(Left) 7 year-old Billy Schmails is viciously attacked and defecated upon by a protective mother pigeon after the Tulsa, OK 1st grader mistook the bird's unattended offspring as an Easter egg in the city's 73rd annual Easter EGGstravaganza!
Gather 'round, kiddies! It's time to play my favorite game: "Who's The Bigger Bag of Ass?"
In this corner, wearing the Red White and Blue trunks, and weighing in at 140 pounds soaking wet: Strident Fox "News" blowhard, loofah aficionado, and lying GOP pun'dick Bill O'Reilly, he of the mic-cutting, talking-over-of-guests, and "FUCK IT, WE'LL DO IT LIVE!"
"My face is pretty much permanently frozen this way."
In this corner, in the linen toga and sandals, weighing in at 125 pounds (75 of which is eternally impacted in his colon): Fred Phelps, self-described "Pastor" of Westboro Baptist Church, the Topeka, Kansas based hate group chiefly known for extrapolating their extreme loathing of gay people into the scapegoat for every ill currently suffered by Western Society.
"Behind my dead eyes and pedo-smile lurks a heart as small, hard and black as most of my turds."
Ooh, tough one. For the most part, I'd have to say that's pretty much a toss-up.
On the one hand, Bill-O is a flat-out, straight-up asshole. His domineering manner informs everything he does, from his sanctimonious sneer to his arrogantly derisive attitude toward anyone whose far-right political philosophy doesn't goose-step in precise synchronicity with his own. Not to mention that he constantly falls back on the infuriating "that's only your opinion" cop-out, even when he's empirically proven dead wrong beyond any shadow of a doubt. Which he frequently is, being as his positions are almost universally on the wrong side of history.
On the other, Phelch is a guy who positively orgasms over the prospect of leading dozens of followers in slogan-chanting, placard-waving marches around the gravesites of recently-deceased gays, spouting hateful epithets constructed of equal parts whole cloth and twisted scripture. All while the actual ceremony itself is going on. To wit: Phelps and his phucked-up phlock actively protested the funeral of Matthew Shepard (the 21-year-old Wyoming man who was abducted by two other men, then tortured, beaten to the point of severe brain damage, and lashed to a fence and left to die over the 18 hours it took anyone to find him...all for the "crime" of being gay). They did so by loudly and cheerfully informing the man's devastated family, as they were trying to bury him, of just how glad they were that he was rotting in hell.
You stay classy, Phreddie.
Unknown: whether the rainbow background of these signs is intentionally ironic, or whether he's really just that much of a fucking idiot.
Yes, indeed. Pretty even match-up, there.
Or, it was until recently.
See, Phelps and his hatemongers also enjoy protesting the funerals of fallen servicemen. Why? Well, because they're fighting in a foreign war, of course. A war that Yahweh himself got America mixed up in as punishment for our tolerance of homosexuality. DUH. So, to him, every soldier, sailor, marine or guardsman who dies does so as a penance for Western culture's fag-loving ways.
Try not to think about it too hard. It's not like it ever really starts making sense.
Anyway, as was bound to happen, Phelps and his congre-tards finally picked on the wrong family.
Army Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder was killed in Iraq in 2006. Phelps and a cluster of morons showed up at the funeral, waving signs saying "God hates the USA," and hollering anti-gay slurs. And as it turns out, the Lance Corporal's father Albert was mildly perturbed by this. Can't imagine why.
As a result, Albert Snyder sued the holy living shit out of the Westboro Baptist Church, and a federal jury in Baltimore awarded him $11 million in damages in 2007. Reason being, Westboro had been found to have "intentionally inflicted emotional distress on the family." No shit.
Naturally, Phelps paid up immediately. By which I mean he actually had the fucking stones to appeal the decision, and get it overturned by a higher court.
What a lovable li'l scamp.
But that's not all. In one of the clearest-ever cases of adding insult to injury, the 4th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals not only overturned the damage verdict, it actually ordered Mr. Snyder to pay $16,510.80 to Phelps and Westboro for the court costs they incurred appealing the original decision.
Oh, yes they did.
Look...I'm a pretty strict Constitutionalist. As such, I'm a firm believer in federally-protected freedom of expression. But picketing funerals? Funerals of young people taken out by extreme violence, whose families are just trying to grieve, and send them off with a little dignity? I'm fucking sorry. If there's anything lower one human being can do to another, I have yet to hear about it.
So what does any of this have to do with Bill O'Reilly?
"I'm glad you asked."
Well, it seems that Bill-O, despite his over-arching commitment to dickishness, has decided to exhibit a little humanity. According to a story making the rounds on the 'tubes, O'Reilly has cut a check to Westboro Baptist that completely covers every penny of the court-levied fine.
Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch. I guess what they say about stopped clocks is true.
Now, it's tempting to dump a shitload of spin onto this story, and frame it in the context of: "Bill O'Reilly Donates $16K+ To Anti-Gay Hate Group," but I think I'll leave that to bought-and-paid-for partisan shills like...well, Bill O'Reilly. Because you know if it had been Keith Olbermann, Fux News would frame it that way without a single batted eyelash.
So, I'm just going to say something I never thought I'd say; something that would actually be physically painful under normal circumstances...
Class maneuver, Mr. O'Reilly. Very class. For today, at least...you get a furlough from my shit list.
Pushed out the back door of a moving nondescript white van, your Ukrainian Beauty® will be found in your front yard within 6-8 weeks… hooded, hog-tied and with 3-days worth of horse barbiturates coursing through her veins!
Ukrainian Beauty® will be unresponsive, but NOT dead… GUARANTEED!
Former "Dating Game" Contestant Rodney Alcala Receives Death Sentence for 1977-'79 Murders of Five Women Self-described "hopeless romantic" enjoys long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and the tortured, drawn-out death rattles of the slowly-strangled
Entertainment:
Levi Johnston Reportedly Shopping New Reality Series While proposed content of the program is unclear as of press time, Sarah Palin has spent all day impotently railing against it on her Facebook and Twitter pages
Science:
Large Hadron Collider Comes Back Online at Switzerland's CERN Physics Lab "We all gon' die!" opines Butch McKeester, noted rural Kentucky particle-physics expert (who also believes that Evolution and Climate Change are hoaxes, that President Obama is a Kenyan-born Muslim, and that stem cells are extracted directly from the soft spots of babies torn screaming from their mothers' arms by gun-wielding government death squads)
Just finished reading a story originally published by the Washington Post last week.
The gist: "… a 2009 survey of the U.S. Catholic Church… showed the lowest numbers of child victims, allegations and financial payouts since 2004. It (the survey) shows 398 new victims came forward in 2009… down from 889 in 2004."
Hmmm…
"The U.S. Catholic Church: Now 56% Less Handsy!"**
Still not really a ringing endorsement is it? Not for nothing, but if given the choice, I'd rather leave my mythical child unattended in a trailer with a gang of meth'd-out carnies than at Sunday school.
"Nuhnuhnuhnooo! It's not what it looks like… I swear!"
**But probably not. According to the WP story, the survey was funded by the bishops. Buuut, at least it was conducted by independent researchers… … … whooo relied mostly on data supplied by the church yaddayaddayadda.
However, few recent viral memes have crossed over with such fervor as the delightful "Pants on the Ground" song from "General" Larry Platt (military service unspecified).
"I don't know / but I've been told / Teeth look stupid / wrapped in gold."
For the uninitiated: After inexplicably being allowed through to the final round of auditions for "American Idol" 2010 (despite being well above the show's contestant cut-off age of of 28), Mr. Platt "performed" his now-famous ode to dropp't trou for the "Idol" judges, and guest judge Mary J. Blige. The song itself concerned a common old folks' lament. That being: "These kids today..." Specifically, Mr. Platt's rant-o-rama decried a host of irritating wardrobe tropes common to what is euphemistically referred to as "urban" youth. His chief grievances concerned such examples as sideways hats and metallic dental "grills." The griping culminated in what he viewed as the most egregious of these affronts: Jeans belted about the buttocks.
As a performance, it could only charitably be called "panhandler-grade." However, to be fair, it made up for in enthusiasm what it lacked in skill. Honestly, for a dude approaching retirement age, he could've been a lot worse. And I'd say I hope to be able to dance as well as he does someday, but I don't dance that well NOW.
"Damn straight, son. DAMN straight."
However, while "Pants on the Ground" enjoyed the sort of mainstream recognition that eludes most viral memes (showing up as it did in the form of t-shirts, cover versions, and even NFL locker room chants), General Platt's little song seems to be inspiring something even greater than all that.
Namely: Legislation.
Recently, the story broke that New York State Senator Eric Adams (D-Brooklyn) has spent $2,000 in campaign funds to erect six billboards in and around his district. The billboards feature a photo of a couple of fellas with droopy dungarees, and encourage the youth contingent among his constituency to ignore their example.
You have no idea how much I wish I was making this up.
The billboards serve a dual purpose: Encouraging young people to voluntarily hike their jeans above their coccyx (ahem), as well as letting them know that if they don't, they soon may not have the option. Because the Senator is sponsoring what can only be described as a state dress-code bill. A bill that, if signed into law, would make saggy pants more than just a crime of fashion. It would make them an actionable offense that could be enforced with legal restitution.
Personally, I'm sort of torn on this one. On the one cheek, I've always thought butt-huggers looked pretty fucking ridiculous. On the other, I'm pretty sure it's a serious violation of civil liberties to dictate the wardrobe of the general public via a set of statutes. I mean, sure...It SHOULD be illegal to wear a suit studded with flaming kittens impaled on the ends of railroad spikes, and I think we can all get behind that. But banning something just because it looks stupid? Where does THAT slippery slope terminate? Will the "fashion police" transition from being bitchy red-carpet queens nattering about who's wearing whom on entertainment programs into an actual sanctioned paramilitary force? Will a mullet be punishable by two weeks in jail and a trim, or socks with sandals enforceable with being sent to a re-education camp headed up by Kommandant Isaac Mizrahi and Kommissar Tim Gunn? Maybe this is the first step toward all of us being forced to wear matching unitards, like all of the sci-fi movies seem to predict.
Although admittedly, that'd be just dandy in SOME cases.
No matter what, I just don't think this is what the voters had in mind when they asked lawmakers to help eliminate crack in their neighborhoods.
Oh, come on. Don't tell me you didn't see THAT coming.
***********
P.S.: At the risk of beating a dead horse, it bears repeating: PLEASE vote for the Diary Of Fools for "Best Blog" in the City Pages 2010 readers' poll! It would mean a lot to us if you could toss us some love. And if you're feeling saucy, throwing a vote to Merton Sussex for "Best Local Tweeter" would also be appreciated. Voting ends April 5th, so please spread the word! Thanks in advance.
The Ladies Room, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the female latrine. Our five hour mission: to explore popular topics of gossip, to seek out relief from bladder pressure and the people annoying us wherever we may be, to boldly go where no man has gone before (except when we need their strength to use the toilet plunger).
As I understand it, there seems to be some “mystery” surrounding the bathroom habits of modern females. I say modern because I refuse to contemplate anything having to deal with poop before we all had our own indoor plumbing. This “mystery” is according to guys and deals with mostly with why we go to the bathroom in groups of two or more and why we take so long. Personally, I don’t find it strange that I sometimes like to partake in group peeing. It’s not as though we all sit on one giant toilet and pee simultaneously.
Let me start with the basics. Females are biologically programmed (in our brains) to be the more social sex of the human race. I’m not sure if this actually has anything to do with our social hour pee time; I just thought I’d throw that out there. So while the male brain portion controlling sexual impulses is 2.5 times larger and thus consumes most male thoughts, we women are thinking “gee, we’d really love to chat right now and have some good old social interaction” a majority of the time. This seems to have spilled over into our bathroom habits.
Another thing to remember is that women have to pee a lot more than most men. I schedule pee time into my day. I know that after a certain amount of time I will have to go pee, no matter what, so I really hope there will be a bathroom that I can use wherever I may be (no, I do not need to take medicine for this). When my sister recently consulted me about what time she should arrive at the airport I told her to have enough allotted amount of time to go pee before you get on the plane. No one enjoys peeing on planes; I’m still afraid that when you flush the toilet you’ll get sucked right out of the plane at 35,000 feet, never mind how tiny those things are.
According to my scientific research mentioned above, when you combine the social nature and physical makeup of the female bladder you get the abnormally long group trips to the bathroom. The basics are simple, moving beyond and further in depth is not so simple. Now, about that, let me go pee real fast before I get into it . . . .
Damn it, what am I 12? For the last time, NO, I will not pull your finger, Uncle Sam…
The City Pages (Twin Cities quasi-alternative weekly) is currently taking votes for its annual "Best of the Twin Cities" publication. Included in the ballot is a Best Local Blog (us, of course) category. The deadline for voting is Monday April 5th. If you dig what we do and appreciate the effort we put in to giving you 100% original and sexxxy entertainment day-in, day-out (no scraped BS here) for literally pennies a day (thanks Google AdSense!), please let us know by casting your vote for the DoF -- again, by Monday April 5th. Our fragile egos are counting on you. Don't let us down.
According to a story I read on CNN.com this morning, there are at least one or two American entities willing to lead the charge out of the Middle East, and get back stateside where they belong. Problem is, we're not talking about any official organization. Because the only buns that are hustling home anytime fast are of the sesame-seed variety: Both Burger King and Dairy Queen have announced a draw-down of deployed resources from Afghanistan.
"I can has cheezeburger? No? Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch."
Let me join my fellow Americans in the chorus of shock and awe as we ask, "What the fuck? Why in the hell were they there in the FIRST goddamned place?!?"
Now, don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't support the troops. I do. Though in fairness, it must be said that like most thinking people, I do have an ideological opposition to wasting thousands of lives, scores of years, and trillions of dollars fighting a futile war we have a less-than-zero chance of ever "winning." And before you argue - we may TALK a good game, but ultimately, Afghanistan is one of the few patches of dirt left on earth that has managed to utterly refuse every single historical subjugation attempt ever launched at it. Fer chrissakes, this a country that even Darius I, Alexander the Great and Genghis motherfucking Khan eventually gave the gas face to.
"Seriously, dude. That place is an ASSHOLE."
But obviously, none of this is the fault of any of the folks who currently fill the boots we're using to run roughshod over the fertile crescent. They have very little real choice over where they get sent, or what they're asked to do once they get there. And as such, I'm usually all about any provision that makes their lives even a little easier until they can get back. Movie nights? Fuck yes. Fire 'em up. USO shows? Absolutely. Give 'em all the Toby Keith, Jeff Foxworthy, and Pam Anderson shaking her tits around they could possibly stomach in any seven tours. Knock yourselves out.
But Burger King?!? I dunno...I guess I just have a hard time getting behind the idea of one of the greatest fighting forces in the history of man heading to evening mess, and having the option of ordering up a double #3 Whopper meal with large fries and a Snicker Pie.
"I do believe 'having it my way' means no onions, Sergeant. And that's an order on at least two different levels."
And again, it's truly not that I support taking away any of the troops' creature comforts. Whatever helps make risking your life in service of a muddy, pointless goal inside a scorchingly sandy hell-hole even a little less of a Miltonian horror, I support it one hundred percent. I totally get that a double cheeseburger is a hell of a lot more appetizing than the freeze-dried MRE chili rattling around at the bottom of your MOLLE pack.
But.
It's a big ol' no-brainer that proper nutrition is essential. The military has a responsibility to help its personnel maintain peak physical shape. That is to say, the sort of condition it's necessary for a fighting force to be in in order for it to operate properly. If you're a soldier, and you're stuffing your face with the same sort of greasy, fat-saturated, cholesterol-soaked bullshit pseudo-food the obese morons back home gorge themselves on? It's highly unlikely that you're going to be in a hell of a lot better shape then THEY are. And at that point, you might as well hand any run-of-the-mill, buffet-surfing Chubbs O'Lardface an AR-15 and send 'em waddling out onto the battlefield.
I just can't help but assume that when Napoleon Bonaparte said, "An army travels on its stomach," he never envisioned a future where entire brigades could literally fucking roll out on them.
"On the upside, I'm actually wearing my own bivouac tent as a jacket."
And that's just as far as The Big BK is concerned. Because, honestly...Dairy Queen? Really? While I certainly don't begrudge anyone as simple a pleasure as ice cream, bear in mind that Dee to the Q is mostly in the business of foisting off the particular variety known charitably as "soft-serve" onto the public. Y'know, ice cream so puffy and flaccid that it's not just possible, but mandatory that you pinch it off with that little Superman's-forehead spit-curl at the reservoir tip.
And, while I like the stuff just fine, we're not exactly talking about a frozen dessert with a whole lot of structural integrity. Christ, I live in Minnesota, and I have a hard time maintaining my cone in a locked and upright position just between the counter and the car. So I can imagine how it must be in Kandahar, where the daytime temperatures often crest 125 motherfucking degrees Fahrenheit in the SHADE. Ten bucks says that by the time you get your goddamned wallet back into your BDU's, you're pretty much just left with a sticky, cream-covered wrist and a lot of shameful disappointment. And believe me, if there was ever an expert on the subject of sticky, cream-covered wrists coupled with incredible shame, it is yours truly.
"Here's your change, Colonel."
Look, let's get something straight. Ostensibly (at least in the best-case scenario), the American military fights to preserve our way of life by defending it from outside threats. Whether or not that's what's happening in this current great big Mess-o'-Potamia is an argument better left to smarter persons than I. But there has to be a line drawn, doesn't there? You're SOLDIERS, for chrissakes. The elite. Our best and brightest. In other words, you're just about the only Americans on the planet capable of getting up to go to the refrigerator without needing a quadruple bypass just to get out of the fucking La-Z-Boy first. So, electing to fuck that up by subsisting on Chicken Fries and Double-Bacon Baconburgers (with Bacon)? That isn't just a subjugation of your training and mission, it's borderline treason.
"I wanted out, so I ate myself into a court-martial. I just wish my cell-mate hadn't taken such a shine to me. I was kind of hoping getting booted from the service would have been the LAST 'dishonorable discharge' I'd take up the ass. But, then last night happened."
Okay, so 'treason' is slippery-slope/straw-man hyperbolic fallacy. But even so, the enlisted are fighting to defend the American way of life. There'll be plenty of time for them to actively participate in it once they get home. Because, let's face it: If they want to up their overall chances of that eventually happening by a rather significant margin, it might help to not only keep themselves in peak running condition, but also to present a slimmer, more agile (and therefore much harder-to-hit) target.
Pictured: The most popular G.I. at camp. Nickname: "Private Meat-Shield."
So, I guess we'll see what happens. Maybe the loss of the flame-broiled goodness of Burger King will enrage the Armed Forces to the point that they'll fight all the harder, just so they can get back home and eat it again. Maybe the overall fitness level will spike, and they'll start squashing insurgencies like so many schoolyard quarrels. Or, maybe we'll just continue slogging around thigh-deep in molasses like what's BEEN happening. No matter what, at least none of it will be the fault or responsibility of a creepy meat-monarch/mascot with a frozen, plastic face.
Hey, wait a minute. Burger King as a corporate entity might be retreating...but maybe if we sent the actual Burger King HIMSELF over there, we could freak them out so bad that they'd lay down their Kalashnikovs en masse within a fortnight.
"If you died today, who would take care of your family?"
I don't know. And you know what? Looking at that cheap-ass generic "FATHER" headstone they went with, I don't think I fucking care anymore, Ghost of Christmas Future. Take me back to the bar now, please.
Sorry for the long break, I'd scramble for an excuse, but instead just imagine the truth: a dirty lazy artist just too self-important to take a break from mooching off others and doing as little as possible.
That said, in my busy calendar, I slapped this together.
See, he has a hole in his head. You killed him. You survived. Obviously all those first-person video games payed off instead of foolishly experiencing life.
Well no time to worry about that in the Apocolypse. Just slap this baby on and hope this strand of Zombie is smart enough to read. Or maybe don't. Either way, we'll know.
As is often the case, I have to start with something of a disclaimer, here: Seatbelts save lives. Nobody's questioning that. In the event of a serious, flaming, life-threatening wreck, lashing yourself to the very goddamned frame of the vehicle is a proven-reliable method of drastically upping your chances of survival. This is not up for debate.
However...
The price we ultimately pay for the privilege of our lives potentially being saved? Constant fucking annoyance the other 99.999998% of the time spent in the car. Y'know, those stretches when it ISN'T actively colliding with a fellow high-velocity quarter-ton of steel. Of course, it's worth it. But that doesn't excuse the auto manufacturers' obvious dedication to making the rat-bastard things exactly as fucking irritating as it's physically possible for them to be, while still affording them enough function in order that they operate properly. The sad fact is, seatbelts are just barely worth the effort it takes to endure their many infuriating flaws.
So, may I present to you: the top ten things I fucking HATE about seatbelts.
10) Seatbelt Sweat:
"I'm SO hot."
Contrary to popular belief, it's not always a deep-freeze in the upper Midwest. Believe it or not, it gets REALLY WARM here during the summer months. But unfortunately, despite what Golden-Age Hollywood would have us believe, death takes no holidays. So, we still have to wear our seatbelts, even when August is all, "hear, you can has 95° + 100% humidz LOL." And our gift for being safety-conscious? The trademark sash o' sweat, even if we run the air conditioning full-blast. I mean, sure...nobody can really make fun of you for it, because it's sort of a big, wet badge of social consciousness, but seatbelt sweat is still a sticky, hot, ugly, nasty, rank pain in the ass.
9) The Plastic Strap-Straightening Doohickey:
$#%&*@!!!
Y'know how the buckle-catch on the belt has that plastic gasket thing on it, so it lines up right as it slides up and down the belt? And y'know how it's supposed to stop the belt from getting twisted in the slot? And y'know how it not only doesn't work properly, but actually DEFEATS the fucking purpose by being JUST wide enough to let the belt twist up and get jammed up tighter than your high school girlfriend's chastity belt? FUCK you, plastic thing. Fuck you HARD.
I can't even tell you how many times I've gotten into the car, only to have to wrestle with the stuck-fast buckle-catch for five minutes, pushing and pulling and yanking and swearing, just so I can get my belt on. In point of fact, the plastic piece of shit is actually worse than useless. And I know this because on ONE of my cars, the plastic housing cracked off, leaving just the metal catch. And the belt-slot in the catch is wide enough that if the damn thing winds up facing backwards, it literally takes a half-second to spin it into the proper orientation for secure buckl'age. And how did the housing get broken off to begin with? Why, I'm glad you asked...
8) ...This Bullshit:
The housing on the belt cracked when that happened one too many dozen times. And as I said, the functionality improved after that, but seriously. What's the definition of a "less than useless" car part, if not: "the car actually gets better once it breaks"?
Besides, this has to be intentional: the belts in both of my cars are sized to be JUST long enough so that when you unbuckle and get out, the catch flops into the door-frame, and directly into the path of the closing door. And there it sits, in the precise perfect position to cause the door to not close properly once you slam it shut. And of course, it never jams the door half open (or even prevents it from closing at all) when I've just popped out for a leisurely Sunday jaunt. No, certainly not. It's always when I'm fifteen minutes late for a doctor's appointment, the parking lot is icier than Ann Coulter on a date with Michael Moore, and I've got my hands full juggling a shitload of paperwork, and a week's worth of stool and urine samples.
7) The Fucking Buckles Themselves Are Also Impossible:
"Click, you little pain in the ass. Dammit...GET IN THERE."
The idea of the seatbelt is simple: You pull it out to the desired length, "click" the catch into the buckle and violá...You're strapped in, theoretically safer than you would be otherwise.
Of course, the reality is rarely that effortless. If you're wearing a thick coat, trying to balance a bunch of shit you're carrying, or have on gloves, that seatbelt buckle is an ASSHOLE. On those days, it is 100% guaran-damn-teed to flop around, dance merrily out of the way, or get stuck open with the release button permanently depressed. That is, if you're lucky enough that you can even FIND the fucking buckle. Because if it's decided to cram itself between the seats, and pull a shy-turtle act like your cock in a swimming pool? You're pretty much fucked. You have to get out of the car, go spelunking, and start over once you fish it out of the seat crack like the world's worst wedgie.
And then when you try a second time, the tail of your shirt or coat will install itself in front of the hole like an over-protective dad cock-blocking his teenage daughter on prom night. This fabric-flap will slide back into place no matter how many times you try to move it. Then, when you finally DO manage to pound the fucking catch in? You'll discover that the slot had previously hoovered up a hitherto-unseen nickel from the seat crack. And because you were frustrated and forced the catch in, the coin is now crammed in there deeper than a conspiracy theory, rendering the mechanism completely inoperable.
At that point, if you're lucky, you only have to drive unbelted, thereby taking your own life into your hands. However, if the catch got stuck once it was IN there, you're now trapped in your seat for all eternity. Congratulations! Now you're equal parts sweating, suffering from acute-onset hypertension, and late for work.
6) Seatbelts Never Fucking Fit:
Boi-oi-oi-oinnnnnggg.
Look, I know this isn't gonna be easy, but do me a favor, and stop staring at her tits for a second. Look up. Up. C'mon, do it. UP, asshole. Yes, I KNOW they're nice, but humor me. Up. UUUUUP. A liiiiitle further. There. See that? That spot where the seatbelt is digging into her neck, leaving a raw, chafed spot that makes it look like she just went on a date with Hickey McSuckneck? FUCK, I hate that shit. I HATE IT.
Seatbelts don't fit properly. They just DON'T. EVER. And car makers get a good-will pass on this, because seatbelts save lives, so you're not allowed to criticize their design any more than you get to bag on the free medical care your charity-case kid got at the Shriner's hospital.
If seatbelts even remotely fit properly, I wouldn't have a number five. But, of course, they don't. So I do. And number five is...
5) Ridiculous Seatbelt Accessories:
Something for everyone. Provided they're someone who couldn't even BUY taste. At gunpoint.
Although there is one in particular that's SO asinine, it warrants its own mention. Which brings me to...
4) "The Tiddy Bear":
Oh, sweet and salty Peter Graves on a Triscuit. REALLY?
Apparently, as I am so frequently forced to say, this is a real product. The "Tiddy Bear" is a twee li'l plush neck cushion that does what many do: wraps around the seatbelt, and prevents irritation from pressure and chafing. Fair enough. But, rather than create a product that would allow the user to maintain the faintest shred of decency and/or self-respect, the manufacturers of this piece of shit felt it was of essential importance to instead make sure that the fucking thing was shaped like a teddybear. So, in essence, they're charging you for the privilege of trading comfort for dignity. It's up to you whether or not the exchange rate is equivalent.
Even as outright stupid as the Tiddy Bear is, I might even have been tempted to let this one go under different circumstances. I'd consider letting it slide because kids are usually the ones who are most irritated by high-rise, sized-for-adults belts, and would therefore seem to be the target demographic for this thing. It's kinda cute, I guess. Has that feel of a toy about it. Yeah, I maybe could have given this a pass...except for the marketing.
See, the geniuses who sell this abortion only grudgingly tack kids into the ridiculous infomercial as an afterthought. As it is, the ad largely consists of footage of pseudo-attractive, youngish women in tight halter tops, all of whom just can't seem to get enough of nuzzling this fuzzy little fuck snugly against their full, heaving bosoms.
"Sadly, this is the closest anyone's gotten to my tits in months."
And it's only at that point that the lusty cries of, "Oh, wait! I get it! 'Tiddy' bear!" erupt from the collected residents of the group home. Oh, you're so SMOOTH, Tiddy Bear people! You just put one over on Standards and Practices by combining "teddy" with "titty" and coming up with "tiddy!" Looks like you can get away with on-air utterance of a not-so-subtle variation on one of Carlin's seven words by merely changing the LETTERS, even if the pronunciation is the same! You bloody RASCALS!
Which reminds me...I have an idea for a startup. Any venture capitalists who want to invest in a new bathroom tissue called "Schiddie Toilet Paper," please drop me a line. We'll do some bid'ness.
And, as long as I'm on the subject of chafing...
3) What Are These Pieces of Shit MADE Out Of, Fer Chrissakes? Kevlar?
Pictured: Pain.
Yes, the fabric needs to be strong, so it doesn't snap like a tortured diplomat every time it gets leaned on. But is it honestly directly necessary to weave the the straps out of weapons-grade space shuttle re-entry insulation? I've taken morning-after taco-and-beer shits that were smoother, and more pleasurable to feel against my skin. Getting out of the car after several hours' worth of this 80-grit bullshit grinding away on my sternum is almost as awesome as having my nipples sawed off good and slow by a Parkinson's patient with a rusty steak knife.
2) *H'GUUUURKK-!*:
Translation: "*H'GUUUURKKK-!*"
It's happened to everyone. You're driving along, minding your own business, when suddenly a ball bounces out from between two parked cars up ahead. Or, a dog breaks free of its leash, seemingly intent upon ending its life beneath your wheels. Maybe the asshole in front of you slams on his brakes just for funsies. No matter what the cause, from time to time, we're all called upon to stop our cars in a slightly more abrupt fashion than we'd prefer to under ordinary circumstances. At which point our seatbelt locks up faster than a circa-2001 486 Dell running Windows ME. And yeah, I know that's what's SUPPOSED to happen. Because it seatbelts *didn't* lock, they'd be about as useful as a submarine with a screen door.
"I'll see you guys later...I'm gonna head out."
But once the seatbelt is locked, the motherfucker is LOCKED. It's not moving, and neither are you. And somewhere between the point where your ribcage gets compressed to one-third its normal size, and the stage when you lose consciousness from the lack of air, you try to reach for the release...only to realize you can't move your arms anymore. Then, as the belt gets just a little tighter every time you exhale a few drops of whatever oxygen you left in your flattened lungs, you discover a new-found sympathy for anaconda victims.
1) The Fact That I Can Get A Ticket For Not Wearing One.
"You're no fun. Can I at least touch your moustache?"
At its best, the law exists to protect people from each other. If you get into your stupid head that you're going to rape, burgle or murder someone else, then it helps to know that the law provides stiff penalties meant to serve as a deterrent to these activities, and discourage you from engaging in them. Hell, I'm a good citizen. I even understand laws against certain criminal activities that would seem to be largely victimless (such as hard drug abuse, public drunkenness, and prostitution). I know even these ostensibly "only-dangerous-to-the-perpetrator" acts at least hold the potential to infringe upon the rights and/or safety of others under certain specific circumstances.
But writing me a ticket for not wearing my seatbelt?!? What the FUCK, laws? Even in the worst case scenario, the very most egregious example of scofflaw seatbelt-avoidance, the most that's going to happen to someone ELSE due to my negligence? They might suffer a spot of psychological trauma from seeing my mangled corpse tied in a granny knot around a telephone pole. In the great my-rights-versus-yours/personal-liberty argument, even fucking JAYWALKING poses a more significant risk of inconveniencing another person than my not wearing a seatbelt. Of all of the shit it's a gigantic fucking waste of time to enforce, this has got to be the most "protect-me-from-myself" piece of legislation ever enacted.
I mean, it's not like I DON'T wear my seatbelt, because I'm not a colossal retard with a death wish. But honestly, I think I'd be behind the relevant statutes a lot more if whatever regulatory agency is responsible for them would just come out and admit their real purpose. "Okay, you're right...You win. Seatbelt enforcement exists just to pad the bottom line with citation fee revenue. We don't actually give a shit if you eat windshield, or not...we just need to keep the cash flow up in order to pay the cops enough of a living wage that they're mostly-okay with having to risk their very lives going after the legitimate criminals." Frankly, I respect that kind of honesty.
What I don't respect is nanny-state molly-coddling of people with a self-destructive streak as wide as Rosie O'Donnell's ass. If it's not technically illegal to drink bleach, masturbate with a bungee cord around your throat, or bathe in kerosene and then light yourself on fire in the middle of a parking lot, why should it be illegal to drive 70 m.p.h. on the highway without bothering to lash yourself to your chair first? Darwin has a way of thinning the herd, and who am I to argue with natural selection?
"These cock suckers should really be executed." -Fred Phelps, Super Nice Dude Fuckstick, Kansas
"Everything that's wrong with today's 20-somethings."
- Some Asshole Blogger Minneapolis, MN
"...See? This is what I'm talking about. It's shit like this that makes people doubt my existence in the first place. Well, that and the fact that Mario Lopez keeps getting work somehow."
- God, Alleged Creator of the Universe
Hoboken, NJ
"I think it's neat how a group of retards can run their own website. A nice little story."
-Debra Goosingbunz, Social Worker Sandusky, OH
"Seriously, if I catch you people going through my garbage again, I'm getting a fucking restraining order." -Bootsy Collins, Funk Bassist, Cincinnati, OH
"OH MY GOD OHMYGOD IT BURNS HOLY FUCK IT BURNS GET IT OFF GETITOFF OH SHIT IT HURTS SO MUCH OHMYGAAAAARRRGH AAAAHHH!" -Some Guy Who's on Fire, Burning Man Festival, Black Rock Desert, Northern NV
"I thought this blog might be kinda funny at first, but it's nothing but name calling....a veritable thesaurus of insults." -Anna Nimity, Internet Spectre, Cyberspace
"You're a shitty writer and this site sucks dick." -Mr. Meh, Cracked.com reader, and apparent dick-sucking authority
Worldwide Love for the DoF (The DoF on the Interweb)
(Left) 7 year-old Billy Schmails is viciously attacked and defecated upon by a protective mother pigeon after the Tulsa, OK 1st grader mistook the bird's unattended offspring as an Easter egg in the city's 73rd annual Easter EGGstravaganza!
"My face is pretty much permanently frozen this way." 
"Behind my dead eyes and pedo-smile lurks a heart as small, hard and black as most of my turds."
Unknown: whether the rainbow background of these signs is intentionally
Try not to think about it too hard. It's not like it ever really starts making sense.
What a lovable li'l scamp.
"I'm glad you asked."
Fact: Viral memes are the backbone of the internet.
"I don't know / but I've been told / Teeth look stupid / wrapped in gold."
"Damn straight, son. DAMN straight."
You have no idea how much I wish I was making this up. 
Although admittedly, that'd be just dandy in SOME cases.
The Ladies Room, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the female latrine. Our five hour mission: to explore popular topics of gossip, to seek out relief from bladder pressure and the people annoying us wherever we may be, to boldly go where no man has gone before (except when we need their strength to use the toilet plunger).
"I can has cheezeburger? No? Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch."
"Seriously, dude. That place is an ASSHOLE."
"I do believe 'having it my way' means no onions, Sergeant. And that's an
"On the upside, I'm actually wearing my own bivouac tent as a jacket." 
"Here's your change, Colonel."
"I wanted out, so I ate myself into a court-martial. I just wish my cell-mate hadn't taken
Pictured: The most popular G.I. at camp.
As is often the case, I have to start with something of a disclaimer, here: Seatbelts save lives. Nobody's questioning that. In the event of a serious, flaming, life-threatening wreck, lashing yourself to the very goddamned frame of the vehicle is a proven-reliable method of drastically upping your chances of survival. This is not up for debate.
"I'm SO hot."
$#%&*@!!!
"Click, you little pain in the ass. Dammit...GET IN THERE."
Boi-oi-oi-oinnnnnggg.
Something for everyone. Provided they're someone who
Oh, sweet and salty Peter Graves on a Triscuit. REALLY?
"Sadly, this is the closest anyone's gotten to my tits in months."
Pictured: Pain.
Translation: "*H'GUUUURKKK-!*"
"I'll see you guys later...I'm gonna head out."
"You're no fun. Can I at least touch your moustache?"
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