Musings of an American Red Tory

Red Tories at the Grassroots?

December 19, 2006 · 27 Comments

Michael GersonFormer Bush speechwriter Michael Gerson raises a point I’ve pondered time and again: So much of what is associated with the Reagan “Revolution” is illusion, and those who scream the loudest for a return to the old style limited government and fiscal probity associated with the Reagan era are invoking a myth.

As Gerson observes:

During the Reagan years, big government got bigger, with federal spending reaching 23.5 percent of GDP (compared with just over 20 percent under the current president). But the Reagan reality is more admirable than the myth. He wisely chose what was historically necessary—large defense increases and tax reductions—over what was politically unachievable: a massive rollback of government.

Political expediency by any other name.

Aside from that, Dubya, despite the persistent stereotyping, is no bleeding heart compared with Reagan — really more of a stereotypical Republican grinch if you look at where many of his budget increases have been targeted:

Well over half of President Bush’s spending increases have gone to a range of unexpected security necessities, including military imminent-danger pay, unmanned aerial vehicles and biological-weapons vaccines. Other types of discretionary spending have increased at 3.9 percent a year on average—far below President Clinton’s double-digit growth in his final year. Why don’t anti-government conservatives mention spending increases on defense and homeland security when they make their critique? Because a minimalist state cannot fight a global war—so it is easier for critics to ignore the global war.

Gerson also explores a prevailing distinction within GOP ranks that should not be lost on those of use who harbor strong red tory sympathies: the widely divergent, largely mutually incompatible views of Republican libertarians and conservatives.

The combination of disdain for government, a reflexive preference for markets and an unbalanced emphasis on individual choice is usually called libertarianism. The old conservatives had some concerns about that creed, which Russell Kirk called “an ideology of universal selfishness.”

Conservatives are wary of government, not hostile to it. Within some contexts, they are even willing to stomach a surprisingly ample amount of it so long as it contributes to the common good (e.g., strengthening families, neighborhoods, schools, congregations). And while Republican libertarians — “purists,” as Gerson prefers to call them — still command the rhetorical high ground of debate within the party, many Republican governors, particularly Mitt Romney and Jeb Bush, are busy translating authentic conservative principles into practical reality at the grassroots.

But there is another Republican Party—what might be called the party of the governors. It is the party of Gov. Jeb Bush of Florida, who has improved the educational performance of minority students and responded effectively to natural disasters. It is the party of Gov. Mitt Romney of Massachusetts, who mandated basic health insurance while giving subsidies to low-income people. Neither of these men embrace big government; both show convincing outrage at wasteful spending. But they have also succeeded in making government work in essential government roles—not a small thing in a post-Katrina world.

Categories: State of Conservatism

27 responses so far ↓

  • Op Ed // January 13, 2008 at 2:40 am | Reply

    I Got What America Needs Right Here
    By Jimmy Carter
    January 9, 2008 |
    The Onion Issue 44•02
    Sometimes I’m a little stupid, maybe, a little slow in the head, so I’m wondering if you can help me get something straight. Maybe you can help me understand one fucking thing right now, America, and explain to me what in the Christ is going on here. ‘Cause, unless I’m missing something, this country is in the middle of a motherfucking shitstorm, and I have no fucking idea what you’re gonna do to get out of it. I mean, are you seriously considering voting for one of these shitbags you got here in ‘08? Fat fucking chance.
    Way I see it, America needs a president who’s gonna somehow un-royally screw up the Middle East, do some serious cleaning up after you dropped your pants and took a steaming dump all over the fucking environment, and—boom!—restore dignity, honor, and all that shit to these United States.
    See, I got solutions to all your problems—I got ‘em right here in my big, hairy ballsack.
    You better get down on your hands and knees and kiss Jimmy Carter’s rosy-red Georgia-peach-picking ass and beg me to run your fucking country again, because there’s no way I’m ever gonna come to you fuck-knobs and politely ask you if I might please be a presidential candidate in your precious fuckin’ election. So you can just bite my cock. I’ve had it with you jerkoffs and your jerkoff candidates.
    You actually seem to think one a’ these assholes is gonna prance in and wave a magic wand and make everything all nice again. Look at you, sitting there like a common fucking schnook and eating all their bull about bi-fucking-partisanship, and how they have all the goddamn answers. Let me tell you something: These fags are dogshit compared to Jimmy fucking Carter, all right? I was arbitrating Mideast crises when this bunch was still sucking on their mamas’ titties.
    But who comes to me, huh? Fucking nobody. Why ask old Jimmy anything? What the fuck could he know about peace in the Middle East? It’s not like he fucking won the Nobel Peace Prize for that shit. You myopic pricks. Back in ‘79, I sat Sadat and Begin right down and made those two dicklicks shake hands. It was beautiful—I had all the pieces lined up and I smiled and waved in my best fucking suit and tie right there on TV. And what do you do, you pieces of shit? You screw the whole goddamn pooch.
    Cocksuckers.
    Oh, what’s that I hear? The weather’s all screwy? You got a global warming problem? Boo-fucking-hoo! I was telling you morons to turn off your lights and unplug all your shit at night to conserve energy in 19-fuckin’-75, for chrissake. Gee, I wonder what woulda happened if we’d all switched to solar power like I fucking did back when we had a fucking chance to do something about it. Think we’d still be sucking Saudi Arabia’s dick like a five-dollar whore? I sure as fuck didn’t get no fancy Oscar for that little spiel, though, did I? No. But Al Gore, that cum-sucking pig, steals the shit from me and now he’s the greatest thing since Jesus Christ made a fucking sandwich.
    Well, he can lick my asshole right after George W. Bush, that fuck.
    You want compassion? Somebody who’s looking out for the little guy? Why don’t you take a look at Jimmy Carter, ’cause unlike, oh, every motherfucking candidate out there, he spent the last fucking quarter-century building houses for the homeless. And what does he get for it? A fucking hernia. Some fucking gratitude, you selfish twats. You talk to me about compassion? I’ll shove a crucifix so far up the Democrats’ asses they’ll be asking me to buy them dinner and kiss them good night.
    Funny thing about me: I actually fucking know shit! Not like these goombas trying to weasel their way into the White House. I practically wrote the book on collapsing bridges, inflation, and the working poor, fuck-o. I even got a degree in nuclear engineering or some shit. You know how easy I could swoop down right now like a guardian angel and solve all your fucking problems? Snap. Bam. Do it in my fucking sleep. Just fucking try me.
    So you want me to run for president again? Yeah, sure, absolutely, I’ll do it. I’d be honored to do it—with my fucking dick in your mouth, you worthless scumbags.
    You had your chance with Jimmy Carter, and you fucking blew it. So get fucked. Fucking country.

  • T.H.Z. // January 27, 2008 at 12:46 am | Reply

    A Letter of Introduction from T. Herman Zweibel

    By T. Herman Zweibel
    Publisher Emeritus (photo circa 1911)

    The Onion
    January 21, 2008 | Issue 44•03

    The school-educated busy-bodies who manage my media properties inform me that it is almost time to appoint a new President. I almost cannot believe it is time for the suet-brained populace of this flagging Republic to be once again herded into the voting-booths to allegedly choose precisely which bloody-handed butcher will crack their bones and suck the marrow over the next few years. Futility, I say, rank and base futility! Does the grist choose the mill, the rabbit the hawk, the innocent 12-year-old Atlantic City orphan girl the lusty mob of beefy, drunk, vacationing coal-oil sales-men? They do not, and neither do the Citizens choose their Leaders. However, if The Onion news-paper can further the illusion that an individual vote has more potential to change the world than a lamb’s last bubbling bleat in a crowded slaughter-house—and furthermore, if we may turn a hand-some profit by doing so—than let The Onion be the Judas goat to the milling herd of democratic cattle!

    I am told that our new War of the White House section will contain the vetted and censored life stories of each candidate; white-washed and simplified versions of their heinous plans to drain the life and wealth of each and every tax-payer; a schedule denoting the appearances of every aspirant, so that one may go and be covered in unspeakable fulminating lies in person instead of hearing them over the crystal-set. I should God damned well hope that there will also be prettily-colored pictures, or else the average American citizen will not be able to keep his eye on it for more than a few heart-beats, and it would be better yet if there were accompanying photos of ample heaving bosoms. Sadly, the man in the street becomes affronted whenever he feels his supposed dignity is being besmirched. Why is this? The man in the street is, for all his puffery, standing there in the God damned street!

    In any case, there will also be a section on how our Democracy works, despite even the simplest boor suspecting in his secret heart of hearts that it is a sham. Which it is. I have not voted since becoming a wealthy industrialist, having figured out some time ago that it is much wiser to employ the organ grinder than vote for the monkey. Still, I hope this special section is of some amusement to all. I understand that one of the candidates is campaigning in a dress this year, and yet another in a minstrel’s blackface, which I must say was unexpected; but as long as there are no Catholics on the ballot, I see no reason to summon the marksmen.

    Now get back to work!

  • prabhath // February 6, 2008 at 10:00 am | Reply

    Its grade……..

    prabhath from Sri Lanka

    Read my news blog-www.newsrepotsrilanka.blogspot.com

  • fire in the a-hole // February 15, 2008 at 5:30 am | Reply

    Area Senior Remembers A Simpler Time When His Anus Didn’t Leak
    The Onion February 2, 2008 |2008 | Issue 44•05

    CARSON CITY, NV—Looking out his window as the cars zoom by and a jet plane rumbles overhead, 87-year-old Hank Fletcher sees a world far different from the one in which he grew up. In his day, the retired factory worker says, life was simpler. The streets were quieter, people were more polite, neighbors all knew one another, and his anus did not emit oily discharges of liquid stool.

    But times have changed.

    “When I was a young man, there was no uncertainty in the world—dinner was at 5:30 sharp, people who got married stayed that way, and my anus didn’t leak,” Fletcher says. “I can still remember playing stickball till the sun dipped below the trees. Why, I’d round the bases pretending I was Rogers Hornsby without ever having to think about a viscous brown liquid trickling down my leg. The future seemed so bright.”

    Hank Fletcher sits on his fifth couch in as many months and reminisces about the good old days of dry pants.

    As time marches on, Fletcher remains one of the last direct links to a bygone era of American life when people passed their evenings relaxing by the fireside or listening to Hopalong Cassidy on the radio. Mothers and fathers would sit on couches free from protective plastic covers, and children would play games in the corner, oblivious to the crime, famine, and warm streams of fluid seeping out of their anal cavities that seem so commonplace today.

    “How I loved to stroll down the promenade arm in arm with my best gal, Dorothy,” Fletcher says, shifting in his chair as he pages wistfully through a faded old scrapbook. “We’d talk and laugh, unconstrained by bulky plastic sacks tied to our waists, and go into all the shops—never to buy anything, of course, just to look and to dream. We’d wander along the boardwalk all evening, she with her blue Gainsborough hat and I with my clean underpants, all the while holding hands and not ejecting fecal matter from our anuses.”

    “But Dorothy’s been gone for many a year now,” he adds as he closes the scrapbook, “and as for my anus, well, as I said before, it leaks constantly.”

    Seated on a rocking chair covered in a blue tarpaulin to protect the wood from foul-smelling stains, Fletcher chuckled to recall how tiny and hard to come by TV sets were in those days. His family had only one car, he could see a movie for a quarter, soda pop only cost a nickel, and his sphincter was strong enough to expand and contract when he intended instead of hanging permanently open like an unlatched floodgate.

    “Back then, the days were as cool and sweet as a sip of lemonade, and the night sky was filled to the brim with bright shiny stars,” Fletcher says. “Now there’s so much noise and pollution that you can’t even hear yourself think. People are always screaming and shouting for no good reason, zipping around from place to place, and the hustle and the bustle and my anus leaks, and it’s all computers.”

    “Glenn Miller, jalopy rides, Lucky Lindy, my non-leaking anus,” Fletcher adds. “Those were the days.”

    Indeed, this octogenarian lived most his life in a time that made him proud to be an American and during which he did not have to change his pants five times a day. He can recall as if it were yesterday seeing the troops come home after Normandy, when the nation was riding high and his feces were satisfyingly firm cylinders that easily held their shape in water; and watching two men land on the moon just moments after he expelled the contents of his bowels all at once in the bathroom rather than in dribs and drabs over the course of an afternoon. Then, on Sept. 11, 2001, terrorists flew two hijacked planes into the World Trade Center and Fletcher’s anus leaked, and he knew the world had changed forever.

    “Things ain’t how they used to be,” he says, shaking his head. “Especially in regards to my anus.”
    Despite it all, Fletcher admits that today’s youth have it harder than ever. Amid fears of war, global warming, and political instability, Fletcher leaves the younger generations with a simple word of advice from a man who has seen it all.

    “Every once in a while, take a moment to appreciate everything you have in this life,” Fletcher says, “because before you know it, the world will pass you by, and also your underpants will be moist with shit.”

    As A Working Mom, It’s Hard To Find Time To Masturbate
    By Sheryl Marie Vos
    August 15, 2007 | Issue 43•33

    As A Working Mom, It’s Hard To Find Time To Masturbate
    As a single mother of three with a full-time career, I’ve got a lot on my plate. Between making the children’s breakfast in the morning and making sure they brush their teeth at night, I hardly have any time to take care of myself. Sometimes, I just get so darn busy that I’ll realize it’s 6 p.m. and I haven’t even eaten yet! Can you imagine? Not that I’m complaining, though. I love being a mom. But I’ll tell you what—sometimes I find it just about impossible to find a spare moment to stimulate my clitoris until I reach glorious climax.

    From the moment I wake up, I’m always worrying about someone else. I’ve got to make the kids’ lunches, get them on the bus—no easy task when it comes to Melanie—and then race around to get the house straightened up so I can leave for work. And after a grueling eight-hour day, I’ve got to turn around and go grocery shopping, stop at the bank, and pick up the kids after their extracurricular activities. I’m telling you, sometimes it feels like I barely have a second to breathe, let alone 20 minutes to writhe beneath my bedspread with the passionate thoughts of sensuous lovemaking until I gasp with the force of my full-body orgasm.

    Of course, I can’t blame that entirely on the kids. Sure, there are times when I’m picking up dinner, and I think about how easy it would be to sneak off to the restroom and rub off a quickie. But then a special on that cereal the kids like distracts me, or I happen to run into a chatty neighbor, or I’m just too pooped out from work to take that special “me time.” And that’s really no one’s fault but my own. I just keep telling myself, “That’s okay, Sheryl. Tomorrow you can take the afternoon off and run a bath, light some candles, and tease your engorged vulva to thoughts of that carpenter who put in our basement molding. Tomorrow.”
    But I never do.

    I’m not usually one to whine about such things, but my work isn’t doing me any favors either. All day long I’m in meetings or filling out expense reports or trying to fix the work that that damn Carol didn’t do right the first time. Even if I do take my lunch break to slip off into the handicapped stall, hike up my skirt, and start pleasuring my body with two, three, sometimes four fingers at a time, inevitably my cell phone will ring or someone will walk in and distract me, and eventually I just give up and go back to my desk having never shuddered uncontrollably with the powerful release only my dexterous hands can provide.

    No one tells you when you’re young, but having kids just upends your whole life. One minute, you’re more than willing to lie on the couch for two or more hours, rubbing massage oil over your breasts and inner thighs until your primed body is aching for that last gentle stroke that will send it over the edge. And then the next minute you have a few children and all of the sudden the only thing that gets you excited is not finding another cavity at the dentist’s office. It’s all about priorities. And, until the kids go off to good colleges and I save up enough vacation days to make it worthwhile, I guess getting down on all fours in front of the full-length mirror and slowly working my trusty purple vibrator in and out of my dripping love canal with increasing speed and intensity will just have to wait.

    I only wish I still had a husband to take some of this work off my hands. If I had a man around the house, I bet I could find all sorts of opportunities to masturbate.
    Ah, well. No rest for the weary, I suppose. I’m certainly not going to win any points with the feminists by saying so, but maybe we women simply can’t have it all. Maybe we have to make the choice between being a working woman who occasionally coaxes her pussy into such a lather that her hands are slicked with love juices, or a mother who spontaneously pulls over to the side of the road on the way to pick up the kids from day camp and swirls her fingers over her love button over and over and again and again, faster and faster until she’s screaming, “Yes! Yes!” and slamming her fists on the car horn.

    Because sometimes when you try to have it all, you end up losing what’s most important to you: earth-shattering, toe-curling multiple orgasms.

  • pull my finger // March 3, 2008 at 3:30 am | Reply

    Larry Flynt Has Sex With Own Mother In Outhouse
    February 5, 1997 | Issue 31•04
    KNOB CREEK, KY—In an incident that has shocked and repulsed even the most fervent free-expression advocates, controversial Hustler magazine publisher Larry Flynt had sexual intercourse with his own mother in an outhouse Monday.
    Enlarge Image
    Larry Flynt, seen here attending the premiere of The People Vs. Larry Flynt, recently had an outhouse liaison with his own mother (inset). Flynt has vowed to fight himself in court over the sex act, which he called “unconscionable and sick.”
    According to reports, not only did Flynt place his mother “face-first in an outhouse shit-hole” near Flynt’s poverty-stricken, white trash, backwoods place of birth before “taking her from behind like a dog,” but he was also surrounded by pigs, sheep, convicted felons, born-again evangelists, Mafia-linked magazine distributors, and a huge-phallused caricature of Santa Claus at the time.
    Particularly nauseating, sources say, was the fact that during the incestuous act, Flynt’s colostomy bag exploded violently, covering Flynt, his mother, and all onlookers in a torrential shower of his own feces. Flynt, who is described by close friends and colleagues as a “perverted bastard,” does not possess control over his own bowels.
    The liaison, which is said to have been possibly the single most obscene and degrading act in human history, has left everyone from right-wing Christian leaders to ACLU lawyers to Larry Flynt himself condemning the sickening, depraved display.
    “I cannot in good conscience allow myself to continue this sick, hideous abomination against all that is decent,” Flynt said shortly after completion of the sexual liaison. “Our nation’s children must be protected from filth like myself!”
    Flynt added that videos of the event are available for $29.95 from Larry Flynt Publications, Inc.
    Though confined to a wheelchair after being paralyzed by an assailant’s bullet during a Georgia obscenity trial in 1978, Flynt, who can feel no sensation beneath the waist, was able to achieve erection and sexually penetrate his 81-year-old mother, Dolores Flynt. His success was largely due to a special penile implant that allows him to partially imitate the mechanics of sexual intercourse in a grotesque parody of the act of human love.
    “If the Constitution will protect me, then it will protect all of you, because I’m the worst,” Flynt said.

  • Bush - (that's) Whacked! // March 9, 2008 at 2:29 am | Reply

    Bush Vows To Make It Up To Country Somehow
    The Onion February 27, 2008 | Issue 44•09
    WASHINGTON—Amid allegations that his thoughtless and insensitive decisions have damaged his relationship with the nation, President George W. Bush vowed Monday that he would, starting now, “make everything better.”
    “This time I’m serious,” Bush said. “I am ready to make a fresh start if we can just put the past behind us. I promise.”
    Enlarge Image
    Bush swears that this time he’s really going to pay attention to all 280 million U.S. citizens, and try to do right by them for once.
    An estimated 35 million citizens listened to the president’s televised remarks while silently crying behind locked bathroom doors.
    Though Bush told all Americans they owed it to him to give him one more chance, he admitted that there was no excuse for his mishandling of national affairs.
    “Things have just been so crazy at work lately,” he said.
    During the 14-minute address Bush acknowledged that he and the country had drifted apart. He accepted some of the blame, but stressed that it was partly the American people’s fault, and went on to chide them for not giving him an opportunity to explain, not standing behind him, and failing to understand his “very real” need for unchecked executive authority.
    “My job is stressful,” Bush said. “Trust me, things will calm down in a few months once I don’t have to deal with it anymore.”
    George W. Bush
    The president, whose approval ratings have dropped steadily in recent years, said he had no idea how bad things had gotten until he found out that an overwhelming percentage of Americans didn’t even bother responding to an opinion poll this month about his recent $3.1 trillion budget proposal.
    Bush has since taken steps towards reconciliation with the American people, including promoting a promise to help alleviate the fiscal woes the U.S. has faced in recent months. Bush said he knew that the $300 he intended to give to every citizen “couldn’t possibly make up for how [he has] governed,” but nevertheless asked the nation to have faith in him.
    “I know it’s not much, but it’s a start, right?” Bush said. “And it hasn’t always been bad. Doesn’t this remind you of that other $300 rebate I gave you in 2003? You always forget all the times I’m a really great president. We have really had some wonderful moments.”
    “Cut me some slack here, for Christ’s sake,” Bush continued. “I’m trying. I really am.”
    In addition to providing economic relief, Bush said he has taken other measures to strengthen his bond with the nation. According to the president, his newly proposed warrantless-wiretapping bill will greatly broaden the reach of his personal attention to the American people’s needs and put him in a position to be more directly involved in their lives.
    The president concluded by imploring the nation to help him rectify the situation, stressing that he always has America’s best interests at heart but cannot be expected to improve things all by himself.
    “You have to realize that everything I do, I do for you,” Bush said. “Do you think I like denying health care to underprivileged children, or plunging the country deeper and deeper into debt? Well, I don’t, and I hope someday you’ll understand that. In the meantime, I’m asking the American people to try to meet me halfway on this.”
    Despite Bush’s seemingly conciliatory stance, public response to Bush’s promises has been frosty at best. Cato Institute policy scholar Brian Whitaker echoed the sentiments of many Americans, calling Bush’s recent overtures “too little, too late.”
    “We want to believe that he’s finally going to be the president we always wanted, but we’ve given him so many chances,” Whitaker said. “I don’t think we can handle another disappointment. Maybe it’s time to realize that President Bush will never be the head of state we need him to be.”
    “Then again, maybe our expectations are unfair,” Whitaker added. “He seemed so sincere this time. He wouldn’t abuse his executive powers if he didn’t care about us, right?”
    Whitaker predicted that the nation will likely move forward and try to forget Bush, though it may be difficult for Americans to ever trust a president again. He said the current crop of presidential contenders offers little in the way of an alternative to Bush, but maintained that “at least Barack Obama listens to us.”

  • WEIRD SCIENCE // March 9, 2008 at 2:30 am | Reply

    13 WORST SCIENCE JOBS
    (Popular Science, best of 2003-7)
    1. ELEPHANT VASECTOMIST
    What’s one foot across and sits behind two inches of skin, four inches of fat and 10 inches of muscle? That’s right: an elephant’s testicle. Which means veterinarian Mark Stetter’s newest invention—a four-foot-long fiber-optic laparoscope attached to a video monitor—has to be a heavy-duty piece of equipment to sterilize a randy bull pachyderm. Stetter, the head doc at Disney’s Animal Kingdom in Florida, created the device to help control elephants in African wildlife parks, where the jumbos have been breeding too quickly and eating up more than their share of the surrounding habitat. The snipping began last summer when Stetter and his team field-tested the device on four unsuspecting bulls at the Welgevonden Private Game Reserve in South Africa. After a pachyderm was sedated with a dart from a helicopter, the team used a crane truck to pull the sleeping beast upright. Four-inch incisions were made, and the laparoscope was inserted into the abdomen near the reproductive organs (an elephant’s testicles are on the inside, like ovaries). When he located the centimeter-thick vas deferens—the tube that carries semen from the testicles to the penis—Stetter inserted a long pair of scissors through the scope and cut out a two- or three-inch section. So far, the method seems to be working. The first four test subjects survived the ordeal with no complications (except the possibility of bruised pride). If things go the way Stetter plans, elephants throughout southern Africa will soon be crossing their legs in fear: He has begun training other field vets to perform the procedure, and hopes to have multinational trials up and running soon.
    2. ORANGUTAN-PEE COLLECTOR
    Their work is noninvasive—for the apes, that is . . . “Have I been pissed on? Yes,” says anthropologist Cheryl Knott of Harvard University. Knott is a pioneer of “noninvasive monitoring of steroids through urine sampling.” Translation: Look out below! For the past 11 years, Knott and her colleagues have trekked into Gunung Palung National Park in Borneo, Indonesia, in search of the endangered primates. Once a subject is spotted, they deploy plastic sheets like a firemen’s rescue trampoline and wait for the tree-swinging apes to go see a man about a mule. For more pee-catching precision, they attach bags to poles and follow beneath the animals. “It’s kind of gross when you get hit, but this is the best way to figure out what’s going on in their bodies,” Knott says.
    3. ANAL-WART RESEARCHER
    “I see about 15 butts a day, and a third of them have warts,” says nurse practitioner Naomi Jay of the University of California at San Francisco. Jay and infectious-disease doc Joel Palefsky were the first to run extensive clinical studies on the sexually transmitted diseases that afflict the anus. “He’s the tushie king, and I’m the tushie queen,” Jay boasts. Each of us has about a 10 percent lifetime risk of contracting anal warts, the worst variety of which—enemy number one storming the battlements of Jay’s royal domain—is human papillomavirus. This same STD that can cause cervical cancer in women also causes anal cancer in both genders. And the only way to detect this rare but deadly disease is to ask a highly trained nurse like Jay to scrutinize your derrière. “A giant anal wart can be a couple inches large and blocking the anal opening,” Jay says with her customary vigor. The bright side? “In 13 years I’ve only been pooped on twice, and that’s not bad.”
    4. SEMEN WASHERS
    It’s a job that separates the boys from the men, OK, OK, their real job title is usually something like “cryobiologist” or “laboratory technician,” but at sperm banks around the country, they are known as semen washers. “Every time I interview someone I make sure I ask them, ‘Do you know you’ll be working with semen?’ ” says Diana Schillinger, the Los Angeles lab manager at the country’s largest sperm bank, California Cryobank. Let’s start at the beginning. Laboriously prescreened “donors” emerge from a so-called collection room that is stocked with girlie mags and triple-X DVDs. They hand over their deposit, get their $75, and leave. The semen washers take the seminal goo and place a sample under the microscope for a sperm count. Next comes the washing. The techs spin the sample in a centrifuge to separate the “plasma” from the motile cells. Then they add a preservative, and it’s off to the freezer, where it can stay for 20 years. Or not. Thanks to semen washers (and in vitro fertilization), more than 250,000 babies have been delivered in the U.S. since 1995.
    “The hardest part is explaining it to friends,” Schillinger says. “But we do have stories.” Like what? “Like the donor who was in the room for the longest time. We had a big discussion about who was going to check on him. Turns out he thought he had to fill up the entire specimen cup.”
    5. WHALE FECES RESEARCHER
    They scoop up whale dung, then dig through it for clues
    “Brown stain ahoy!” is not the cry most mariners long to hear, but for Rosalind Rolland, a senior researcher at the New England Aquarium in Boston, it’s a siren song. Rolland, along with a few lucky research assistants, combs Nova Scotia’s Bay of Fundy looking for endangered North Atlantic right whales. Actually, she’s not really looking for the whales—just their poo. “It surprised even me how much you can learn about a whale through its feces.”
    Rolland pioneered whale-feces research in 1999. By 2003, she was frustrated by the small number of samples her poo patrol was collecting by blindly chasing whales on the open ocean. So she began taking along sniffer dogs that can detect whale droppings from as far as a mile away. When they bark, she points her research vessel in the direction of the brown gold, and as the boat approaches the feces—the excrement usually stays afloat for an hour after the deed is done and can be bright orange and oily depending on the type of plankton the whale feeds on—Rolland and her crew begin scooping up as much matter as they can using custom-designed nets. Samples are then placed in plastic jars and packed in ice (the largest chunks are just over a pound) to be shared with other researchers across North America. “We’ve literally been in fields of right-whale poop,” she marvels.
    In the past few years, other whale researchers have adopted Rolland’s methods. Nick Gales of the Australia Antarctic Division now plies the Southern Ocean looking for endangered blue-whale dung, a pursuit that in 2003 led him to a scientific first. While tailing a minke whale, Gale’s team photographed what is believed to be the first bout of whale flatulence caught on film—a large, disconcertingly pretty bubble trailing behind the whale like an enormous jellyfish. “We stayed away from the bow after taking the picture,” Gales recalls. “It does stink.”

    6. TAMPON SQUEEZER
    If you’re interested in researching vaginal infections, you can do scrapes or urine tests, or you can draw samples with a pipette. Or you can collect your specimens from tampons. As Australian microbiologist Suzanne Garland and her team at the Royal Women’s Hospital in Victoria discovered, tampons are best for epidemiological studies of sexually transmitted diseases in large populations, because women are more likely to cooperate with a test that is familar and self-inserted rather than one that must be administered by a doctor.
    Normally, researchers would use a centrifuge to extract fluids to be tested. But this is the one way in which the tampon is not an optimal specimen-collecting tool, because its true purpose is to hold liquid in. “Optimal recovery,” Garland says, “requires manual squeezing.”
    7. HAZMAT DIVER
    “The worst was at a factory pig farm,” says Steven M. Barsky, the author of Diving in High-Risk Environments, the industry bible for hazardous-materials divers. “A guy had driven his truck into the waste lagoon and drowned. Not only was it full of urine and liquid pig feces, the farmer had dumped all the needles used to inject the pigs with antibiotics and hormones in there.” Someone had to recover the body, and the task fell to commercial hazmat divers.
    Outfitted with fully encapsulating drysuits, these Jacques Cousteaus of the sewers swim into clouds of waste, inside nuclear reactors and through toxic spills on America’s coasts and inland waterways. When the Environmental Protection Agency identifies pollutants, it contracts with a hazmat team to clean things up. That means using giant vacuums to suck up a polluted lakebed, hoisting leaking barrels to the surface, or diving into the heart of an oil spill or into a sewer to fix a clog. It’s dangerous work—one breach in the drysuit, and a whole stew of bacteria and toxins can fill ’er up. Jesse Hutton, of Ballard Salvage and Diving in Seattle, has seen his share of close calls. “I’ve been on jobs where suits have been breached by rough steel or something sharp,” he says, pointing out that divers must keep their shots up to date.
    8. MANURE INSPECTOR
    The smell is just the start of the nastiness. Almost 1.5 billion tons of manure are produced annually by animals in this country—90 percent of it from cattle. That’s the same weight as 14,432 Nimitz-class aircraft carriers. You get the point: It’s a load of crap. And it’s loaded with nasty contaminants like campylobacter (the number-one cause of acute gastroenteritis in the U.S.), salmonella (the number-two cause) and E.coli 0157:H7, which can cause kidney failure in children and painful, bloody diarrhea in everybody else.
    Farmers fertilize their fields with manure, but if the excrement is rife with E.coli, then so will be the vegetables. Luckily for us, researchers at the University of Georgia’s Center for Food Safety are knee-deep in figuring out how to eliminate these bacteria from our animals, their poop and our food. But to develop techniques to neutralize the nasty critters, they must go to the source.
    “We have to wade through a lot of poop,” concedes Michael Doyle, the center’s director. “If you want to get the manure, you’ve got to grab it. Even when you wear gloves, the fecal smell tends to get embedded in your skin.” Hog poop smells the worst, Doyle says, but it’s chicken poop’s chokingly high ammonia content that brings tears to researchers’ eyes.
    9. FLATUS ODOR JUDGE
    Odor judges are common in the research labs of mouthwash companies, where the halitosis-inflicted blow great gusts of breath in their faces to test product efficacy. But Minneapolis gastroenterologist Michael Levitt recently took the job to another level—or, rather, to the other end. Levitt paid two brave souls to indulge repeatedly in the odors of other people’s farts. (Levitt refuses to divulge the remuneration, but it would seem safe to characterize it thusly: Not enough.) Sixteen healthy subjects volunteered to eat pinto beans and insert small plastic collection tubes into their anuses (worst-job runners-up, to be sure). After each “episode of flatulence,” Levitt syringed the gas into a discrete container, rigorously maintaining fart integrity. The odor judges then sat down with at least 100 samples, opened the caps one at a time, and inhaled robustly. As their faces writhed in agony, they rated just how noxious the smell was. The samples were also chemically analyzed, and—eureka!—Levitt determined definitively the most malodorous component of the human flatus: hydrogen sulfide.

    10. DYSENTERY STOOL-SAMPLE ANALYZER
    In the early ’80s, Virginia Tech profs Tracy Wilkins and David Lyerly studied the diarrhea-causing microbe Clostridium difficile in sample after sample after sample of loose stool from the disease’s victims. They became such crack dysentery docs that they launched a company, Techlab, dedicated to making stool-analysis kits. Today, Techlab employs 40 people, 19 of whom spend their working hours opening sloppy stool canisters and analyzing their contents in order to test the effectiveness of the company’s kits. You’d have to have a pretty good sense of humor, right? Well, fortunately, they do. The Techlab Web site sells T-shirts with cartoons on the front (two flies hover over two blobs of dung; one says to the other, “Pardon me, is this stool taken?”) and the company motto on the back: “Techlab: #1 in the #2 Business!”

    11. BARNYARD MASTURBATOR
    Researchers who want animal sperm —to study fertility or for artificial insemination—have a suite of attractive options: They can ram an electric probe up an animal’s rectum, shove an artificial vagina onto the animal’s penis, or simply do it the old-fashioned way—manual stimulation. The first option, electroejaculation, uses a priapic rectal probe to send electricity pulsing through the animal’s nether regions. “All the normal excitatory signals that stimulate ejaculation, like touch, sight, sound and smell, can be replaced with the current from the probe,” says Trish Berger, professor of animal science at the University of California, Davis. “It’s fascinating. Of course, this is a woman talking.” Electroejaculation generally requires anesthetizing the animal and is typically used on zoo dwellers. The other two methods—the artificial vagina, or AV, and the good old hand—require that animals be trained to the procedure.

    The AV—a large latex tube coated with warm lubricant —is used primarily to get sperm from dairy bulls (considered the most ornery and dangerous of bovines). The bull gets randy with a steer; when he mounts the steer with his forelegs, a brave technician, AV in hand, insinuates himself between the two aroused beasts and deftly redirects the bull penis into the mock genitalia, which he must then hold tight while the bull orgasms. (Talk about bull riding!) Three additional technicians attempt to ensure this (fool)hardy soul’s safety by anchoring themselves to restraining ropes attached to a ring in the bull’s nose. Alas, this isn’t always absolutely effective: Everyone who’s wielded an AV has had at least one close call, and more than a few have been sent to the hospital. The much safer “digital pressure” is used mostly with pigs, who are trained from an early age to mount a small bench while the researcher reaches around with a gloved hand and provides appropriate pleasure—er, pressure.

    12. WORM PARASITOLOGIST
    Studying worm parasites isn’t nearly as bad as playing host to them. But here’s an essential distinction: The medicos who go into this line—God bless ’em—do it by choice. Supported by the World Health Organization and various international charities, they travel to the tropics to eradicate diseases that afflict millions of people. Yet although we’re regularly treated to tales of Ebola warriors, we rarely hear about the tribulations of the worm docs.

    For instance . . . Ascaris lumbricoides eggs hatch in the small intestine, then migrate to the lungs; they’re coughed into the mouth and swallowed back to the gut, where each worm will grow as long as 16 inches and where each female will lay billions of eggs to be defecated forth so that a new cycle of life can begin. (The adults can exit this way too, in a large bolus that resembles a tangle of spaghetti.) The Wuchereria bancrofti worm sometimes settles in the scrotum, where it blocks the flow of lymph. This can result in elephantiasis, a wretched condition that features scrotal swelling to jack-o’-lantern proportions and an infection that reeks of death. Moving right along . . . the female Dracunculus medinensis migrates from the gut to a point just under the skin of, say, a leg, where she then commences growth to a length of as great as three feet, and where, ultimately, she lays her eggs.

    When the thousands of babies make their joyous arrival, they blister the skin and pop through, leaving Mom behind. The traditional way to get rid of her is to wrap her head around a stick and twist very slowly—one turn of the stick per day—for weeks or months, depending on how long she is. (This treatment is so old that it inspired the ancient snake-and-pole aesculapius symbol of medicine.)

    13. CARCASS CLEANER
    Natural history museums display clean white skeletons or neatly stuffed animals, but what their field biologists drag in are carcasses flush with rotting flesh. Each museum’s taxidermist has his own favorite technique for tidying things up. University of California, Berkeley, zoologist Robert Jones swears by his strain of flesh-eating buffalo-hide beetles and has no problem reaching his bare hand into a drawer to pull out a rancid shrew skeleton swarming with thousands of these quarter-inch bugs. Jeppe Møhl at the University of Copenhagen Zoological Museum deposits sperm whales and dolphins into vast empty tanks and lets nature take its course. And then there’s the boiling method, useful for chemically preserved samples that bugs won’t touch—an approach favored by archaeologist Sandra Olsen, who has done her own skeleton work. She recalls a particularly vivid experience boiling down hyena paws: “It felt like inhaling the gases would literally kill us.” Nah. It merely gave her a lung infection.

  • Obama Mama // March 19, 2008 at 10:45 pm | Reply

    Black Guy Asks Nation For Change

    March 19, 2008 | Issue 44•12

    CHICAGO—According to witnesses, a loud black man approached a crowd of some 4,000 strangers in downtown Chicago Tuesday and made repeated demands for change.

    “The time for change is now,” said the black guy, yelling at everyone within earshot for 20 straight minutes, practically begging America for change. “The need for change is stronger and more urgent than ever before. And only you—the people standing here today, and indeed all the people of this great nation—only you can deliver this change.”
    Enlarge Image Black Guy

    The black guy is oddly comfortable demanding change from people he’s never even met.

    It is estimated that, to date, the black man has asked every single person in the United States for change.

    “I’ve already seen this guy four times today,” Chicago-area ad salesman Blake Gordon said. “Every time, it’s the same exact spiel. ‘I need change.’ ‘I want change.’ Why’s he so eager for all this change? What’s he going to do with it, anyway?”

    After his initial requests for change, the black man rambled nonstop on a variety of unrelated topics, calling for affordable health care, demanding that the government immediately begin withdrawing troops from Iraq, and proposing a $75 billion economic stimulus plan to create new jobs.

    “What a wacko,” Schaumburg, IL resident Patrick Morledge said. “And, of course, after telling us all about how he had the ability to magically fix everything, he went right back to asking for change. Typical.”

    “If he’s really looking for change, he’s got the wrong guy,” Morledge added.

    Reports indicate that the black man has been riding from city to city across the country, asking for change wherever he goes. Citizens in Austin, TX said they spotted the same guy standing on the street Friday, shouting far-fetched ideas about global warming. Cleveland residents also reported seeing him in a local park, wildly gesticulating and quoting from the Bible. And last week, patrons at the Starlight Diner in Cheyenne, WY claimed that the black man accosted them while they were eating, repeatedly requesting change.

    “I saw him walk in and I knew he was headed straight for our table,” said mother of three Gladys Davies. “He just stood there smiling at us for a while, and asked how our food tasted. Then he went and did the same thing at the next table over. The nerve of some people.”

    Those who encountered the black man Tuesday said he engaged in erratic behavior, including pointing at random people in the crowd and desperately saying he needs their help, going up to complete strangers and hugging them, and angrily claiming that he is not looking for just a little bit of change, but rather a great deal of change, and that he wants it “right now.”

    “I’ll be honest, when that black guy said he would ’stop at nothing’ to get change, it kind of scared me,” local mechanic Phil Nighbert said. “Just leave me alone.”

    Though many were taken aback by the black man’s brazen demands, some, such as Jackson, MS’s Holly Moser, sympathized with him. She gave the black man credit for boldly standing up and asking every last person around him for change.

    “I told him I’d give him some if I saw him later, even though I probably won’t,” Moser said. “Very nice man, though.”

    Most, however, ignored his requests.

    “I’m a hardworking American who pays his taxes, and the last thing I need is some guy on the street demanding change from me,” said William Overkamp, a Springfield, IL gun-shop owner.

    He added, “What he really needs is a job.”

  • Gentleman's Guide // April 11, 2008 at 4:10 am | Reply

    A Gentleman Never Discloses Who Sucked Him Off
    By Charles Dubno
    The Onion May 18, 2005 | Issue 41•20

    I must say, the quality of discourse in this country has taken a sharp plunge of late, not only among the ruffians and ne’er-do-wells from whom one expects coarse speech, but among gentlemen of letters and esteem. I have, with my own ears, several times in the past week, heard the elder sons of prominent families introduce into mixed company subjects formerly reserved for private discussion among gentlemen. It pains me even to raise this point, but following a string of recent events, there is no question that the adage bears repeating: A gentleman ought never to disclose who sucked him off.

    This needn’t mean a gentleman must limit the discussion of his exploits to his journal. If a gentleman has met a young lady and taken her to his digs, it is his right and privilege to tell his friends and coworkers about the encounter. However, it is the mark of a true gentleman to omit his lady friend’s name from the discussion of her pussy’s tightness.

    Why, I had assumed that this custom and others like it were universal and well understood, but as long as I am spelling out the Rules of the Gentleman, allow me to introduce several other equally important but oft-neglected guidelines.

    Should a gentleman find himself alone with a lady, he should not simply undo his pants and come in her hole. A gentleman knows that it is good manners to coax his lady friend’s heels as far above her head as they will go, to “split the reed,” and perhaps to turn his lady over and give it to her “doggy style.” A gentleman knows that a true lady enjoys a moderate amount of hair-pulling and ass-grabbing, taking these attentions as marks of affection and virility. However, a gentleman knows where to draw the line. He never lodges his lady friend’s head between the couch cushions.

    A gentleman occasionally will have more than one guest at his home. Should he see that jealousy is breeding between the two ladies whom he is hosting, a gentleman does not say, “Whoa, ladies, there’s enough of me to go around!” The gentleman, valuing decorum and discretion above all else in his paramours, gently guides his guests’ heads from his penis and informs them that if they do not act like ladies, he will have to ask them both to leave.

    When up to his nuts in a lady’s guts, a gentleman knows that it is quite impolite to smoke, talk politics, or take phone calls. Should his cell phone ring, the gentleman says, “Excuse me, I need to take this.” He withdraws his penis from his lady friend and keeps his phone conversation brief. When he has completed his call, a gentleman gently reinserts his dick into his lady.

    Of course, a gentleman who is not a smoker keeps an ashtray on his balcony for his lady friends who wish to smoke.

    It should go without saying that, once he has arranged for a paid lady of the night to meet him at his home, a gentleman does not jerk off several times while awaiting her arrival, in order to “get his money’s worth.”

    A gentleman knows that accidents happen. While it is an unfortunate and boorish behavior that should be kept to a minimum, a gentleman always apologizes to a lady after he mistakenly shoots his load inside of her.

    A gentleman never comes in a lady’s eyes.

    While he knows that a lady gets pleasure out of pleasuring him, and he will occasionally increase the intensity of that pleasure by gentle force, a gentleman will never choke a woman on his cock.

    If a gentleman wishes to attend to a lady’s pleasure through oral manipulation, no matter what the state of affairs below, he always politely completes his task. A gentleman ought never to fan his hand in the air, grimace and make a show of removing a pubic hair from his teeth, or compare his lady friend’s vulva to two strips of partially grilled fajita meat.

    A gentleman knows that it is considered good manners to have an unopened toothbrush on hand for his lady friend, in the event that she should like to freshen up after eating his ass.

    Breeding needn’t amount to priggishness. On the contrary, a gentleman knows that good old-fashioned manners will likely increase his social engagements, once word gets out that he is not one to splooge and tell. But I beg the reader, for the sake of tradition and all that is decent, to remember that a true gentleman does not ever, under any circumstances, go ass to mouth.

  • road kill // May 30, 2008 at 4:50 am | Reply

    New ‘Get The Fuck Outta The Road’ Program Aims To Increase Pedestrian Safety

    May 3, 2008 | Issue 44•18

    WASHINGTON—In an attempt to address rising pedestrian deaths, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration launched a new educational outreach program Monday to encourage people to “Get The Fuck Outta The Road.”

    The new billboards stress the importance of not being an unbelievable asshole, and paying attention.

    The program began in selected cities this month with the distribution of pamphlets at each city’s most dangerous intersections. It will also expand into national radio spots, televised PSAs, and, most importantly, word-of-mouth. Included in the pamphlets are tips on how every responsible pedestrian can learn to “Get The Fuck Outta The Road,” including “Move your ass!” and “Look where you’re fucking going for once!” as well as an instructive diagram for removing one’s head from one’s ass prior to stepping into the crosswalk.

    NHTSA officials say they hope the program will eventually branch out to include elementary schools with the child-friendly program “Hey Kids, Get The Fuck Outta The Road!” which will feature a mascot called Tire-Tread Teddy.

    “Our studies show that a large majority of accidents were caused by a direct failure of the pedestrian to not step right in front of a goddamned bus,” program director Drew Dawson said during a press conference to announce the NHTSA’s new website, MoveItOrLoseItAsshole.com. “We designed this program to be an easy-to-understand informational tool that will hopefully get these geniuses to pay some fucking attention.”

    “We’re already planning a follow-up campaign to keep our message fresh,” Dawson added. “By the third time you tell a pedestrian to get outta the road, they’re already on their fucking cell phone again.”

    The NHTSA has also launched a number of complementary subprograms using funding from the National Truck Drivers Union and Greyhound Bus Lines. These include “Oh, Good, Just Ride Your Bike Down The Middle Of The Road Why Don’t You,” “Ever Heard Of A Crosswalk, Dickhead?” and, for more affluent metropolitan neighborhoods, “What The Fuck—Are You Listening To Your Special Getting-Hit-By-A-Car Mix On That iPod, You Vacant Asshole?”

    The new program has already shown positive results. A test study in downtown Chicago was found to be nearly twice as effective in preventing pedestrian casualties as the NHTSA’s previous “Have A Safer Journey” program. Likewise, early trials the family-oriented, “You Must Be Thinking, ‘Hey, I Bet My Kids Are Playing In The Driveway, So I Think I’ll Go Back My SUV Out Of The Garage Without Even Fucking Looking And Pulp Them Into A Steaming Red Mess,’” have been similarly successful.

    Pedestrians who have been exposed to the NHTSA’s innovative approach have reportedly received the message loud and clear, with many crediting the ad campaign with reminded them of the importance of being vigilant and responsible pedestrians.

    “Cram it up your ass, I’m walking here,” said Robert Catalonis, a D.C. native. “I’m an asshole? You’re the asshole.”

    Although the long-term efficacy of the program remains to be seen, Dawson said there was a very real chance that the average pedestrian is “just too fucking ignorant” to learn anything from the NHTSA campaign.

    To that end, he admitted that the agency had already begun work on a contingency plan in the event that the current program fails. While Dawson would not disclose many details, he said the backup program, called “Actually, Come To Think Of It, Just Go Ahead And Die, Fuckhead. See If The NHTSA Gives A Shit” would be a series of highway billboards.

  • road kill // May 30, 2008 at 4:52 am | Reply

    New Roommate Hopes Five-Hour Fuckfest Didn’t Keep You Up

    May 17, 2008 | Issue 44•20
    New Roommate

    Penderman gets some much-needed calories after repeatedly satisfying his girlfriend, all night long.

    OSHKOSH, WI—Roommate Brian Penderman, 26, announced Monday morning that he hopes the loud bumping, grinding, and moaning of the five-hour-long fuckfest he had with his girlfriend did not in any way prevent you from sleeping last night.

    “I’m exhausted—are you exhausted?” Penderman asked while he extended his arms in a stretching motion and yawned loudly. “Honestly, though, I sincerely apologize if all that fucking that was going on in my bedroom kept you up until the early hours of the morning.”

    Penderman, who moved into the apartment last September based on your buddy Dave’s insistence that he was an all-right guy, was never pressed for details, but openly volunteered information regarding the fuckfest’s length, the nakedness of his girlfriend, and the number of times they “did it.” According to sources in the apartment, Penderman’s most recent fuckfest was also his first fuckfest since moving in.

    “Just so you know, we didn’t plan this or anything,” said Penderman, referring to the self- described fuckfest that took place between approximately 9 p.m. and 2 a.m. “Out of respect for you, we were just going to have a quickie. In fact, I was done and ready to go to sleep after 20 minutes, but she kept begging for more.”

    Added Penderman: “You know how chicks can be.”

    Confessing that the fuckfest had taken a considerable toll on his body, Penderman voiced numerous complaints ranging from aching arms to chafed knees to a sore penis. Penderman went on to explain that the reason his penis was so sore was because it had repeatedly entered and exited a female vagina the night before.

    While his girlfriend reportedly hurried out of the apartment at 7 a.m. in order to return to her hometown of Shawano and was therefore unavailable for comment, Penderman apologized on her behalf for all the loud, crazy sex noises you must have been hearing. Penderman admitted, however, that he was not prepared to discount the likelihood of another fuckfest occurring very soon.

    “I can’t say it won’t happen again, because she’s talking about taking the bus down here in August,” Penderman said. “You might want to go away that weekend. But if you are around, I’ll slip a note under your door saying ‘Having fuckfest’ and you’ll know.”

    “Not that you wouldn’t know anyway,” he added, despite your repeated insistence that you in fact slept very well. “As you might have noticed, she’s a bit of a moaner.”

    Though Penderman established that he has not seen you bring home anyone in months, he stated that he would not be opposed to you having a fuckfest.

    “This is your home, you should be able to bang all night long anytime you want—like I did,” Penderman said. “I’d be happy to ask my girlfriend if she knows anybody who might be interested in you.”

    Throughout the day and then again that afternoon when you returned home from running errands, Penderman continued to express regret that “this place reeks of sex,” which he blamed equally on the considerable amount of intercourse he was having over and over again yesterday and the apartment’s thin walls. Penderman added that he would be glad to buy a scented candle or air freshener at the store this evening, when he goes to replace the large number of condoms he used the previous night.

    “Fuckfests are not all fun and games, my friend,” Penderman added. “It’s a lot of hard work to just keep going on and on and on. I mean, you heard us, right?”

    Before your departure from the apartment for the night, Penderman offered to have an open discussion about the fuckfest “when you’re ready,” in order to answer any questions you might have about the fuckfest and to assure you that he will try to conduct future fuckfests in a way that will not cause you to feel uncomfortable or jealous to be living with a guy who gets it so regular.

  • road kill // May 30, 2008 at 4:54 am | Reply

    Insane Clown Posse Gets Ride To Concert From Mom

    August 4, 1999 | Issue 35•27
    Article Tools

    ROYAL OAK, MI—Despite last-minute fears of a concert cancellation due to transportation problems—as well as the fact that it was a school night—Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope, the shock-rock rappers known as Insane Clown Posse, managed to make it to their Monday performance at Detroit’s Joe Louis Arena after securing a ride from 2 Dope’s mom.

    Enlarge Image Insane Clown Posse

    Insane Clown Posse members Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope.

    “Man, we were so worried we wouldn’t be able to get to the concert,” J told several social-studies classmates Tuesday. “That would’ve sucked big-time, because we’d been looking forward to it for, like, weeks and weeks, and all our friends were gonna be there. Luckily, Shaggy’s mom totally came through for us, even if she can be a total bitch sometimes.”

    The duo, whose The Amazing Jeckel Brothers album made its debut at #4 on the Billboard charts earlier this year, was “really grateful” for the ride, promising to mow the lawn and perform several other household chores in return.

    Despite the successful outcome, the pair nearly missed the concert: At approximately 7 p.m., J’s mom backed out of her promise to give them a ride, explaining that she had to drive J’s sister Stephanie to the mall. When the popular recording group protested, J’s mom allegedly told her son, “Maybe you should’ve thought about how much you didn’t want to miss your concert when you forgot to take out the garbage for the third week in a row, even though you were reminded over and over again.”

    “That sucked ass, big-time,” said J at a poolside press conference. “I can’t believe she went so crazy just over some stupid garbage. That shit was so wack! She played herself like a straight-up bitch!”

    Immediately following the press conference, J was informed that he wouldn’t be allowed to use the pool with his friends if he couldn’t refrain from using such language in reference to his own mother.

    Enlarge Image Insane Clown Posse jump

    Shaggy 2 Dope’s helpful, considerate mom.

    “Sorry, Mom,” replied J before silently flipping off his mother once her back was turned.

    “Taking out the garbage sucks ass,” J added under his breath.

    J and 2 Dope, who describe themselves as “psychotic serial killas” and “mad ninja gangstas,” are no strangers to controversy. Their 1997 Island Records debut, The Great Milenko, drew fire from religious and moral watchdogs for its “shockingly violent and depraved lyrical content,” and had already been pulled from release by another label. More recently, the duo has come under fire from teachers and school administrators for frequent tardiness, “poor attitude” and failing grades in math class, as well as refusal to “dress out” for gym.

    “It’s such total bullshit that we have to take stupid summer school instead of being in the studio where we belong, just because of some stupid history tests,” 2 Dope said. “Summer school is for fucking tools.”

    Despite the ongoing controversy surrounding Insane Clown Posse, 2 Dope’s mom defended her decision to give the group a ride.

    “I know some parents wouldn’t feel comfortable letting their children perform at a concert like this,” she said. “But I know they’re just going through a phase. Two years ago, Shaggy’s older sister Tracy couldn’t stop talking about Marilyn Manson, but she grew out of that. It’s important to let them figure these things out for themselves.”

    Concerned that 2 Dope’s mom would insist on attending the concert with them, humiliating them in front of their friends, J and 2 Dope convinced her to drop them off and pick them up later. This was key, a spokesman for Island Records said, because the lack of parental supervision freed the duo to “go totally wild” at the sold-out arena show.

    “I made sure they both took a sweater in case they got chilly up there on stage, and on the way we stopped off at the gas station to pick up some extra Faygo pop, which is their favorite,” 2 Dope’s mom said. “They wanted me to drop them off a block away, so they could go and make their famous entrance from the padded wagon without anyone seeing me. So I just helped them into their straitjackets, and off they went.”

    2 Dope’s mom added that she had taken extra-special effort to wash and starch the pair’s trademark straitjackets ahead of time “to make sure they’d look nice for all the people at the show.”

    Witnesses reported seeing 2 Dope attempt to exit his mother’s car without hugging her goodbye, saying, “C’mon, mom, all the Juggalos are gonna make fun of me!” But after being reminded that he was “not too big to give his mother a hug,” he relented, eliciting jeers and boos from the many 14-year-old boys present.

    “God, that was embarrassing,” 2 Dope said. “And the whole way there, she wouldn’t shut up about, ‘Be sure to call me before 10:30 to pick you up,’ and, ‘Tone down the violent lyrics: Remember, that’s just the sort of thing that got you dropped from [Walt Disney subsidiary] Hollywood [Records].’ It was so annoying, I wanted to pull out a machete and just go buck-wild on the bitch’s ass, slicin’ and dicin’ like a maniac psycho-killa ninja, motherfucka! Yeahh, boyee!”

    “It was kind of nice of her to pack us those Fruit Roll-Ups, though,” 2 Dope conceded. “Thanks, mom.”

  • road kill // May 30, 2008 at 4:56 am | Reply

    Nation’s Poorest 1% Now Controls Two-Thirds Of U.S. Soda Can Wealth

    May 23, 2008 | Issue 44•21
    Cans

    Can magnates like this Chicago-based entrepreneur often take advantage of obscure deposit loopholes in ME, VT, NY (5¢), and MI (10¢)

    WASHINGTON—A report on growing disparities in the concentration of U.S. aluminum-can wealth, released Tuesday by the Department of Commerce, revealed that 66 percent of the nation’s recyclable assets are now held by the poorest 1 percent of the population.

    According to the sobering report, the disproportionate distribution of soda-can wealth is greater than ever before, and has become one of the worst instances of economic inequality in the nation’s history. Data showed that over-salvaging of cans by a small and elite group of can-horders has created a steadily growing and possibly unbridgeable gap between the rich and the mega-poor.
    Enlarge Image Can Wealth

    “Although our nation’s upper middle class actually consumes the most beverages, a staggering percentage of these cans wind up in the hands of a very few,” said economist Cynthia Pierce, who worked as a consultant on the three-year, $14 million government study. “It’s a troubling trend. And as a tiny fraction of the population continues to maintain its stranglehold on redeemable can wealth, it’s a trend that shows no sign of slowing.”

    According to Pierce, the study points to a distinct economic advantage for the most can-affluent—those who possess the resources necessary to collect, transport, separate, and accumulate more and more cans than the rest of the population.

    “Members of this exclusive group come from exceedingly poor backgrounds and have access to outrageously low levels of education, which makes them much better prepared to reap the benefits of digging around in garbage,” Pierce added.

    The report details several key factors involved in the lopsided distribution of container wealth, including aggressive foraging, which leads to higher returns on deposits and a tendency to reinvest can profits in additional redeemables, such as beer. In addition, the report found that those involved in the returnable-gathering industry often minimize financial risk by diversifying between aluminum cans and glass-bottle holdings.

    While less than 1 percent of Americans own the domestic rights to a majority of Coca-Cola and Pepsi cans, this same group has also cornered the international market by branching out into such imported container commodities as Fanta and Perrier.

    “The typical American spends an average of $65 on beverages for every dollar he or she earns back through redeemable deposits, and the rest of that money goes to the country’s can and bottle barons,” the report stated. “Americans who are at a foraging disadvantage due to over-employment and home ownership therefore have limited access to these discarded commodities, causing the market to unfairly favor those with an exclusively disposables income.”

    Perhaps more alarming, the report continued, the can monopoly enjoyed by the poorest 1 percent has been unintentionally buoyed by millions of environment-conscious Americans who leave plastic bags full of recycling in front of their homes, which are in turn preyed upon by enterprising collectors.

    “These people were born into a lifestyle, often going back generations, where any can left on the street is seen as their birthright, whether they purchased it or not,” Houston resident Dale Palmer said. “They have the knowledge and ability to get out there and scoop up all the good cans before anyone even knew they were there.”

    The vast disparity in can-wealth distribution is difficult to understand for many Americans. Most people, according to the report, cannot relate to the lifestyles of the super-poor, who never have to go to work, pay a mortgage, or struggle to find money for rent.

    One canned individual cited in the study is can tycoon Will Dorsey, a 33-year-old Detroit resident who spent his childhood living off the funds collected from his family’s vast can holdings. At the age of 16, Dorsey inherited five carts and dozens of garbage bags overflowing with recyclables when his father passed away unexpectedly one cold December morning.

    According to economist and New York Times columnist Paul Krugman, people like Dorsey, who maintain an ultra-poor lifestyle that is vastly different from the rest of the population, are egregiously out of touch with the everyday economic realities of mainstream America.

    “Dorsey is one of those select few who come from old can money,” Krugman said. “They’re just hoarding their assets so nobody else can benefit. And then they parade down the street with their carts full of recycling.”

    In the wake of the report’s disturbing findings, many citizens claim to feel exploited by those who convert their discarded property into cash or change without sharing the incredible profits.

    “It’s not fair,” Chicago native Melissa Arnold said. “Something should be done to even the playing field.”

    In an attempt to mitigate the disparities in soda-can wealth distribution, Congress is currently exploring numerous options, including levying an 80 percent tax on the incomes of those possessing 100 or more refundable containers, with the ultimate goal of eliminating all recycling programs by 2010.

  • road kill // May 30, 2008 at 4:58 am | Reply

    Obama, Clinton, McCain Join Forces To Form Nightmare Ticket

    May 21, 2008 | Issue 44•21
    Nightmare Ticket

    Even without any opponents, the new ticket plans to triple spending on political ads.

    WASHINGTON—Presidential hopefuls John McCain (R-AZ), Barack Obama (D-IL), and Hillary Clinton (D-NY) announced Monday their plans to form what many Beltway observers have already dubbed the “2008 Nightmare Ticket,” a calculated move that political analysts say offers voters the worst of both worlds.

    After nearly a year of verbal attacks and negative campaign ads, the nominees announced that, for the good of the country, they were willing to push their differences to the forefront and grant the American people the ticket they’ve been dreading all along.
    Enlarge Image Nightmare Chart

    “No other ticket is capable of rallying this nation around a clearer, more unified message of chaos and hopelessness,” the candidates said in unison from three separate podiums, each adorned with its own American flag arrangement and personal message. “Together, we will lead this nation into the future—a future where absolute deadlock over even the most minute decisions and total inefficiency on matters of the war, the economy, and the environment will launch a bold new age of confusion and social decay. For America, the only choice is [indecipherable]!”

    The candidates said they had not yet decided who would fill the offices of president, vice president, and a new post the nominees are calling “the middle president.” They did, however, confirm that each would choose his or her own full cabinet, would be able to veto any bills the others sign into law, and would reserve the right to cast the tie-breaking, tie-making, and tie-rebreaking votes in the Senate.
    Enlarge Image Campaign Stop

    The candidates on a campaign stop in Kansas.

    “This nightmare ticket presents the American people with an unprecedented lack of opportunity in 2008,” Washington Post columnist Richard Cohen wrote Tuesday. “For just one vote, citizens will get four years of McCain’s brilliant temper, the incredible inexperience of Barack Obama, and the powerful two-headed monster of Hillary and Bill Clinton.”

    “It will be very exciting to see what they’re capable of destroying, ” Cohen added.

    According to campaign managers, the triple ticket will run on a revolutionary new platform crafted during three highly contentious weeks in April.

    At the top of the platform is a military strategy calling for the phased withdrawal of .000006 brigades from Iraq and Afghanistan every seven months over the next 350 years. Universal health care would also be provided, taken away on McCain’s birthday, and then provided again only to those wealthy enough to afford it. Abortions would be made available on every other even-numbered Friday from 3:00 to 4:00 p.m. EST to all women who can prove residency in Alaska or Nevada. And an entirely new immigration policy will be instituted, sources said, as soon as the candidates can stand to be in the same room with one another for more than five minutes.

    Aides to Sen. Clinton also confirmed that the trio plans to create two separate federal governments—one large and one small—which would be instituted within the first 100 days of the Clinton/McCain/Obama White House or, according to Obama chief strategist David Axelrod, the Obama/McCain/Clinton White House.

    “Getting three political all-stars together like this is a clear lose-lose-lose situation for everyone involved,” NBC correspondent Andrea Mitchell said. “By themselves, none would have been capable of uniting the country. But the possibilities of what they could do together to drive it ever further apart are limitless.”

    A CBS News/New York Times poll taken after the announcement revealed that the nightmare ticket has invigorated almost all voters, inspiring blacks, whites, senior citizens, college graduates, liberals, conservatives, both blue-collar and white-collar workers, and military veterans alike to remain at home by the millions this November, exercising their American right not to vote.

    “So now a vote for Clinton is also a vote for McCain and Obama?” 43-year-old West Virginia resident Joe Biller said. “Jesus Christ.”

    Added Biller. “Looks like I’ll be going with Nader/LaRouche/Sharpton/Ventura/Edwards after all.”

  • road kill // May 30, 2008 at 5:01 am | Reply

    These Tropical-Colored Braces Are Going To Get You So Much Ass

    By Dr. Joe Grimaldi
    Orthodontist
    March 26, 2008 | Issue 44•13
    Dr. Joe Grimaldi
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    Walking out of this office with braces for the first time can be a difficult ordeal, and I understand you probably feel insecure about how it will affect your appearance. You probably think the best way to go is to pick the colors of your favorite sports team or maybe a nice blue to match your eyes—but you would be making the biggest mistake of your young life. That is why, based on my 25 years of orthodontic experience, I can confidently say that the aqua-blue, green, and purple ligatures I have just applied to your teeth are going to put you eyeball-deep in tail before you know it.

    Trust me, nothing, and I mean nothing, gets girls wetter than a guy sporting a mouthful of tropical-colored braces.

    Now that you’re rocking these awesome Caribbean-inspired rubber bands, you should consider investing in a snorkel, because you’re about to be swimming in pussy. The second you walk into that homeroom tomorrow morning and smile that exotic smile of yours, there are going to be so many girls itching to give it up that you’re going to have to beat them off with a stick. Your stick.

    Take it from me, red and black elastics would have scared the girls away, and green and blue would have made you look like a Dorkus Supremo, but this tropical color combination says that you’re cool, laid-back, and ready for some hot, all-night-long action to the intoxicating rhythms of calypso music. Once you get used to flossing after every meal and the occasional mouth sore, the only question will be: Are you prepared for all that poontang? It’s going to take all your power not to sneak off to the bleachers during lunch just to get your noodle wet.

    The Sixth-Grade Ass King—that’s what they’re going to call you. But only if you remember to brush after every meal and avoid peanut butter and really hard pretzels.

    This is just the beginning. I’ve always said the brighter the bands and the tighter the archwires, the looser the women. And judging by that underbite of yours, you’re going to have years and years of easy tail coming your way—at least for the rest of high school and probably into your sophomore year of college.

    And hoo boy, once you hit the college level, it’s like a whole new ball game. Not only do universities supply some of the best ass in the game, but tropical-colored braces set a mood that drives college girls completely wild—palm trees, exotic birds, gentle breezes, succulent fruits, and water so blue that it makes chicks want to rip off their clothes and dive right in. And guess what? You’re the water. Just make sure you cap off your all-night-sex-fests with a thorough brushing and an oral rinse.

    Yes, sir. Nothing gets those college girls humming like orthodontic realignment appliances, and by the looks of your X-rays, you’re going to have it all: oral spacers, bite splints, maxillomandibular osteotomy to push back your protruding mandible. If everything stays on schedule you are going to have your jaw wired shut for at least a month when you’re 18. But don’t mention that to my receptionist Sue—she’s a married woman!

    Remember, you’re only guaranteed to get some if you wear your top-to-bottom rubber bands all the time, and I can tell when you aren’t wearing them so don’t lie to me.

    When I was younger, I would have killed to enjoy the kinds of severe malocclusions you have. But sadly, I never had the opportunity to put tropical-colored—or even neon—elastics in my mouth because my teeth came in pretty straight. I had to wait until I was 19 to lose my virginity. That’s not going to be the case for you, Ass King, because tomorrow morning you are going to wake up and your teeth are going to be in so much pain that you’ll have to drink your meals for at least three days.† But is that really going to matter if you’re lying next to one, two, or even 12 gorgeous women? Hell, with the extreme amounts of ass you’ll be getting in the next seven years, what’s the point of even keeping track?

    Once again, I can’t stress enough how important it is not to chew on ice cubes. You could break one of your brackets, which would make your parents very upset. And after you’ve kept them up until all hours with the moans of the chicks you’re banging, the last thing you’ll want to do is make them angrier.

    I know the next few years of regular tightenings are just going to fly by, but don’t think that once you get your braces off your days of being the Ass King are over. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Lucky for you, the steady stream of bumpin’ uglies will continue well into adulthood, my good boy, because you are going to have to wear the raddest pussy-magnet retainer 24 hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of your life.

  • road kill // May 30, 2008 at 5:03 am | Reply

    I Fucked My Way Into This Mess, And I’ll Fuck My Way Out

    By Kurt Beckman
    September 20, 2006 | Issue 42•38
    I Fucked R

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    I’ll say it. I like to fuck. I do it a lot. And sometimes it gets me into unfortunate situations. Like right now. Right now I am royally fucking fucked.

    See, I went to this big dinner party the other night, trying to stay out of trouble, but lo and be-fucking-hold, who’s there but one of the fuckfiends from our sales team, wearing fuck-me pumps and this little green skirt. So I fucked her. Twice. First time quick, second time slow. And then I fucked her friend Michelle (a great fuck), and Michelle’s boyfriend, Alec, and his ex-girlfriend Rina, who’s a fucking Persian sex goddess. Same bed, same night.

    Fucking incredible fucking.

    Then it hits me: Fuck. Rina is my boss’s daughter, that fucking fuck Alec fucked my sister last year, and my damn wife told me last week that if I don’t stop fucking other chicks she’s going to “walk out that [fucking] door and never come back.” And it takes a fuckload of nerve for my wife to say that.

    But look, I’m not some two-bit fuck who fucks up and then expects some other fucknut to clean up his fucking mess. A man’s got to take some responsibility or he’ll never amount to shit. I fucked my way into this, and by God, I’ll fuck my way out.

    I’m so far the fuck up shit’s creek, I can’t see straight, but that’s my own fucking problem. If I’m between a rock and a hard fuck, I’m going to choose the hard fuck every time. No regrets. I saw an out-of-this-fucking-world gorgeous piece of ass-meat, and I pounced like a fucking cougar. Any fuckhead who thinks I should have fucking walked away is a fucking fucktard and I’ll say it to his fucking face, the fuckface.

    But fuck if I know what to do next. If my mom were still alive, I’d cry on her fucking shoulder. Man, I really stuck my fucking cock in it this time.

    I know a lot of fuckwads who wouldn’t do fuck-all about this predicament, just fuck off for a while and wait for the whole thing to blow over. But you see, that’s just not this motherfucker’s style. What the fuck ever happened to accountability? I can be a real fuck, sure, but I fucking finish what I start, and not just when I’m fucking.

    In the end, I only see one way out of this: more fucking. Much more. An all-out, nuts-in-the-guts fuckfest. Yes, one false-fucking-move and you’re ass-first in a fucking genuine clusterfuck real fucking quick—but do I look like a green-eared sportfucker to you, fuckrod?

    Item Number Fuck on my agenda? Swoop home like a fuck-falcon and fuck my old lady like I love her. Keep fucking the skirt girl, plus hot-fuck Rina to keep that screamer quiet. Then line up a pity-fuck-and-suck with that fat-fuck deli chick, roll on out for a balls-out fuckfest with the redhead twins (ménage-à-fucking-trois, for you French fucks), and a three-day, four-night fuck-stravagaza down to Mexi-fucking-co next weekend to see the fuckable Miss Esmerelda.

    At the end of the day, I don’t really give a fuck. These women can fuck me around, but they know not to take it too fucking far. You know why? Because you don’t fuck with a fucker, that’s why. And if you fuck with a fucker like me, you’ll end up being the fuck that gets fucked. Simple as that.

    Fuck.

  • Bottoms Up // March 10, 2009 at 3:43 am | Reply

    HOUSTON — Investigators say a woman caused her husband’s death by giving him a sherry enema, leading to alcohol poisoning.

    The enema caused his blood alcohol level to soar to 0.47 percent — almost six times the legal intoxication limit in Texas, a toxicology report showed.

    Tammy Jean Warner, 42, was indicted on a charge of negligent homicide. She is also charged with burning the will of her husband, Michael Warner, a month before his death on May 21.

    Michael Warner, a 58-year-old machine shop owner, had a long history of alcoholism but couldn’t ingest alcohol by mouth because of painful medical problems with his throat, said Lake Jackson, Texas, police detective Robert Turner. The enema was a way he could become intoxicated without drinking alcohol, Turner said.

    Turner said police think Warner gave her husband at least two large bottles of sherry, which is stronger than wine, in the enema.

    “We’re not talking about little bottles here,” Turner said, “These were at least 1.5-liter bottles.”

  • Haggis McHaggis // March 23, 2009 at 4:29 am | Reply

    Ode Tae a Fart

    Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie
    Lurks in your belly efter the feastie
    Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
    There sterts to stir an enormous wind
    The neeps and tatties and mushy peas
    Stert workin like a gentle breeze
    But soon the puddin wi the sauncie face
    Will have ye blawin all ower the place

    Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
    A’body’s gonnae hiv tae pay
    Even if ye try tae stifle
    It’s like a bullet oot a rifle
    Hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
    Tae try and stop the leakin air
    Shifty yersel fae cheek tae cheek
    Prae tae God it doesnae reek

    But aw yer efforts go assunder
    Oot it comes like a clap o thunder
    Ricochets aroon the room
    Michty me a sonic boom
    God almighty it fairly reeks
    Hope I huvnae shit my breeks
    Tae the bog I better scurry
    Aw whit the hell it’s no ma worry

    A’body roon aboot me chokin
    Wan or two are nearly bokin
    I’ll feel better for a while
    Cannae help but raise a smile
    Wiz him! I shout with accusin glower
    Alas too late, he’s just keeled ower
    Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
    A dinnae feel welcome any mair

    Where e’ere ye go let yer wind gan’ free
    Sounds like just the job fur me
    Whit a fuss at rabbie’s party
    Ower the sake o one wee farty

  • Zwieb // August 17, 2009 at 12:43 am | Reply

    You’re a dipshit moron, a drooling troglodyte, an addle-brained fool. a stumbling simpleton. an ignorant fool. a foolish ignoramus. a man without a mind. a mindless man, a vapid sheep, a brainless toolbox. an F-grade lamebrain, a jello-brained Neanderthal, a primitive idiot, an idiotic primate. Hence a man who has no business espousing politics because every word you type illustrates a level of a combination of stupidity, arrogance, and ignorance that makes me fear for your genetic offspring in the off-chance that they aren’t stupid enough to lick power outlets and manage to survive more than a year.

    I become truly depressed at reading what you write because the concept of men like you voting makes me question the very notion of democracy if it means that empty-minded cavemen like you are allowed to step into the ballot box and have an effect on the nation.

    You, sir, represent the very worst of not only political discourse, but I dare say humanity itself in terms of intellectual development. If indeed you don’t need to be dressed and fed by a nurse, then I am surprised. please, do the United States of America a favor and never, ever vote again, nor discuss politics with other human beings. The only creatures stupid enough to be responsive to the bilge you espouse are monocellular and, frankly, even they would roll their eyes at your idiocy if they had eyes to roll.

    Your writings make me lose faith in humanity.

  • roadkill // August 20, 2009 at 3:41 am | Reply

    I’ll say it. I like to fuck. I do it a lot. And sometimes it gets me into unfortunate situations. Like right now. Right now I am royally fucking fucked.

    See, I went to this big dinner party the other night, trying to stay out of trouble, but lo and be-fucking-hold, who’s there but one of the fuckfiends from our sales team, wearing fuck-me pumps and this little green skirt. So I fucked her. Twice. First time quick, second time slow. And then I fucked her friend Michelle (a great fuck), and Michelle’s boyfriend, Alec, and his ex-girlfriend Rina, who’s a fucking Persian sex goddess. Same bed, same night.

    Fucking incredible fucking.

    Then it hits me: Fuck. Rina is my boss’s daughter, that fucking fuck Alec fucked my sister last year, and my damn wife told me last week that if I don’t stop fucking other chicks she’s going to “walk out that [fucking] door and never come back.” And it takes a fuckload of nerve for my wife to say that.

    But look, I’m not some two-bit fuck who fucks up and then expects some other fucknut to clean up his fucking mess. A man’s got to take some responsibility or he’ll never amount to shit. I fucked my way into this, and by God, I’ll fuck my way out.

    I’m so far the fuck up shit’s creek, I can’t see straight, but that’s my own fucking problem. If I’m between a rock and a hard fuck, I’m going to choose the hard fuck every time. No regrets. I saw an out-of-this-fucking-world gorgeous piece of ass-meat, and I pounced like a fucking cougar. Any fuckhead who thinks I should have fucking walked away is a fucking fucktard and I’ll say it to his fucking face, the fuckface.

    But fuck if I know what to do next. If my mom were still alive, I’d cry on her fucking shoulder. Man, I really stuck my fucking cock in it this time.

    I know a lot of fuckwads who wouldn’t do fuck-all about this predicament, just fuck off for a while and wait for the whole thing to blow over. But you see, that’s just not this motherfucker’s style. What the fuck ever happened to accountability? I can be a real fuck, sure, but I fucking finish what I start, and not just when I’m fucking.

    In the end, I only see one way out of this: more fucking. Much more. An all-out, nuts-in-the-guts fuckfest. Yes, one false-fucking-move and you’re ass-first in a fucking genuine clusterfuck real fucking quick—but do I look like a green-eared sportfucker to you, fuckrod?

    Item Number Fuck on my agenda? Swoop home like a fuck-falcon and fuck my old lady like I love her. Keep fucking the skirt girl, plus hot-fuck Rina to keep that screamer quiet. Then line up a pity-fuck-and-suck with that fat-fuck deli chick, roll on out for a balls-out fuckfest with the redhead twins (ménage-à-fucking-trois, for you French fucks), and a three-day, four-night fuck-stravagaza down to Mexi-fucking-co next weekend to see the fuckable Miss Esmerelda.

    At the end of the day, I don’t really give a fuck. These women can fuck me around, but they know not to take it too fucking far. You know why? Because you don’t fuck with a fucker, that’s why. And if you fuck with a fucker like me, you’ll end up being the fuck that gets fucked. Simple as that.

    Fuck.

  • T. H. Zweibel // August 31, 2009 at 1:59 am | Reply

    Among the mewling, puking horde of bottle-babies that is The Onion’s reader-ship, there have always been those who seek to tell me how to run my business. Indeed, hardly a week goes by in which this strident minority of harpies are not complaining about my use of lead-based inks, the occasional tooth which has been pressed into the financial section, or The Onion’s continued silence on the prison-reform issue.

    Lately, there has been a new undercurrent to the river of candied sewage these goody-goodies wish to pour down my throat. This Republic has once again succumbed to the notion, common in prosperous times, that children are precious porcelain cherubs who should be kept in velvet-lined gilt boxes and protected from the harsh realities of life. They say I should not be publishing the swear-words in my news-paper, nor the teats above the front-page fold, where children may see them.

    God-damn it! Is it my fault you leave my news-paper lying around where your piss-pantsed off-spring can leave their eye-tracks all over it? Is it my fault that the harsher Anglo-Saxon monosyllables are sometimes the only way to adequately communicate the difference between mush-mouthed Presidential candidates? And is it my fault that Fatty Arbuckle recently decided to plant a broken soda-water bottle up some drunken trollop’s ulcerated spout? Yes, I paid Mr. Arbuckle handsomely for his story, but the charge I paid him to molest the girl has never been proven! It was news-worthy, and the people who buy advertisement-space have a right to see it on The Onion’s front page!

    Please, gentle readers, do not fool yourselves into thinking that your children are anything but blood-thirsty little savages. Have you forgotten what you were like at that age? I have not! I was no more than 11 when, on a yachting-trip with the other boys of Cadwalader Preparatory Academy, I dashed out the brains of my class-mate Piggles with a flat stone. And now that I have a son of my own, I can tell you first-hand that children have not advanced. Why, just Sunday, I was forced to rebuke young N. Aeschylus after he attempted to fry the scullery-maid in her own fat! He is a bit precocious for his age, but I intend for him to helm this paper if and when I pass on. If he keeps up like this, I can see he will do a fine job of it and not kow-tow to the limp-wristed likes of the censor-ship crowd.

  • T. H. Zweibel // August 31, 2009 at 2:03 am | Reply

    Like many successful and wealthy plutocrats, I am often asked by one or another of you god-damned sheep exactly what it is to which I credit my good fortune. My reply, which I give unhesitatingly, is always the same: Do you call being a wheelchair-bound, half-withered, leprotic corpse-man, whose great iron-lung pumps him like a steam-calliope day in and day out, “good fortune”? You are an envious pack of wheedling, braying jack-asses!

    But I stray from my point. There is one quality I possess in spades which separates me from the misled cattle that is man-kind. But it is neither my low animal cunning, nor my ruth-less attitude, nor my willingness to pimp out my own sister for a fast dollar. It is not even the fact that I was born into incredible wealth and privilege and raised in a stress-infused and Byzantine family. What makes T. Herman Zweibel a force to be reckoned with is his capacity to feel ever-present, mind-wracking, pants-shitting fear.

    Yes, fear! Most blessed and useful of human drives! From the moment I wake in the morning hearing the half-mad shrieks of my hideously strong pin-headed nurse to the moment I fall into fit-ful sleep dreaming of fanged peach halves chasing me down red velvet halls, I am in a constant state of terror. On a base level, it has saved my very life count-less times: My fear of the insidious, color-less, odor-less gas known as “oxygen” kept me from drawing a single breath in 1918 and doubt-less prevented me from succumbing to that year’s devastating influenza epidemic. Today alone, I have feared Standish, a chest of drawers, the word “friable,” and a pair of slippers. I can only believe that these fears have kept me alive.

    In the realm of business, it has been an unparalleled boon. Fear, after all, is at the root of hatred and anger, the two empire-building tools which have spurred me to swell the Zweibel coffers to a state of absolute, unfettered corpulence. Like all good capitalists, I fear and despise competition and have therefore destroyed whatever rivals poke their heads up. As a result, today, The Onion remains the last news-paper in the Republic.

    Like all useful tools, fear is a double-edged sword. I make a point of motivating every last one of my employees, from the scullery-maid to the President of the United States, with fear, as well as its constant companion, threats and derision. In fact, I believe that if you begin living your life in fear, you will be a better and more successful Onion reader. And if you do not, I will have your arms torn from their sockets.

  • T. H. Zweibel // August 31, 2009 at 2:09 am | Reply

    Zweibel’s Advice For Gentle-men:

    Endeavor to be born wealthy.

    If you are not an only son, you can become one through hard work and perseverance.

    Employees are not slaves and will not respond to being treated as such. Therefore, own slaves whenever possible.

    German history is pregnant with good business advice.

    The 22-pound Royal typewriter can crush a skull as if it were fine porcelain.

    Bosoms above the fold sell more papers than anything, excepting war. Arranging for either is not all that difficult.

    Mistresses should leave via the back-door or chimney.

    There! The seven guidelines every gentle-man must know. Oh, and also, a penny saved is a penny clutched to one’s palpitating breast late at night when no-one is watching. That is all you need to know, I think.

  • T. H. Zweibel // August 31, 2009 at 2:15 am | Reply

    Lascivious Vulgarian

    t has been brought to my attention that there are some members of my porcine reader-ship herd who do not realize that my column is the jewel in the Onion news-paper’s tarnished crown, and call upon the current editors to remove it altogether. My response to them is the same as it is to all readers, whether they be cut-throat nay-sayers or members of my lick-spittle sycophantry: To Hell with the lot of you! You will live longer by feasting on your own fetid night-soil than by trying to appeal to the emotions of T. Herman Zweibel!

    I admit that my column is at least a partial failure. I have tried and tried to guide and influence you peasants with the harsh, printed truth. I could have used the much more cost-effective method of brightly colored propaganda posters and merry buntings, or had you economically manipulated by secret business-men’s-clubs, or instructed Standish to have salt-peter dumped into the reservoirs, but as far as you know, I did not! No, I appealed instead to your primitive sense of rectitude. Yet you continue to ignore my writings in favor of columns by pussy cat loving women or near-illiterate ledger-accountants.

    You do not deserve to read my wisdom or the news-paper in which it is printed! Of course, you deserve only to have your still-burning bodies stretched on the rack by black-a-moors, but I have said so before. Had you listened to me, the rivers of this Republic would have run black with strip-mine tailings, her slums would have overflowed with oppressed ethnic types, her forests would have fallen before the ax, and her laborers would not spend so much time in elementary schools. Instead, very little progress has been made at all.

    I do not perform the service of writing this weekly column for my health, you should know! Far from it, as its dictation into the wire-recorder so saps the strength of my frail carcass that I inevitably succumb to coughing-fits worthy of the tuberculosis, occasionally causing several of my ribs to snap with a sound like wind-chimes. On the other hand, I do not write it for you under-men, either, as you consistently ignore my wishes by electing non-Whig Presidents, patronizing non-Onion advertisers, and allowing your women-folk to wear shoes. I write so that the sweet release of Death will find my life-long word-count far outstripping that of that shit-ass Hearst, and don’t you forget it.

  • T. H. Zweibel // August 31, 2009 at 2:20 am | Reply

    It has been brought to my attention that I should advise my tallow-headed readership on the importance of occupying the voting-stalls in the coming months. Well, God damn you, by all means, do so! See if it changes your paltry lives in the slightest to send Harding packing back to his richly opiated Irish mistress! Put some straw-hatted prince of the moving-daguerreotypes in the White House! Repeat the follies of the past! Elect a dray-horse again, for all I care!

    Of course, being the wealthy publisher of the greatest news-paper in the Republic, I see no need to vote. After all, why bother choosing the monkey when you can own the organ-grinder? It is a known fact that in the future, the president will be hand-picked by the ruling elite of that secret society known as the Rotarians, with a governor of a former Confederate state thrown in every few terms for variety’s sake. I myself signed off on the plan before you were whelped, and it has ensured that I stay rich and powerful long after I should have been dead.

    However, the voting-franchise is a good and useful ruse, and by dribbling it out piece-meal over the years to all and sundry, you have been given a false sense of progress that is convincing, indeed. It has, however, made a mess of the laws! In a proper country, the vote would only be given to good, solid men, preferably property-owners over the age of 35, not to those excessively dusky of skin, nor to Jews and Mohammedans. That is democratic enough for me!

    Though there are precious few restrictions on the vote now-a-days, I take comfort in the fact that some standards are still up-held. We have not yet had an Irish-Catholic in the White House, mercifully sparing us all the Papist manipulation, drunken womanizing, and regrettable necessity of assassination which that would entail. Women have not yet achieved the right to befoul the polls with their hoop-skirted cackling. And, at last report, the votes from the entire God-forsaken state of Texas are still thrown, uncounted and burning, into the River Charles.

    So, yes, by all means, vote. Do away with those pestilential Whigs and Free-Soilers! Restore the Fire-Eaters to the seat of power! Exercise your right to experience the illusion of political choice! It shall make my advisors happy, after all, and I can go back to planning my upcoming twice-annual shit in relative peace.

  • T. H. Zweibel // August 31, 2009 at 2:22 am | Reply

    Yesterday, I was listening to Beavers, my aide-de-camp and advisor in matters financial, narrate the financial abstract of my vast personal fortune when he mentioned in passing that I was doing quite well in the Stock-Market. This was, of course, no real news to me, as my stock position has always been top-drawer; decent market holdings are necessary both to balance one’s cash position and to leaven one’s investments in real estate, Swiss gold, and the slave-trade of Far Araby.

    But then Beavers mentioned that the Stock-Market seems to be under-going a tremendous boom, resulting in a time of vast prosperity for countless others, as well!

    My ire aroused, I demanded that he give a full account of this unnatural ubiquity of wealth. Apparently, the Market has spread its lovely, avaricious legs to every low-rent merchant with two cents to rub together and rewarding self same oafs with undeservedly high returns!

    A torrent of steaming black ichor shot from my nostrils as this news sent me into a fresh rage. What has become of the free market if any half-wit can engage in open trade? Why, if we stay this course, a large “middle-class” could arise, wherein the lowliest fishmonger could purchase food, shelter, and clothing in exchange for a mere life-time of crushing debt!

    Though Beavers has assured me that the poor are worse off than ever, I am significantly aggrieved by his mention of individuals, some under the age of 60, who have made small fortunes through the clever manipulation of a new type of calculating-engine, and who will doubtless spend it all on raccoon coats and bathtubs of gin. This happened once before, and I barely acted in time to stop it. Tomorrow, when the Boston exchange opens, I shall sell all my holdings in Consolidated Steam and unload six million Weimar Republic Deutschmarks. This, combined with the emptying from Zweibel ware-houses of 60 years’ storage of pork bellies and Dr. Klimpt’s Poultry Liniment, should cause a run on the market that will see New York in flames by the after-noon.

    History has forgotten that, though market-crashes result in times of high criminality, as well as suicide amongst the destitute poor, there is also a down-side: I shall miss my poultry liniment. Still, in times like these, we all must sacrifice something for the good of the Republic.

  • T. H. Zweibel // August 31, 2009 at 2:51 am | Reply

    Years ago, when I was a young news-paper man and you were but a series of brutish animal impulses in your drunken great-grandfather’s pants-creases, a young man appeared in my office and presented me with an investment opportunity.

    stute readers—of which I have nearly none, as you are a pack of Judas-livered, porridge-pantsed, mung-brained tit-mice—know that I am renowned throughout the Republic for my formidable business acumen. And though my fame and fortune spring mainly from my able helms-manship of The Onion news-paper, I have had many successful marketing ventures over the years. I certainly didn’t get to be the East Coast’s fore-most miser by depending on your literacy, you know!

    However, due to complexities of finance too arcane to go into here, I could not always take credit for the money-making consumer goods I created. To circumvent this nation’s moronic laws concerning usury, copy-rights and the income-taxation, I was forced to do business under many different noms de guerre, including Lucian Wentworth, T. Zwibbleford Hermansen and, in Europe, Herr Professor-Doktor Ignatius G. Farben. But the products were mine, I assure you, and I list them here as an example of what an enterprising man may do with hard work, gumption and a rapacious, blood-thirsty pack of the God-damnedest lawyers Satan ever whelped:

    Do you see, dullards,

    would happily squire an ulcerated chippy about town rather than be seen with a leather-faced battle-axe like Florence Harding. That harridan would be at home amongst a nest of Harpies, stripping the flesh from sailors’ bones with whetted talons. I am surprised the president limited his philandering to that Nan Britton girl. If I were Harding, I would eschew the female caress altogether and become an ardent homo-sexual; anything to rid myself of the memory of that screeching Archaeopteryx.

    Important statesmen and captains of industry are entitled to certain privileges, among which is the ravishing of unwed maidens.

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