If one of them lists her occupation as 'clairvoyant' and 'funeral celebrant', you definitely don't sell your seed for anything less than your weight in gold, and even then, you might think twice.

Here's another argument against Gay Marriage (as if the anti- argument wasn't already self-evident): how do you redefine 'Fatherhood' when the Warm-and-Fuzzies wear off between the Primaries, and you have to consider the rights of the gamete donor in the 'divorce'?

I feel for this guy, because he has been a father in all respects, it would seem. Especially financially; this pair of carpet-munchers wanted children, but children that someone else would pay for, looks like. This guy paid for the pre-natal care, the midwife, child support, and even offered housing to the mother and the defective she was playing house with. The child, to the...ahem...women, appears but a prop in their bullshit 'lifestyle choice' kabuki play.

He even offered to build them all a house to live in!
I hope this guy can get his daughter away from this pair of ding-dongs.

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.

She May Only Be 8, But What a Rack!

Abercrombie&Fitch develops push-up bikini top for pre-teens.

I think Mr. Steyn has said all that need be said here. Except this:

Abercrombie&Fitch is gay. Anyone who wears A&F is probably gay, or at least a dipshit metrosexual who one day hopes to finally make a definitive decision about whether he's truly gay, or rather prefers the ambiguity of being steadfastly androgynous. I would implore anyone who owns A&F stock to dump it, post haste, because it's no longer all about providing high-quality clothing (says who? You might put that shit on a Ken Doll, or maybe your poodle!) at exorbitant prices, and all about sexualizing children, because nowadays, pushing the envelope of common decency is how one promotes one's business, and gets all the favorable 'buzz' in the fashion world.

What's next? Jock Strap bathing suits for the Obese? Stirrup Pants for Double-Amputees? Dress slacks with an easy-entry, velcro-attached drop panel in the seat for that business-casual work environment? Split-crotch boating outfits? A line of Infant's clothes with built-in pacifiers...in the ass?

It's bad enough there's pedophiles running around loose (because shooting them is considered bad, for some strange reason) now someone thinks it's a good idea to dress little girls up like hookers? Don't get me started on the parents who would actually consider buying their little girl something like this...

The Sun, The Moon and the Stars.,.

The moon tonight will be the closest to Earth than it has been in the last 18 years,and will also be full this evening. Some advice, Gentlemen: Chill some wine, or warm some cocoa, set out a couple of lounge chairs in the backyard, get a nice, cozy blanket, and then call that special someone. Do this right, and you'll be doing the Horizontal Mambo before you know it.

Just wrap that rascal, okay?

The EU and China Are Doomed...

I was discussing this idea I've had rolling around the empty spaces between my ears the other night with a good friend of mine. I think it was about 12 or 15 years ago, when he had married an English Lady and was therefore honor-bound to remain in Britain, that I told him to make sure that he saved his pennies, and made preparations to run back to the United States if that should become necessary, because at that time the government of Prime Minister Tony Blair was seriously considering joining the European Union. Or at least, trying to prepare British citizens for the possibility of being joined at the hip to the French and Germans.

That Labour government never entered the shotgun marriage of full EU membership (that would have meant abandoning the Pound for the Euro, and giving up much that made Britain British), but did inch it's regulatory system closer and closer to the European model (ex: it is now illegal to sell produce in Britain in any measure but metric). I'm convinced that had Blair had another go at things, he would have turned Britain into Belgium, only with prettier women. That the British people resisted Monetary Union, and unaccountable Continental bureaucratic control, is to their credit.

"The European Union cannot last", I told him. "Any organization which has both the French and the Germans in it, is doomed to fail."

Time has proven me right, in the general theory, just not in the particulars. The European Union is now in financial crisis, as is the United States, only the EU economic crisis is one of it's member states own making, because despite all the talk about free markets, the free movement of labor, and all the rosy economic predictions, the member states can't handle austerity or responsibility, either in times of plenty or in times of dearth.

There are no "free" markets in Europe; if the labor markets aren't controlled by the Trade Unions, then the financial markets are rigged by governments (both the elected officials of the member nations, and the unelected bureaucracy of the EU) to favor European concerns above foreign competition. Granted, we do the same things, just not as badly or as ham-handedly as the Euros do.

Anyways, all that stuff about the European social welfare model is finally coming home to roost in such a way that people are recognizing it's true costs.

An economic crisis arrives, austerity measures are needed: and French workers will have to work two more years into their 60's to keep their Social Security system afloat...and they riot.

Greeks riot in the streets of Athens, home of democracy, because the government is stepping up enforcement of tax collection (apparently, Greeks have become expert tax dodgers over the years), and reducing social benefits to stave off bankruptcy.

British "students" (who knew football, female promiscuity and public drunkenness were legitimate fields of study?) riot in the streets because the government cannot continue to provide a "free" college education (note to all you people who are supposed to be getting educated: nothing is ever "free", you just don't happen to pay for it because someone else does, dispshit!). When Her Majesty's Government makes the suggestion that, perhaps, students might pay some of their own tuition, they take to the streets to set things aflame and otherwise make a nuisance of themselves (over a rate so low that it would make an American college student consider blowing someone for British Citizenship).

It was Germany that began the breakup of the EU. Angela Merkel figured that if any part of the European economic system was going to be saved, it might as well be the German part. Austerity is the new buzzword; Germany will not bail out Ireland, Portugal, Spain, in fact, Germany won't bail out anyone it doesn't absolutely have to. The first crack has appeared in the EU; the dam will surely break, and the lesson (which somehow everyone forgets) is finally re-learned -- everyone is friendly...until money is involved.

I had always believed that when (not IF) the EU dissolved, it would be because France and Germany would get into another of their cyclical Fascist phases and then go to war over who had the God-given right to shit all over the Danes, Czechs and Luxembourgers, plunging Europe into another war (the French and Germans have fought three of them in the last 150 years, five in the last 200, if you count Napoleon, and who the hell-knows-how-many since the days of Charlemagne). Instead, the collapse of the EU is because the potential Shitters are afraid of bearing the cost of preserving the Shittees, upon whom they depended to slough off their own social welfare costs in the first place.

How that all sorts itself out is open to debate, and the vagaries of time. However,there's a bigger threat to international security and recovery than a pissing match within the Eurozone, and that threat is China.

China, at present, has three major economic advantages over the West; first, it contains tens of millions of people willing (and happy) to work for low wages. Even the pittance the average Chinese worker makes compared to his Western counterparts represents a great leap forward (no pun intended) for the average Chinese. Secondly, China is a place where speculators can run wild, making a killing -- on paper -- with little real investment. Some places in China are so remote and economically-depressed that the installation of a gumball machine or a pay phone represents 1000% economic growth. A skillful speculator can take those paper gains, and turn them into real cash. The Communist government certainly has, mostly because it's the body which produces the inflated economic figures in the first place.

All that Wall Street talk of China being "the biggest potential market in the world" is just that; talk. We've heard it for 30 years, and the Chinese trade imbalance with America grows worse with every goddamned day. Those who brag about opening Chinese markets and cheerleading the growth of Chinese capitalism are blowing smoke up your ass: they're simply trying to keep the investment pipeline open to prevent yet another bubble from breaking.

The third advantage which China enjoys is a corrupt government willing to do anything in order to maintain the power to slaughter millions if it feels itself threatened. It's why the Commies "liberalized" the economic system in the first place. This seeming-abandonment of Communism for unbridled Capitalism is merely a shield intended to buy the Chinese Communist apparatus the time and money necessary to save it's own skin when the time comes. China has learned the true lessons that Mikhail Gorbachev taught totalitarian regimes with his programs of glasnost and perestroika:

It's okay for The People to have the illusion of wealth, for as long as they believe their standard of living is rising, political unrest can be kept at bay. Let the people get rich, just don't let them demand -- or get -- political rights. And herein lay the problem.

Within a generation, perhaps two, China will be rent by political discord. The sources of this unrest will be a rising Middle Class, and a generation of unmarried and childless Men. This Middle Class, the first generation of accumulators of real wealth in Chinese history, will very soon demand that their modest fortunes be preserved for future generations -- and the first threat they'll want their money protected from is their own government. There will be calls, and possibly bloody riots, for political, economic, and legal freedoms/protections that the Communists will be unable to contain, deflect or ignore without great bloodshed.

At the same time, there will arise a peculiar class of Men denied the right to a wife and family by draconian birth control policies that have made marriageable females scarce, and which will have given what women there are a power they have never had before in China; the right to pick and choose the "best" husbands from the nuveau-riche parvenus, perhaps to even command huge payments and advantageous pre-nuptual agreements that the average man simply cannot provide.

There will be tens of millions of Chinese men who will have no, or limited, prospects for wives and children...and they won't be getting laid. Societies in which men can't engage in regular sexual activity, attain wives, or produce families to pass on both their genes and their property have far too much energy and time for other things...like violence. The sort of violence which one normally associates with the Middle East -- another sexually-deprived culture where wives are hard to come by once one runs out of first-cousins, and where inbreeding, closet homosexuality and bestiality are rampant, and grave threats to anything that can be considered civilized society.

There can never be enough Japanese sex robots to keep these guys in check.

The combination of a new Middle Class and the Man-with-no-marital-prospects will, eventually, mean the end of Chinese "Communism", and destroy much of the gains China has made economically in the last 30 years through some sort of Civil War. Whether it's a Peaceful Revolution, or one of those historically-cyclical-and-violent episodes of Chinese history is yet to be seen, but I'm betting on it being one hell of a holy mess, because let's face it; everyone is friendly...until there's money...or pussy...involved.

UPDATE: The Wall Street Journal reports an agreement between France and Germany that might save Ireland from insolvency, but undermine the Euro in the process. The article suggests the belief that this plan will bring the Eurozone members closer together, but let's get real; that's propaganda. The real story here is that the failings of the Irish (and Spanish, Portugese, etc) banks will fall squarely where they belong; on the shoulders of the investors who hold the bad debt.

Also, Tea Parties rising in Germany? We all know how well German Nationalist parties meeting in Munich beerhouses have worked in the past, don't we?

Just Wash Your Balls, Dammit!

You'll be happy to know that $800,000 in U.S. Taxpayer Stimulus Money was spent to teach African men how to properly wash their Wedding Tackle.

The expenditure was considered necessary in order to prevent the spread of AIDS and other STD's.

Some observations:

1. My mother taught me at a very young age to wash my tallywhacker regularly. While this was never presented to me as a way of avoiding chlamydia -- or worse -- it would seem to me to be something so fundamentally obvious to everyone on Planet Earth, that I'm absolutely shocked that it must be taught to anyone via government program.

2. You now know why Africa will always be impoverished and disease-ridden; African men know how to fuck, but apparently not how to wash properly. Countries in which basic hygiene is an obscure and arcane art are countries where progress is next-to-impossible. Without progress, there can be no civilization, let alone it's adjuncts of prosperity and democracy.

3. I'd like to know which Congresscritter got this bit of stupidity into the Porkulus Bill, and then have him or her flogged on national television. The purpose of the Stimulus Bill was to stimulate economic growth in this country and put Americans to work, not to bring the wonder of soap to the...ummm...great unwashed masses. That near-million bucks could have been better used here.

4. I'm personally inclined to let anyone who won't wrap that rascal, or take any of the most basic of preventative actions to protect their personal health, die.

5. I guess bringing the benefits of washing your One-eyed-Moisture-Seeking-Missile frequently is the modern equivalent of the White Man's Burden.

6. Now you know why the country is broke: it is somehow in the vital national interest to spend scads of Taxpayer money in foreign countries to teach a bunch of horny dingbats to keep their Meat Whistle clean. Our political class is a convocation of morons.

7. I will now avoid African women (that's Africa-African) like the plague; I now know what they've been doing, and worse, what they've been doing it with.

Wanted: One Husband...

I'm late to this one, I know. Forgive me?

This woman needs a husband, quickly and desperately.

Then again, one look at that mugshot seems to imply that there just isn't enough Viagra in the world to help you do the deed. Then again, I've heard that most black men would screw a telephone pole if it held still long enough, and I'm pretty positive, based on appearances only, this one has at least one Baby Daddy somewhere, so I could be wrong.

Some men have no standards, beyond a) breathing and b) offering.

With regards to this woman, the male mantra of "close your eyes and she can be anyone you want her to be" doesn't apply; I couldn't imagine my way through a rut with that for all the tea in China, and if I did find myself in the unfortunate and desperate straits required to even think about doing it, I would have to rush right home and scrub myself thoroughly with a Brillo pad.

The crackpipe is merely the icing on the cake, and probably par for the course.