The Truth, Man—Like It Or Not! Guess what? This is our second to last column. It’s true. Musty, Tokugawa, the girls at Ladybombescorts.com, and I are ending this particular circus. We’re taking the tent down and packing up for another show in another place. Happy trails to you until we meet again. And yes, we did sell the cotton candy machine. It wasn’t about the money. I just can’t tell you how much I hated that fucking cotton candy machine.
A.) Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, pally. Next. B.) Yep, “Tough titty,” said the kitty when the milk was gone. C.) You’re moving to Hollywood to do the Giddyup Vagina flick, aren’t you?
Everybody Is A Star! Very cool to see Sly Stone onstage at last week’s Grammy show. Hey, and it’s always solid entertainment when Paul McCartney hits the stage. Many years ago, he was in a rock group called the Beatles. Sir Paul sang Charlie Manson’s theme song, Helter Skelter, and then later in the show mashed up “Yesterday” with some hip-hop guys. McCartney, sans guitar or piano, came off like a British Barry Manilow.
A.) My gaydar almost went off. B.) How dare you, scumbag? Leave, goodbye! Macca forever! C.) What a coincidence, I’m downloading the new Barry Manilow album onto my iPod. Manilow rocks!
Dance, Sinners—Dance! Since Nick Lachey’s split with wife Jessica Simpson, the dude’s been banging chicks left and right, even though we’ve never been sure what ‘left and right’ means in that sexual context.
A.) It means he gets in a day what you get in a year. B.) It means he sticks his wiener into two girls, one on each side, when he makes sex. C) Go ahead and laugh, ha, ha, but guess who’s hiding the salami in Simpson now? That’s right, fuckers—me.
Ball of Confusion 2006! Unless they can add a couple of hours to a day and then give it away for free, satellite radio can kiss our ass. That’s right, I have spoken. Stern, Oprah, Martha, blah blah…who fucking cares--I mean, really. You have AM, FM, CDs, cassettes, TV, DVDs—will the motherfuckers never cease? I think we have enough crap for awhile, okay? Everybody get a grip. There’s a thing called silence that won’t kill you for two fucking minutes either, for fuck’s sake.
A.) Whoa, I smell a meltdown—oops, nope. Dog poop again, fuck. B.) Can’t read the column right now, sorry. I’m downloading every song ever recorded in the 60s onto my new iPod. C.) I’m bored.
Spotlight on Plastic! After a two year separation, the matchmakers at Mattel are putting overpriced toy dolls Ken and Barbie back together again. Ken is much hipper now with his motorcycle jacket, cargo pants, and new plastic penis. Barbie? Oh, you know--she’s still a bitch.
A.) I use an old Ken doll as an antenna for my satellite radio. B.) A plastic penis? Those freaks will give Barbie a vagina next, watch. Then the world will end, we’re all going to die and go to hell. C.) Chick peas and garbanzo beans are the same thing, right? What? Oh, sorry.
The Chick That Killed Bill! Ultimate hot chick Uma Thurman has been named a Knight of Arts and Letters in France by some French bigwig who probably got some of that for naming her that.
A.) Uma magnifique! B.) Uma fantastique! C.) I remember when we called French Fries “freedom fries.” That was fun.
Look Out! Killer Lunch! HAMAS is a devious terrorist group and they’ve been in the headlines a lot lately, but whenever I see a headline or hear their name, like most sophisticated Americans I think of hummus—you know that chick pea stuff. That shit is the bomb. Delicious. On pita bread, or right off a spoon, I am all over the hummus.
A.) HAMAS was formed in 1987. B.) Hummus has been a Mediterranean staple since 1200. C) I wonder if HAMAS eats hummus.
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