Doctor: So, your results are in. Patient: And? Doctor: Congratulations. You have herpes. Here's your Valtrex prescription. Patient: [hugging doctor] Thank you, Doctor! Thank you! Thank you! Doctor: [laughing] Pleasure's all mine. This is actually my favorite part of being a doctor. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, son.
************
If TV has taught me anything it's that Nazi prison camps weren't so bad, number one. Just one hilarious escape attempt after another foiled by the stern but comically fumbling Col. Klink and his band of Keystone Nazis. But secondly, it has also taught me that in order to live a full, happy, adventure-filled life, there is only one way to go about it... by contracting genital herpes.
Growing up, I was told that genital herpes was something to avoid. Little did I know, that was just yet another lie disseminated by the public school system, along with other whoppers such as Columbus discovering America and the entire subject of Algebra. And sadly, it would be a lie I blindly accepted.
Until I saw a Valtrex commercial.
I watched as a male genital herpes "sufferer" and his gorgeous female companion skipped through a fairy tale montage of hand-gliding, rock climbing, jet skiing, horseback riding and romantic picnics in the fiery orange glow of a perfect countryside sunset.
Sitting on the couch sorting Sun Chips crumbs from my belly-button lint, I contemplated my life - which I naively thought was OK up until now - and how it differed from the couple on my TV screen. And after minutes of reflection (mixed in with several Hot Pocket breaks) it dawned on me - herpes. They have herpes. I don't. Herpes is the key to happiness! And even more so, taking Valtrex twice daily to control outbreaks is the key to happiness. Hello, World! Make way for Blaine Fridley and his oozy, blistered junk... I've got an awesome genital herpes-filled, Valtrex-fueled life to live!
And from that point on, I swore to myself that I would spend every waking hour sticking my ween into any orifice willing to accept it until I contracted genital herpes, and consequently, found true happiness.
So far my quest to contract genital herpes by sticking my ween in every willing, available orifice has resulted in failure. Well, failure and several restraining orders. But no matter, DoF readers. The urgency of now has taken over and I will not stop until I am on a mountain top proclaiming to the world "My name is Blaine Fridley! I have herpes and I've never been happier!"
Charleston, SC - She was a true contender, a filly running in a race usually reserved only for colts. And she hung with the big boys admirably. Unfortunately, the rigors of running proved too much for Senator Hillary Clinton (D-New York), and tragedy, not triumph, will be her legacy.
Clinton started strong in the opening stretch of Tuesday's Democratic Primary race, but ultimately came in a close second to Sen. Barack "Big Brown" Obama in the totals. Then, after crossing the finish line just behind the leader, Clinton collapsed, and began writhing in obvious pain while still on the campaign trail.
Immediately, team physicians ran to her side, where they made a startling discovery: Clinton had run to the end, but had fallen just past the finish line, and broken both ankles. The decision was immediately made to put the ol' girl down, right there in the grass.
"I really don't want to talk about it," said campaign manager Maggie Williams. "This is a terrible loss."
Speculation was rampant about what could have possibly gone wrong.
"Obviously, she overestimated her abilities," said Charles Schumacher, State Republican Party Chair. "She got in over her head, and just couldn't hang with the boys."
Others blamed Clinton's trainer, President Bill Clinton, for creating false hope in the press, overstating Clinton's abilities, and smearing the competition. He notoriously called Senator Obama "No Fusiachi Pegasus" just prior to Tuesday's race. "There's no way he can win the Derby, much less the Triple Crown. It's a fairy tale," added the two-time winner.
Still others blamed Clinton's Jockey, James Carville, for whipping the filly too hard and possibly overextending her.
No matter who the blame rests with, one thing is clear: Clinton ran a great race, but it just didn't go in her favor. Sources close to Clinton's team on the track said that, even in obvious defeat and a lot of pain, Clinton was defiant. She reportedly continued repeating, "No! I can get up! I can still win! I'll keep running! It's not over!" even as her medical team was beginning the drip on the lethal injection I.V.
Spokespersons for Obama's camp offered condolences.
"Our hearts go out to her whole team," said Campaign Manager David Plouffe. "Big Brown may have come in first, but he had a lot of respect for Clinton. In fact, after his win, he was planning to name her Secretariat of State."
In lieu of flowers, Clinton's supporters ask that you send contributions to Clinton's favorite charity, Stop Husbands' Intern-Targeting For Abnormal Cigar Entry.
Holy shit. Is it Monday already? Again?!? You've gotta be kidding me. Really? All right, fine. It's not like the world is any less full of toad-licking retards than it would be tomorrow, so I suppose we'd better get going with this week's sack-smack.
This Week's Worthy Nominees:
Darius Rucker
Darius Rucker has always been sort of a douchebag. His band, Hootie and the Blowfish, makes simpering pussy-pop, which in turn makes millions of dollars. He's unrepentantly Christian, and, like many of them, is hell-bent on demonstrating how much better than you he thinks he is...So he puts plenty of religious references into the lyrics, which sucks (I'm looking at YOU, Scott Stapp). He's an ardent fan of the Miami Dolphins. He GOLFS.
Even so, Darius and I have had something of an understanding over the years, because even though Hootie's hits (like "Hold My Hand", and "Let Her Cry") are as about as middle-of-the-road bland as pop-lite gets, they were good for at least one thing: They got me laid in college. So, I've largely let him slide on his wimpy balladeering. Weak-sauce or not, copping to liking that first album when it came out made you look "sensitive", so it was a reasonably-effective panty-loosener back in the day. Therefore, for some time, Darius Rucker and I have been cool.
But not now, Big Daddy D. The cease-fire is ended.
Some of you might wonder what ol' Hootie's been up to the last few years. Well, the band's still around...Sort of. They've been coasting on their past successes for some time, though. "Cracked Rear View" sold something like eleventy-billion copies, but the subsequent however many releases haven't sold more than 7 or 8 copies apiece.
So, in order to keep the cash flow up, you may recall that Darius recently sold his soul to that creepy, polymer-headed monarch of meat, the Burger King:
...And then when the residuals stopped pouring in from THAT...He took out a second mortgage on his soul, and sold it again, reinventing himself as a country "artist." And why not? That commercial had done such wonders for his credibility. To wit: In the last few months, Rucker has appeared at country "music" awards shows, on other "artists'" country albums, and generally rubbed elbows with their whole sick scene trying to ingratiate himself. Now, he's recorded an entire album that's due to be foisted on an unsuspecting public, and recently released the first single off of it to Country radio. I'll spare you the link. If you want to torture yourself that badly, I'll have no part of it. Let's get something straight: Country "music" is stupid music for stupid people...Period. Musically, it's formulaic, cookie-cutter and low-skill, sung by nasal rednecks who only know four chords and have limited vocabularies with which to render their lyrics due to never having finished junior high (and if you think I'm being mean-spirited, check out this hilarious headline I just read.)
Thematically, it proudly celebrates that unique brand of aggressive ignorance endemic to southern Americans. You know, that "we'd-rather-be-tough-than-smart" asshole-cowboy bullshit attitude that says that putting a Confederate flag on your truck is somehow different than wearing a swastika armband, that pickup trucks, chewin' tarbacky and Larry the Cable Guy are all cultural icons, and that "perfesser" is a perfectly-acceptable nickname for anyone who still has all their teeth. Country music embraces and nurtures the great, red-state-dwelling collective Jethro that revels in being backwater, racist, and untainted by anything resembling compassion, civilization, or book-learnin' as though it were a birthright. This is a region of the country that thinks "Deliverance" was a documentary. Ever notice that most people who can feed and dress themselves properly often say, "I like all kinds of music...Except country"? This is because admitting being a country fan immediately brands you as a gormless, overall-wearing hick. Of course, the flip side of that are the inbred, buck-toothed, grew-up-in-a-bubble-of-cultural-isolation Hootin' Holler natives who say, "Music? Well, ah lahk BOWTH kahnds! Cuntrah AYUND Western! Gaw-LEE."
Country music is an island unto itself. They have their own awards shows nobody else is invited to, their own rules, and their own celebrities that can't go to tractor pulls or flea markets without getting mobbed, but who could stroll unmolested through any random Nordstrom's. This is because thinking people can't stand it, and everyone who can has a gene pool the size of a teardop, rendering them incapable of comprehending the subtle complexities of, say, Nickelback.
And this is the life Rucker is CHOOSING. Becoming a Country "artist" because your pop career has fizzled is like deciding to become a garbageman after your desk job gets downsized. Sure, it's easy and pays fine, but you have to spend your whole day smelling, touching, and dealing with the rotten, rancid stuff most bright, refined people consider to be disgusting.
The sad thing is, Rucker's never been a bad singer. Sure, those old Hootie tracks were a little limp, but they weren't badly performed. The kid's got a reasonably decent set o' pipes. However, these days, he's made the conscious decision to use his powers for EVIL. And that makes him a bad egg as far as I'm concerned.
But, hey, who knows? It might work out for him. It's entirely possible that he may wind up joining the ranks of the country elite alongside such other noted African-American country artists as...um...Charley Pride, and, uh...Charley Pride. But there will always be those of us who remember when he used to be happy to hang out in the middle, rather than shooting desperately for the sub-bottom.
Jack Thompson
Jack Thompson is a lawyer. A conservative, Christian lawyer. Ordinarily, that would be enough to qualify him for an uppercut to the underbelly all by itself. But it's what he chooses to DO with that legal standing that genuinely makes him a contender.
Jack's career highlights:
In 1975, he applied for a job as assistant State's Attorney in Dade County, Florida, but was passed over by then State's Attorney Janet Reno. Yes, THAT Janet Reno. This pissed Jack right the fuck off. So, rather than work harder and try again, he decided to brush up on the use of tactics that would come to form the leitmotif of his career to this day. Namely, obfuscation, accusation, misdirection, overreaction, and smear campaigns. So, in 1988, after nurturing a grudge for more than 13 years, Thompson ran for the position of Prosecutor in Dade, against the incumbent...Janet Reno. He is said to have run for no other reason than to have plenty of public opportunities to dig, harass, and needle her during the campaign. In fact, during a campaign event, Jack apparently passed Reno a note, demanding to know whether she was, quote, "homosexual, bisexual, or heterosexual." Reportedly, Reno put her hand on his shoulder and responded, "I'm only interested in virile men. That’s why I'm not attracted to you." Ooh, BURN. Point Reno! And how did Jack react? He filed a police report accusing her of battery for touching him. When the ballots were counted on THAT runoff, Reno was ultimately re-elected with 69% of the vote.
In 1990, Thompson shot to national prominence as the guy who took on 2 Live Crew's frontman Luther "Luke Skyywalker" Campbell, trying to get the rap act's albums banned for "obscenity." Why? Not because the record was THAT objectionable. Largely, it was speculated that he'd done it because Campbell had released a record that expressed support for...Janet Reno. FUCK, this guy can carry a torch! When courts in Florida refused to hear Thompson's obscenity case, he went on a one-man crusade, picketing, distributing flyers, and generally trying to get record stores to stop selling the record...Which proved unsuccessful. In subsequent years, he levied similar campaigns against N.W.A., Ice-T, and Madonna, under the "Who Will Think of the Children" banner that conservatives typically wave around whenever confronted with art that runs counter to their tender, pink little sensibilities. All he ever really succeeded in doing was proving himself a killjoy dick.
However, most people these days know Jackie for his relentless onslaught against the multi-billion dollar behemoth that is the videogame industry. As far as Jack is concerned, If Janet Reno was bad, and rap music was worse, then surely videogames will be the undoing of Western society!
It all started for him in 1997, when he represented the parents of the victims in the Heath High School shootings. He won them $33 million in class-action damages by claiming that the shooters had been corrupted by videogames and pornography. Hooray, Twinkie Defense! Since then, he's had a mad-on for video games like nothing else, railing against them in the press, calling them "murder simulators" to anyone who will listen (and plenty who won't), and generally making an ass of himself trying to win some more, like a smack addict relentlessly chasing the rush of that first high all over again. The upshot is, he's been laughed out of courtroom after courtroom, lost a few counter-suits, and had several disbarment actions levied against him for professional misconduct. They've slowed him down, but he hasn't quit.
Thompson's latest stunt has been to have an apoplectic public seizure over "Grand Theft Auto IV", the latest highly-anticipated installment of the multi-million selling cash-cow franchise for Rockstar Games. Unless your address is "Oblivious Q. McApathy, 1 Under-Rock Lane, OutOfTouchville, USA", chances are you've at least heard of it. For those who haven't, it's an open-world, go-anywhere, do-anything free-roaming hi-res adventure that takes place in a fictionalized New York, and the character you play is asked to do some pretty unsavory things. Things involving crime, drugs, prostitution, and murder. Sure, it's gritty, graphic, and realistic. But when you consider that the lion's share of games these days are bought by people 18-34, and that the sales numbers show an OVERWHELMING preference for games that no longer assume we're all seven-year-olds enthralled by pixels the size of canned hams beeping around on the Atari 2600, it makes sense. We've matured as gamers and as consumers, and we're voting with our wallets when games come out that both reflect and respect that.
But Jack wants them gone. GONE. All of them! Fuck personal responsibility, parental monitoring, ESRB ratings and the fact that well-adjusted adult gamers have a BLAST with these superbly-crafted works of playable art. JACK hates them, so they have to GO. He's just the latest in a long line of asshole self-appointed morality cops who won't rest until he's managed to bend the rest of the world into conforming to what HE decides is acceptable.
The reason he's getting singled out this week is because of his most recent salvo: Writing a personal letter to the mother of Strauss Zelnick, Chairman of Take-Two software, publishers of the "Grand Theft Auto" series. You can read it in its entirety at this link (opens in a new window), but in the interest of summarizing, Thompson's letter to Mrs. Zelnick compares her son to "the Hitler Youth," quotes the bible several times, implies that she was a shitty mom for raising him to produce "filth", says that most video gamers of any skill end up on death row, and attributes the deaths of three Alabama policemen and "a recent plethora of cop killings" to prior entries in the GTA series.
Sweet, merciful tap-dancing JESUS. He's haranguing an old lady, now. In case anyone was wondering just how low he'd stoop, there ya go.
Thompson and assholes like him really like to absolve people of personal responsibility. Sure, games are the culprit, brainwashing impressionable kids into doing things they wouldn't otherwise. That's why every single kid who's ever picked up a controller inevitably turns into a liquor-store-robbing mind-puppet without fail. Anyone who's ever played "Tetris" is obsessed with squeezing every last molecule of air out from in between the boxes at their warehouse-stocking job. Hell, to this DAY, I can't even pass a construction site without having to fight an uncontrollable urge to scale the girders, looking for the gorilla who stole my girlfriend. Fact is, you probably CAN find an X-Box 360 in the bedroom of the kid who shot his teacher. But you'll also find them in the rooms of millions of kids who DON'T. If a kid's so messed up in the head that he thinks this sort of thing is just dandy to do, then the video game is incidental. It's not even a catalyst. HE WAS PROBABLY GONNA DO IT ANYWAY. Escapism is escapism. I kill zombies on my TV so I don't HAVE to climb up on top of the clock tower with a high-powered rifle and start picking off coeds.
Jack Thompson is a racist, homophobic, Republican jagoff. And if he ever succeeds in actually getting rid of videogames, I think he'll truly and personally understand just how many people who used to be placated by SIMULATED violence might just start looking for him in order to open their now-frustrated steam valves and deliver a little of the real thing.
Dana Perino
White House Spokesperson and Presidential Press Secretary Dana Perino might just be the dumbest person to have an office in that entire building. And if you think about that for a second, you'll realize what a strong statement it is.
George W. Bush is, hands-down, the worst president we've ever had, or are ever likely to have. If he were any dumber, he'd have to be watered twice a day. But. If there's one thing I can say for the guy, it's that he's largely surrounded himself with intelligent people. Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Rove...None are the mental midgets he is. Are they evil, devious, short-sighted, greedy people who will stop at nothing to advance their narrow world-views and personal agendas? Yes. But they're not stupid. They pay attention. They couldn't so totally manipulate the system otherwise.
Even down to the position of Press Secretary, the appointees have usually been quick with spin, sharp as a tack when it came to making shit up on the spot, and possessed of enough grey matter to toe the party line and largely at least appear up to the task of pulling the wool over the eyes of the press pool. Ari Fleischer, Scott McClellan, and even Tony Snow were glib, silver-tongued, and could lie with a straight face and a square jaw. They were full of shit, but at least they were able to convince us that THEY believed what they were saying. Even so, lying for a shameless administration takes its toll after awhile, and each of these guys has lasted an average of two years before bailing on the post, ostensibly to "spend more time with their families." Which I'm really starting to believe is code for "attempt to live down the shame of the horrible things I've done."
Which brings us to Dana Perino, the last-gasp mouthpiece of a blighted, tarnished, corrupted lame-duck administration, shoved into the post simply because someone has to fucking do it. Problem is, it's patently obvious that nobody in the White House gives much of a shit anymore, because she's about as good at her job as Stephen Hawking would be at breakdancing.
In 2006 (after the mid-term elections that put the Democrats in control of Congress again), the press pool seemed to pull off the gloves, and use the new-found dexterity that maneuver provided to once again locate their testicles. They stopped lobbing softball questions at administration officials, and started demanding some accountability, because they knew they had some bench strength and didn't have to be nice anymore. Snow handled this with the usual bullshit aplomb before exiting, stage right even. But rather than spin elaborate webs of deceitful rhetoric, his replacement Perino hems, haws and stalls when she comes up against something she can't effectively process. "I don't know", "That information is not available", and "We're still gathering the facts" have become her stock fall-back lines. Granted, this sort of "I don't recall" smoke-screening isn't exactly new to the GOP. A direct through-line of exactly this sort of crap runs from Ronald Reagan and Ollie North directly down to Alberto Gonzales and Gen. David Petraeus. But maybe I just expect more out of the position of the Press Secretary. After all, these other officials have whole other jobs to do. Titles and offices. Not as though they get a pass on the bullshit, but their usual duties have little or nothing to do with addressing the public, and their responses come when they're put on the spot in venues they're unfamiliar with. Her whole fucking JOB is to answer questions, be direct, thorough, and succinct, and not crack under pressure. To know enough about policy, current events and history that she can at least SOUND like she knows what the fuck she's talking about.
And how's THAT working out?
On a recent appearance on National Public Radio, Perino was being asked about her policy experience, and the rigors of her much-maligned position. Apropos of not much, she dropped her guard and let THIS nugget slip: “I was panicked a bit because I really don’t know about the Cuban Missile Crisis,” said Perino, who at 35 was born about a decade after the 1962 U.S.-Soviet nuclear showdown. “It had to do with Cuba and missiles, I’m pretty sure.” So she consulted her best source. “I came home and I asked my husband,” she recalled. “I said, ‘Wasn’t that like the Bay of Pigs thing?’ And he said, ‘Oh, Dana.’”
This. Is. A. Vetted. Administration. Official. And she doesn't even know what the goddamned Cuban Missile Crisis was. Fuck, it's just dawning on me that she apparently isn't aware of something called "Google" either, if she waited until she got home to ask her husband about it. I simply don't have the words.
Then, not long after, she was asked during a press conference what, if anything, the administration planned to do about the economy, being as under its ever-so-able tutelage, gas prices have risen 500% after remaining static for decades, and the dollar is at its least-valuable EVER, even adjusted for constant values. People want and deserve answers.
The exchange went thusly:
Q: I’d like to follow up on their refusal to talk about the dollar, if I could. I mean, we’re in a kind of a bad situation here, when OPEC says the reason for $105 or $106 a barrel of oil is the falling value of the dollar — and you won’t address that issue. Where do we go to find out who is right?
MS. PERINO: Well, as he just said, the Treasury Secretary is where you go to talk about the dollar. It’s a longstanding policy that predates this administration, and I’m not going to change it today. But Treasury can talk about it.
Q: I don’t expect you to change it, but I do expect you to be able to say whether OPEC is completely wrong about this, or whether there is at least something to their claim that the dollar is responsible for the high price of oil right now.
MS. PERINO: Wendell, I’m under strict instructions, and have been from the beginning, to not talk about the dollar, and I’m not going to get fired to satisfy your question.
So, let me get this straight: Your whole job is to be the spokesperson for the administration. To answer questions about policy for the press so that they can then disseminate it to our newspapers and television channels and magazines in order that we might stay informed of the affairs affecting our country and the world at large. In essence, to boil down any piece of policy anyone might need to know about to a concise, easy-to-understand sound-bite so we can all get an iceberg-tip-view of just what in the bloody hell is going so wrong. We live in an environment where foreclosures are rampant, people are selling off family heirlooms to feed their kids even as they let the bills go, unemployment is staring down the barrel of a double-digit climb, our money isn't worth the paper its printed on and the best you can do is refer us to the motherfucking TREASURY SECRETARY?!?
I'm sorry...But fuck you. People want and deserve answers, and whoever has your job is the person that's supposed to deliver them, based on the whole of administration policy. But you're going to stand there with your naked face hanging out and pass the literal buck to a person that nobody outside the building (and likely as not, many INSIDE of it) couldn't reliably name at gunpoint? Is ANYBODY in this administration capable of accepting responsibility for ANYTHING?!?
However, administration winding down or not, she's still trudging dumbly along, freaking out and fucking up every chance she gets, and acting like a spoiled infant in the process. Watch this question, asked by a guy who she reportedly didn't mean to call on because he's not one of the few loyal toadies left that still go easy on them, and check out her response. Make sure you turn up your speakers for her petulant little exit pout as she steps off the podium, totally defeated:
"What the hell," indeed. Dana Perino: Mature, collected, and responsible. Just like the rest of her friends in the West Wing.
And the winner is:
Jack Fucking Thompson.
Jack Thompson is everything that's wrong with America. He's narrow-minded, pushy, intolerant, bigoted, sanctimonious, and stupid. We're adults. We've grown up. Our games had to, too. And just because YOU don't like it, that doesn't mean I don't get to play it. So shove your "I-know-what's-best-for-you" attitude sideways up your tight, dry little shit-chute, you fucking prig. Games are fun. You're just a dick. Lighten up, or the next guy to get run over, then get beaten with a tire iron and have his wallet taken just might be you.
And I hope when your head clears and the blood drains from your eyes, you look up to see that the hand holding the iron belongs to Janet Reno.
Lord knows that a childhood full of targeting wood balls through elevated holes leads to a high murder rate and meth use. Look at the high number of ski-ball users in the Gary, IN area.
Its about time someone stepped up, and again the south have proven once again how they are at the cutting edge of safety in the scary post 9/11 world, where we all fear for our lives daily from random attacks from suicide bombers.
Say, just yesterday i got in a cab driven by a guy from Somalia. Do you know what they did to those pilots in Black Hawk Down? I was so scared I didn't even tip him.
Its about time we dealt with the real issues in this country, children starting gambling problems by spending hard earned quarters for so called "tickets" to buy plastic army men with those cool little parachutes. Where does it end America?
Thats right, with your baby dying from a suicide bomber because Johnny Bluestate voted for Obama.
By Merton Sussex, Presumptive Curmudgeon Party Nominee
All right, STOP, investigate, take action. Merton's back with a brand-new distraction. It's Monday, and that means one thing here at the Diary: It's time to shave Reno's back.
Okay, it actually means TWO things. Posterior deforestation, and crotch-sockery. So, even though there's been no previous adieu, we'll have none further. Just the...
And who are our nominees? Behold!
Flavor Flav
Flavor Flav is inarguably the best "hype man" in the business. Which, when you think about it, is kind of like being the valedictorian of the "special school."
The erstwhile William Drayton Jr. earns a spot on this week's roster for one reason and one reason only: With the possible exception of certain vacuous, skin-bag heresses who shall remain nameless, there is quite possibly not a single more useless human being currently consuming resources anywhere on the face of the earth. When you find occasion to think about it...What have been his contributions to the popular culture? Well, let's see...He stood behind Chuck D., admittedly a great political voice and social motivator, and punctuated some reasonably astute, timely rhetoric with pop-eyed mugging and exclamatory nonsense phrases rendered in a gravelly pastiche/patois of street slang and downright gibberish. In terms of his relevance to the overall Public Enemy group as a whole, this puts him somewhere ahead of Linda McCartney's one-note keyboard solos in Wings, and that guy who skanked in front of the horns in the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
Still, if that had been it, fine. Being a vestigal musical appendage is mostly-inoffensive, and hardly unprecedented. But of course, he didn't stop there.
After several years out of the spotlight, Flav re-emerged, looking much the worse for the wear, on VH1's "The Surreal Life"; Literally a reality show starring exclusively has-beens. It got a lot of press, largely for Flav's against-all-odds romantic pairing with Brigitte "Red Sonja" Nielsen, herself a FAR past her sell-by-date popular culture pseudo-icon. I never watched it, and I'm glad I didn't. I imagine that any (gag) "love" scenes the viewer was subjected to looked something like a ceramic lawn jockey rhythmically slamming against a side of beef in a fright wig. I haven't the words.
Naturally, because of the morbid curiosity, ratings were good enough to give those two a show of their own ("Strange Love") once their "surreal" run was over with. And when that didn't fly, "Flavor of Love" and its subsequent iterations were born, in which Flavor, looking ever more like a naked, dessicated mummy, attempted to put the moves on a house full of women who looked like they collectively had more crabs than Cape Cod in August. Of course, from THAT spun off "I Love New York", in which one of Flavor's rejects got a room full of empty-headed bodybuilders to molest, until she had used them all up and wrung out what passed for their souls in alphabetical order. Much like herpes, the evil of Flav's "influence" in the medium of television keeps getting passed along from host to host, and there seems to be no cure for the flare-ups.
Flav's latest assault on the public's consciousness is "Under One Roof," a low-rent superstation cable series in which he plays "Cali Cal," a washed-up ex-rapper with no fashion sense who wears gaudy jewelry, and says his own name a lot. Nice to see him stretching his wings a little. And here I was afraid he'd get typecast.
Of course, no dissection of the tissue-thin character of Flavor Flav would be complete without mentioning his genetic legacy. Nobody really knows for sure just how many bastard kids he has, nor by how many different mothers, but it's rumored to be in the double digits on both counts. Of course, he supports all of these li'l ninjas, right? Sure, if by "supports" you mean, "fights against supporting tooth and nail while dodging court orders and refusing to submit to DNA testing that might prove they're his." At last estimate, he was spending more on custom grills in a month than he was supporting his children. I'm honestly surprised he found that many female carbon-based lifeforms willing to do the nasty with his bony ass in the first place, but either way...It certainly underscores the ironic humor of spending three (and counting) television seasons putting him in a giant house full of women all attempting to be the next.
Not that it's HIS fault, right? Right.
Rep. Douglas Bruce
Some people are such unapologetic scrotum-sniffing fuck-tards that it's quite literally difficult to believe they reached adulthood without being tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a rail. Rep. Douglas Bruce (Republican, Colorado State House of Representatives) makes these people look like birthday party clowns in contrast.
Rep. Bruce first attained semi-national notoriety when he threw a tantrum and kicked a press photographer...at his swearing-in. Apparently, Bruce thought himself so important that he wanted to take his oath during the full assembly. When he was told he would be sworn in on an individual basis just like everyone else, he acted like any simpering baby who didn't get his way would: He lashed out at anyone convenient. In this case, it was a newspaper cameraman who was just trying to get a shot of Bruce for the next day's edition. He was sitting on the floor in front of Bruce, shooting up at him, so as not to obscure his view of the dais during a prayer service. Apparently he got too close, because Bruce bent over, jowls quavering, and told the guy to back off. When the photographer didn't, Bruce figured he was well within his rights to lift up his shiny, expensive little shoe, and stomp on the guys bent knee. Totally reasonable. Might have gone unnoticed, too, had CBS4 Denver's cameras not caught the whole thing.
Watch the video by clicking here. (Opens in a new window.)
Well...Looks like he got his career off to a stellar start. What's he done since? Funny you should ask!
Recently, Bruce was recognized by the assembly during debate on a HB-1325, bill that would allow the state to help immigrant workers get temporary federal visas. Colorado has a healthy agricultural community, but of course Caucasian people are FAR too good to sully their tender, lily-white hands doing anything so common as FARM work. So, at least Colorado was being pragmatic, and had proposed legislature that would allow hardworking persons of non-native birth to NOT GET ACTIVELY DEPORTED FOR HELPING TO FEED EVERYONE. Makes sense to me. But, of course, Brucie-poo, being from the Right side of the aisle, can only see the great sombrero-wearing, Lou-Dobbs-approved Mexican Menace bearing down on us like a bean-eating tornado of horror. And it goes without saying to ANY bigot that regardless of the implications, it cannot stand.
So, what does he do? Naturally, he opposes the bill. But not by falling back on the standard GOP party line, and parroting empty epithets about "American jobs" or "preserving border sanctity" (which have ALWAYS struck me as funny coming from ANYONE whose last name isn't a combination of an action verb and an animal). Nah, he went right for the jugular. During an actual assembly of the state house, while he was recognized as having the floor, he said, and I quote:
"I would like to have the opportunity to state at the microphone why I don't think we need 5,000 more illiterate peasants in Colorado."
Unbelievable? Well, there's video of THAT, too.
Wow. Just...Wow.
Look, maybe instead of nut-punching this anal fissure, he should get a medal. After all, the Right so often tries to obscure their elitism, their racism, their intolerance and bigotry behind politically-correct smokescreens of circular speech. So, it's rare when one guy has the testicular fortitude to actually up and SAY what the rest of them THINK...And I guess that kinda helps pull the curtain back on the wizard a little. Exposes the machinery, and lets people see how wrong is the Right. I'd like to think that for every Republican scandal that breaks, a few more leftists are born. That's probably terribly naïve, but hey. The poll numbers do help keep me warm at night.
No matter what, this piece of shit really needs to get his priorities straight. He doesn't look to me like he misses too many meals. Maybe it'd do him a little good to think for a minute where they come from.
Rush Limbaugh
Rush Limbaugh is a dick. Let's just get THAT shit out of the way right upfront. Few shit-birds in recorded history have embodied such a hilariously despicable melange of ego, volume, bluster, hypocrisy, and downright wrong-headedness. The guy called for ludicrously harsh sentences for drug abusers until it was revealed that he gobbled more Oxycontin than the entire goddamned Appalachian basin, at which point he whined about victimhood and understanding. He dodged the Vietnam draft by whimpering that he had a pilonidal cyst, which - look it up - is really little more than an ingrown ass-hair. When Michael J. Fox appeared in a campaign ad for pro-stem-cell-research Missouri Democratic congressional candidate Claire McCaskill, openly suffering the tremors of Parkinson's while asking voters to send a candidate to congress that wouldn't prohibit medical research that could save lives and cure chronic diseases, Limbaugh openly mocked Fox on his radio show, visibly faking a seizure on the video feed while accusing Fox of deliberately going off his meds to provide a better, more pathetic spectacle. And, of course, he's been a reliable GOP mouth-puppet for every backward, asinine, nation-crippling policy the Right has claimed as their own since long before anyone paid any attention. Without Rush Limbaugh and his particular brand of blowhard punditry, there'd be no Bill O'Reilly, no Sean Hannity, and no Ann "The Man" Coulter. Make no mistake: Rush Limbaugh is a horrible, detestable, infuriating excuse for a human being. He is lower than beetle shit. This "legacy" alone would be enough to make him a permanent fixture in the sack-knock race, even if hadn't pulled some more shit last week.
In case you haven't heard, Rush is no fan of the Democrats. No, sir...Not at all. In fact, he hates them so much that on his radio show last week, he expressed some desires as to what he, in his heart of hearts, would like to see happen at their convention in Denver this summer. And, not to put too fine a point on it, what he wants to see is rioting.
Limbaugh has put out the call to his listeners. He has made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that they ought to do whatever they can to incite riots in and around Denver this year, in an attempt to expose the Democrats for the animals they are, and therefore ultimately cost them the election. So terrified is he of the inevitable prospect of a Democratic landslide in November that he has literally told his base to set the Mile-High City on fire the last week of August. He even has a cute little name for it: "Operation Chaos."
"If there were riots in Denver, the Democrat Convention would see to it that we don’t elect Democrats. And that's the best damn thing that could happen for this country as far as anything I could think of....We don't riot. We don't burn our cars. We don't burn down our houses. We don't kill our children. We don't do half the things the American left does"
Naturally, Limbaugh was called on his incitement, even by some of his own listeners. So, by way of clarification, Limbaugh later said, "I am not inspiring or inciting riots, I am only dreaming of riots in Denver." So, he's not trying to PROVOKE it, or INCITE it, certainly. Heavens no! It's just that when he goes home at night to his lonely, empty McMansion, peels off his Brooks Brothers-knockoff suit, pounds back half a bottle of Hydrocodone and starts fumbling around among his pudgy, musty folds for the withered cock he hasn't seen in thirty years in order to rub one out before he goes to bed, violence, burning cars, and civil unrest at the opposing party's convention is just what he squeezes his eyes shut and fantasizes about because it's what he really, really wants. Really.
Gee...That makes ME feel better, how about you?
Y'know, recently, at a press dinner, Dick "Dick" Cheney tried his gnarled, age-spotted hand at a bit of stand-up comedy. He made some joke about inviting Hillary Clinton to go hunting with him. Of course, the place roared. Ha, ha! Funny Joke! Of course, if you or I made a wisecrack about taking a shot at a sitting senator and presidential candidate, the Secret Service would be so far up our ass we'd be able to taste their shampoo faster than you can say "Gitmo." So, inciting riots? Making blithe references to shooting senators? Wiretapping your neighbors with no warrant? No matter WHAT felony you'd like to commit, you'd better be a Republican! Because it's not illegal when THEY do it!
And, your winner:
Douglas Fucking Bruce.
Usually, when even the most ardently cold-hearted Republican is asked to defend his hard, hate-filled nougat center, he or she will backpedal, and spin. They obfuscate, rephrase, deny and lie...Whatever it takes to at least give the APPEARANCE that they don't fellate Satan on a regular basis. In the wake of the above-mentioned call to arms, Even career scum-suck Rush Limbaugh tried to say, "I'm not provoking, just squinching my eyes shut and wishing really hard." But not Bruce. He stands by his void-skulled hate speech! When confronted by TV reporters about his open prejudice, he had THIS to say:
"We bring 'em here to do agricultural work on the land, which is what the definition of a peasant IS. Look it up. We're not talking about people who are highly-trained. We're talking about people at the other end of the educational spectrum. And they're generally called illiterate." Of course, the Democrats in the Colorado house are calling for reprimand. Hell, the kicking incident noted above got him a censure - the toughest punishment ever doled out by the body. Surely open racism on the floor ought to be good for SOMETHING. I mean, Christ...When questioned, Bruce's own party majority leader Mike May was quoted as saying: "We've kind of gotten...used to Representative Bruce's antics, but today, I think it startled everyone that even he would sink that low." See the video here.
News flash, douche: When even other REPUBLICANS hate you? It might just be time to hit up your local chapter of Assholes Anonymous. So, congratulations, Bruce. The coveted sack-smack is yours. And, being as you clearly have balls the size of Volkswagens, that ought to be relatively easy to pull off even from a good twenty paces. So, I'll see you at the convention in St. Paul!
Whoops! Better be careful! I guess I'd better say I'll just DREAM about it.
In a world where movies are nothing like real life, this news is refreshing. News like this makes Hollywood stand up, remove the coked-up stripper from their lap and say "See, we told you so!"
Without giving away too much, because we here at Diary of Fools need you to just go on and read this amazing story, let's recap what it entails.
Witchcraft, Hilarious quotes, Shrinking or Missing Penises.
"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)
hilarious escape attempt after another foiled by the stern but comically fumbling Col. Klink and his band of Keystone Nazis. But secondly, it has also taught me that in order to live a full, happy, adventure-filled life, there is only one way to go about it... by contracting genital herpes.
And from that point on, I swore to myself that I would spend every waking hour sticking my ween into any orifice willing to accept it until I contracted genital herpes, and consequently, found true happiness.
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