Lady Bomb Escorts

2006-07-21T17:12:00.001-04:00

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Where's Lyzako?
LADY BOMB
ESCORTS BUSTED!!!
Cops also looking for Marty Sherman

FERNDALE, Michigan, July 21 ... Eight hot prostitutes and rap star Blackosis were arrested last night for suspicion of prostitution. Detectives are looking for the man they believe to be their boss, Art Lyzak, a so-called writer who claims the whores, Lady Bomb Escorts, are merely fictional characters.

Lieutenant Gerald Frenzer told reporters: "I'll tell you who the character is - that fucking clown Lyzak ... he's pimping these girls and making a fortune doing it. Fiction, my ass ... that's not writing, that's goddamn internet stupidity - that's all it is. He's a hooker salesman, plain and simple. That man is guilty as the day I was born ... or whatever that saying is."

Frenzer believes Lyzak is hiding out with friends - though he finds it hard to believe he has any.

"Nah. He's a millionaire goofball - in the right place, right time ... ," the Lieutenant explained. "Wrote a two-bit column for an entertainment rag then used his juice to lure lithe young things to a life of putting penis in their mouths and vaginas."

Police would also like to speak with legendary Hollywood comedian, Marty Sherman, in connection with the disappearance of his wife Jackie. After moving to Detroit to blog, Sherman won the hearts and belly laughs of the blogosphere with his spot-on blogwork.

"That guy's not wrapped too tight either," Frenzer said. "He's an alcoholic, like the other guy and he recently blogged that he murdered his wife and ate her ... funny stuff, right? He's looney tunes and may have really killed her ... we want to talk with him."

Neither man can be found.

The girls are still in police custody; Blackosis was released this morning.

A.) Crack?
B.) Check.
A.) Bics?
C.) Yepper.
A.) Labatt?
B.) Uh huh.
A.) Chips and dip?
C.) Of course.
A.) Condo ... wait a minute - did a dumb ass write something?
B.) What? I'll look ... yes. Dammit.
A.) What's it about?
B.) A big bust.
C.) I'm an ass man, myself ...
A.) Ha, ha, ha - good enough, we're done.

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2006-07-21T13:08:00.000-04:00

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BREAKING NEWS... BREAKING NEWS...
FIDEL CASTRO DEAD
Groundbreaking Blog to Follow?

After hearing rumors for a week now that Cuban leader Fidel Castro died, I decided to do a little journalistic investigation of my own.

Attempts to phone the bearded dictator proved fruitless, but when I emailed fidel@castro.com I received the following automated out-of-office reply:

"As of July 15, 2006, I am no longer alive and any future email should be sent to fidelsbrother@castro.com . Sincerely, F.C."

Well, there you have it. Proof positive that there will be change in the tiny island country that has kept Communism alive in America’s backyard for so long while continuing to make the best cigars in the world. And don’t forget the pressed ham-and-cheese sandwiches and mojitos that have become popular here thanks to the arrival of thousands upon thousands of Cuban refugees.

Mmmm, pressed ham-and-cheese sandwiches...mojitos...lunchtime...my stomach’s rumbling...
Where was I? Oh, right. Dead Castro.

That reminds me...

Our weekly development meeting at the Bomb didn’t go so well this week for yours truly, my friends. It seems that Marty Sherman may no longer be welcome to contribute here. I was told that there’s a lot of big changes coming to the blog and the editor is shutting down for a month to gear up for the grand re-opening in September.

It wasn’t said in so many words, but I can read between the lines.

According to the boss, they need more "hip, cutting-edge stories" and more "structure" to the blog. Right, like that’s going to make a difference. I write from my gut, dear readers. My fucking gut. The process is painful to me, but I give it every ounce of energy I have in me and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to pander to a bunch of snot-nosed twenty-somethings just so the famous Lyzako can sell advertising and cheap merchandise.

All I know is I’m gonna enjoy the time off. I’ve already contacted the unemployment office (this is the first real job I’ve had since I was a bus-boy at the Coffee Manor when I was sixteen) and in two weeks I’ll have a cool $150 a week coming in while I sit on my dead ass and contemplate my navel. And my next move.

It’s going to be big. The next move, that is. You’ll see you bastards.

A.) I hope he moves to Cuba.
B.) Cuba’s not far enough away as far as I’m concerned.
C.) Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.

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2006-07-20T13:52:00.003-04:00

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LAST DAY THIS FRIDAY:
Writer Excited
About Upcoming Break
'I can't fucking wait,' Lyzako admits

MIAMI BEACH, July 21 ... After five months of almost daily blogging, blogging, blogging, and entertaining the blogosphere with hundreds of billions of laughs and smiles, Art Lyzak AKA Lyzako, will take a much-needed vacation from his wildly popular Lady Bomb Escorts blog. The mess will return in September.

"I'm married now - and pimping hookers, looking out for cops, and writing about it is getting to be a drag," the handsome 55-year-old writer admitted. "My wife, Christine, wants me totally out of the whore business - maybe she's right, I don't know ... "

Lady Bomb Escorts began in 1999 as a fictional shtick for Realisms, a column Lyzak wrote for Real Detroit Weekly until March of this year. Lady Bomb soon became an actual prostitution racket.

"When I introduced the LBE device to Realisms in 1999, a couple of hot chick readers emailed and asked if I needed escorts ... I played along, we had a few drinks, I took them to a cheap hotel, banged them hard - I was single then - and started whoring them out. Go figure."

Selling sex proved to be incredibly lucrative for the talented, lucky Polack. With houses in Malibu, Miami, and Ferndale, Lyzak says he has more money than he knows what to do with.

"I have more money than I know what to do with."

He left Real Detroit Weekly earlier this year because they wouldn't cough up a well-deserved, couple buck raise. "I was going to goof on them with a boatload of snark right here - I had some funny fucking lines, trust me - but decided to take the high road instead: I wish the paper terrific success."

The writer immediately started Lady Bomb Escorts dotcom with the help of Internet whiz Meg Geddes, and the musings of legendary Hollywood comedian, Marty Sherman.

Will Sherman be along for the ride when the laughs resume in September?

"I'm not sure," Lyzak shrugs. "He just did a hard-hitting seven chapter non-fiction piece for us (Murder Without Mystery - scroll down) - and admitted to murdering his wife. We're going to have to wait and see if the Detroit cops believe it or not. Sherman might do time, I don't know. She was a nice woman, his wife, Jackie."

While the writer claims the time off is long overdue, he won't be resting on his laurels - he doesn't know what the word means. But he does promise a bigger and better Bomb in mid-September.

"Well, we're getting 75 million hits a day now and I plan on doubling that at the new place. Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to turn off the computer for two weeks, cool out, and then turn the Godforsaken, monkeyonourbacks, thing-from-Hell back on and spend a month creating a much stronger product. In fact - a much fucking stronger product."

A.) Speaking of money, tell Lyzako I can use a bit more.
B.) Yeah, we have to write for Sherman, too. We should get more.
C.) Or Sherman should at least toss a few rocks our way like Lyzako does.
A.) Damn right. We're the funniest part of the blog.
B.) Fuck, yes - we are.
C.) We should stay in touch during this break, my letters.

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2006-07-20T10:09:00.000-04:00

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Chapter Seven

Three days went by with no news.

In the meantime, I had prepared the fresh meat with soy sauce, rolled it in cracked black pepper and dried it in the dehydrator according to the instructions for turkey jerky. The next day it would be done and I could start on another batch.

But I couldn’t make all of Jackie’s remains into jerky. I’d have to eat some of the meat prepared another way. Jackie’s family was Portuguese, and one of her favorite meals was a Brazilian dish called feijoada. She would be proud to be made into a nice pot of the meaty stew, I thought. So, I tossed the rest of her into the biggest stockpot I could find, along with some potatoes, carrots, onions, black beans, ham hocks, cumin, oregano, garlic and fresh parsley.

Four hours later I had enough food for the month. I portioned most of it into single-serving bags, carefully marked them as "special stew", dated them and tossed them into the freezer. The rest was my dinner all that week and I must say it was more than a little tasty. I hate to honk my own horn here, but I’ve always been a good cook. Jackie never was much in the kitchen department, so I learned to cook out of necessity.

That first week after, I took a few half-hearted stabs at writing for the blog every day, but nothing seemed to click. I never really felt funny because I was waiting for the first shoe to drop.
A couple of days ago it did.

I got a call from Jackie’s sister Amy about an hour before Detroit’s finest knocked on my door. I told her that I never saw Jackie that night and I was shocked to hear that she was missing. "Is there anything I can do?," I asked. She bought my act hook, line and sinker.

The cops weren’t much tougher to sell.

They told me that the Mustang was found stripped and abandoned on Belle Isle and that a local car thief was in custody. His fingerprints were everywhere in the car. They also told me that they needed to get a statement since, according to her sister, Jackie had been headed to my house at the time she disappeared. I complied.

The cops went on to say that two more suspects were in custody in connection to the case. They had been caught trying to buy gas with one of Jackie’s credit cards and the police were trying to tie them to the car thief as accomplices. Even without a body, they told me, they had a good chance to get a conviction on intent, if not actual homicide. And that meant serious jail time, they said.

Before leaving, they offered their condolences. No dropping of the second shoe, I guess.

Home free.

Epilogue

Well, that’s my story.

I never could bear to get rid of the tape. I know it’s evidence, but it’s also Jackie’s voice. I listen to it once in a while just to remind me of her. Funny thing, too...Since the divorce wasn’t final, I was still named as the beneficiary of her $1 million life insurance policy. I’m going to ride it out here for a year or so just to keep from arousing suspicion, but then I’m headed for the suburbs. I’m thinking Royal Oak or Birmingham. I might even move back to L.A.

Before you judge me, dear readers, I beg you to put yourselves in my place. Think you couldn’t do what I did? Don’t doubt yourselves for a minute, my friends. We all have the capability to kill inside of us. And you’ll never know when circumstances will call upon you to do it. Be ready.

Surviving makes you stronger. Trust me I know. Jackie and I have made peace with each other, and from now on, I’m kicking serious ass and taking mother-fucking names!

So, look for more on Beyonce next week! Also, "J-Lo says ‘No!’ to Lipo!" Meanwhile, "Brad Pitt kisses Angelina Jolie’s ass...AGAIN!!!!" and "Turkey Jerky Plays Well At Blog Office Party!"

A.) Do you think he realizes that he just confessed to murder?
B.) Shh! Maybe there’s a reward.
C.) Quick, call 9-1-1.

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2006-07-19T14:54:00.001-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1911

THINGS GO
BETTER WITH COCA!

We are starting a petition to force the Coca-Cola Company to use their old recipe of coca leaves and kola nuts for their soda drink. It was a far more refreshing beverage—an uplifting tonic, if you will—when it contained coca leaf in the last decade of the 19th century.

Unfortunately, it’s a mere sarsaparilla without it. Doctors afraid of “cocaine habits” and “cocainism” should tend to their own gardens.

A.) Ah, the 1890’s—those were the days.
B.) Can they make a sody pop with morphine?
C.) Poor Mayor Corridor, ‘twas the cocaine, the morphine, and Minnie Woodward what killed him.

20th Century Bomb: 1913

SORRY, LADIES ...
FOR GENTLEMEN ONLY!

Publisher Jefferson Gratiot is pleased as punch to announce the grand opening of a ‘gentlemen’s club’ exclusive to members of the Fellowship of the Lady Bomb. The nightly get together shall be hosted by Dorothy “Hot Buns” Rossetti. Prices begin at one dollar.

A.) One dollar? Sir, do I look like Rockefeller?
B.) One dollar? There’s goes this month’s Model T payment.
C.) One dollar? Why, I'd rather f**k a duck.

20th Century Bomb: 1928

'HEP' GENERATION
IS ‘TUNING IN'!

I don’t know if you have a radio yet but you have to get one. On this wonderful invention you can hear music and news and sporting events without having to buy a record. Me? All I listen to on the radio is jazz, jazz, jazz. My favorite is the great Negro singer & trumpeter Louie “Satchmo” Armstrong.

A.) Radio, shmadio—what’s wrong with talking with one another?
B.) A little reefer with your jazz is a kick, kiddo.
C.) And I say to myself ‘It’s a wonderful world.’

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2006-07-19T07:52:00.000-04:00

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Chapter Six

My back was aching from the effort of dismembering the body and my ribs and arm were still sore from the beating I had taken the night before, but I was fairly sure by then that nothing was broken and I’d be able to heal without a trip to the doctor.

Things were definitely looking up.

After a half-hour break and a couple of beers, I dove back into my work with renewed gusto. I hacked through the head with a pruning saw, scooped out Jackie’s brains and flushed them, too. I then got to work cutting up all the bones as small as possible. The bolt cutter saved lots of time and worked wonders on everything from fingers and toes to the forearm and some of the spine, but I had to saw through everything else and it took a while.

I used the pliers to pull her teeth and flushed them down the toilet. The channel locks were also useful for breaking up the skull along suture joints, so that it was eventually just a bunch of bone chips.

By 9 p.m. I had it licked. I randomly put the pile of bone pieces into a couple dozen trash bags, being careful to keep them very light, maybe only a pound or two each. I then double-bagged the lot and put them into two cardboard boxes. Tomorrow they would be at the bottom of Lake St. Clair. The pile of flesh was divided into quart- and gallon-sized freezer bags, most of which I dropped into the chest freezer that had been left in the basement by previous tenants.

After that I cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, but was surprised by how little blood I had got on anything outside the tub. Even if the cops eventually searched the place, it would be hard to detect anything out of the ordinary without a shit-load of equipment. I then swept up the glass from the living room floor, put my books back on shelves and made sure that there were no tell-tale Jackie fingerprints by wiping down everything that she could possibly have touched.

The remainder of the flesh was put in my refrigerator while I read the manual for that food dehydrator. You see I had made up my mind from the beginning that this wasn’t just my fault. No way. Jackie was at least as much responsible as I was, if not more. Did I come looking for her? No. Did I attack her with a bat? Fuck no. So I was determined that she should share in my guilt and my punishment. In order to do that, she had to be a part of me. I would make her that...a part of me. Jackie and I would become one.

I would eat her.

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2006-07-18T11:55:00.000-04:00

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Carmen Electra + Dave Navarro = Splitsville
‘Til death do us part? Yeah, right

Love? It’s for suckers, man. Proof? A writer is too busy to elaborate but look at the tears on the keyboard. They are the tears of a clown ... a dancing monkey.

Stick a spork into Dave Navarro and Carmen Electra - that's it, they're done. Cut. The End. Finis. They are separating “amicably” according to Electra's publicist (and peanut butter cup magnate) Brit Reece.

The beautiful couple is severing ties and moving on to bigger and better penis and vagina.

Electra is the former Baywatch star who has made a career out of being hot and that’s about it. She can’t act; she can't talk. Though we did see her walk and chew gum at the same time once.

She looks like the kind of dame you want to throw down on the bed and stick your shlong into as hard and fast as you can.

That’s a talent, a writer guesses.

Her soon-to-be ex-husband, Dave Navarro, has a storied past with Jane’s Addiction, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and heroin, and now hosts the CBS fake rock reality show Rock Star. He’s real good looking, too. In fact, while a writer is heterosexual, after some premium tequila he may pick Dave to be the hotter of the two. Maybe.

They met on a blind date, fell in love and - crazy kids that they were - turned their 2003 wedding into MTV's 'Til Death Do Us Part: Carmen & Dave.

But that was then ...

No one is saying why the pair is kaput, but Navarro is probably having too much fucking fun on his TV show, if you know what a writer means. There's more backstage action going down in one night over there than in all the porno you saw last year.

You know you're going to burn in hell for watching that stuff, right?

Anyway, Lou Rawls said "Love is a hurtin' thing." In this case it’s a celebrity thing – you don’t have to know or understand it, you just have to feel sad, and click on the little envelope at the end of this piece to send it to a friend.

Together, we can make it through this mess, trust me.

A.) Dave wears more make-up than Carmen.
B.) Ha, ha, ha, you got that right, Max Factor.
C.) His lipsticks are sublime, ha, ha, ha.
A.) That douchey Rock Star show is on tonight, isn't it?
B.) Yep, the piece of shit is on at 9pm.
C.) Pure garbage is all it is.
A.) Are you gonna watch it? I am.
B.) Of course, are you crazy?
C.) Shit yeah, I'd rather die than miss it.

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2006-07-18T07:31:00.000-04:00

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Chapter Five

Before I go any further, I feel the need to say a few things here by way of explanation...

Jackie and I had no kids. Not together, not from previous relationships. Her sister was her only living relative and they weren’t particularly close. She had few friends. All-in-all she wasn’t very well liked. I’m not rationalizing here, it’s just the way things were. She wouldn’t really be missed all that much.

And, despite various business ventures and my Sure-Jack Productions deal with Pat, I was pretty much broke. Losing money with Sure-Jack was a welcome tax write-off for Pat, but it had meant living near poverty level for me. The $150 in cash that I lifted from Jackie’s wallet was twice the balance of my checking account. Sad, I know, but true.

Sure, I felt bad for her. Who wouldn’t? But I couldn’t see how confessing and going to jail was going to do me any good either. Odds are, I’d never come out alive, and if I did, I’d be a broken man. So, by the two-wrongs-don’t-make-a-right rationale, I decided to get rid of her body. No body, no murder. End of story.

When I got back to the house, I carried Jackie into the bathroom, took off her clothes and carefully laid her in the tub with her head near the drain and her feet propped up. A quarter turn of the hot water tap produced a slow, steady stream of water. I went to the kitchen, put on a fresh set of gloves, started a pot of coffee and grabbed my Chef’s knife. It was already going on 9 o’clock.

Once back in the bathroom, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and made a slow, sure stroke across Jackie’s throat with the knife, being careful to keep the cut side away from my body in case any blood squirted out. I was surprised at how easily it sliced the flesh. All my knives had stayed much sharper since I started storing them on that magnetic strip I had installed on the wall near the stove.

Thirty bucks at Crate & Barrel sounded like a lot when I bought it, but it seemed like a pretty wise investment under the present circumstances.

Again, to my surprise, the blood didn’t squirt, but oozed towards the drain, mixing with the water. Before long I realized that hot water wasn’t such a good idea. The odor of the draining blood was intensified by the steam that began to rise from the tub after several minutes and I choked and gagged as I hovered over Jackie, struggling to turn off the hot tap and replace the stream with cold water. But once that was done, it was just a matter of waiting.

While Jackie drained, I poured a cup of coffee and headed to the garage for tools.

I found a pair of large bolt cutters, some channel locks, two or three types of hand saws and an old food dehydrator that I had bought at a garage sale just two weeks prior for 2 bucks. The Chef’s knife and a boning knife that I rarely used would round out the implements I’d need to finish the job. By the time I got back inside, she was pretty much dry and I spent a few minutes trying to figure out the best way to cut her up before diving in.

Jackie was in pretty good shape for her age...about five-five, one-thirty-or-so. And a lot leaner than two years ago, thanks to all of that liposuction I paid for. It really didn’t seem like it would be all that much work once I got started.

I stripped naked to keep from getting blood on any of my clothes, straddled Jackie’s body and began cutting strips of flesh away from the bone. When joints were exposed, I sawed carefully through them and slowly began assembling two piles of remains on either side of the tub...one, a stack of naked, grisly bones and the other, a limp, wet heap of flesh.

It was sweaty work and it took much longer than I thought it would, but by mid-afternoon I pretty much had the arms, legs and head removed and, along with the torso, stripped of flesh. I carefully cut into the stomach, trying not to puncture any of the internal organs, but a nick of the colon produced horrific odors to the point I thought I would have to stop. After wiping the sweat from my eyes, I steeled myself and went back to work, eventually getting used to the stench. It occurred to me that I hadn’t had to be so careful anyway, since I was planning on chopping the organs into pieces that were small enough to flush down the toilet.

It took another hour or so, but eventually liver, lungs, heart, kidneys, etc. had all been cut into flushable chunks.

An hour after that and they had all been sent straight to the Detroit River.

I checked the time. It was half-past five and I was ready for a drink.

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2006-07-17T08:45:00.001-04:00

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FLY ME TO THE MOON
Right and Left Hand Man to Ol' Blue Eyes

Bill Miller, pianist and conductor for Frank Sinatra for almost 50 years, died in Montreal last week from complications following a heart attack. The guy played on all of Frank’s greatest 60s and 70s sides. Like the singer, he could swing and then turn around and break your heart; Sinatra called him “my partner at the piano.”

Miller, born in Brooklyn in 1915, was 18-years-old when he started playing the big band scene with Larry Funk and his Band of a Thousand Melodies before moving on to stints with Joe Haymes and Red Norvo. It was after his tenure with Norvo in 1952 that Miller and Sinatra hooked up. Miller joined Frank on the road and in the studio and is most famous for his deft finger work on unforgettable recordings like One For My Baby, Lady is a Tramp, The Lonesome Road, and more classics than you can shake a martini at.

Their professional relationship made them friends. In 1969 when Miller lost his wife and house in a mudslide in the Los Angeles hills, Sinatra paid his hospital bills, bought him a new apartment, and helped the inconsolable musician resume a somewhat normal life. Onstage the singer nicknamed the pianist "Sunshine Charlie" – ironic, because like Sinatra, Miller dug the night time and rarely saw daylight.

When Sinatra died of a heart attack in 1998 at age 82, Miller played One for My Baby at the funeral and eventually ended up working with Frank Sinatra Jr.’s orchestra until two weeks ago when he fell and broke his hip while touring with Junior in Canada.

The heart attack followed soon after. There were complications.

The last thing the pianist said as he was wheeled into the operating room was “Fly me to the moon.”

Bill Miller was 91-years-old.

A.) I understand Nat King Cole was a great influence on him.
B.) 91-years-old and still playing onstage ... bravo.
C.) I hate goddamn Mondays.

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WARNING - Do Not Click:

FIVE GODLESS
MONDAY LINKS
YOU DON'T NEED

1.....81-Year-old grandma stabbed, strangled, and stuffed in closet.
2.....Justin Timberlake and his secret drugs.
3.....Marisol Bello writes about a "pungent odor akin to rotting flesh mixed with manure."
4.....Oh fuck, I think I'm gonna puke.
5.....Eminem allegedly beats on an old guy at a titty bar.

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2006-07-17T08:45:00.000-04:00

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aries
March 21 - April 19
I feel your pain this week, Aries. I know it's bad. Unfortunately, you'll be feeling it a lot more than I do and I strongly recommend self-medicating with your recreational drug of choice. Lucky malt liquor: Colt 45

taurus
April 20 - May 20
Unlucky in love this week, Taurus. Sorry, but that's what it says. No matter how smoothly things have been going with the old ball-and-chain, it's about to get dicey. An unwanted pregnancy followed by a botched abortion could be the straw that break's the alcoholic camel's back . Drink until you turn yellow. Lucky color: yellow

gemini
May 21 - June 21
Take nothing for granted, Gemini. Even if you are my favorite sign, the sweet life can be over just like that (snapping of fingers). And there's going to be a lot of you finding that out this week. The stars are saying bad financial news, repossession and eventual bankruptcy. Hey what can I say? It's in the fucking stars. No lucky numbers this week.

cancer
June 22 - July 22
Ah, Cancer. Next to Gemini, you're my favorite sign. Unfortunately I don't have much good news for you this week, either. If you're a user, you might want to find a new supplier. Your guy is cutting it with some dangerous shit. Lucky numbers: 10cc

leo
July 23 - August 22
Yo, Leo. Why can't you listen up when I'm giving you good advice? I've told you time and again to watch your temper, maybe even take an anger management class. Did you listen? Of course not. Well, this week it gets the best of you. I see a bloody barfight followed by jail time. Lucky shot: Dewar's, neat

virgo
August 23 - September 22
Half way through with my astrological chores for the week and I look down and see your chart, my Virgo friend. I was encouraged at first when I saw that there would be transition for you this week, but then I realized it meant from this earthly life to the beyond. Have a nice trip. Lucky prayer: Hail Mary

libra
September 23 - October 22
I have been pretty vague with your horoscope in the past month or so, Libra, but that's because the stars haven't been telling me shit about you. Unfortunately, that means I have to make something up just to move this whole dog-and-pony show on. I just can't think of anything right now. I'll wish you luck, but...No lucky numbers.

scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Okay, Scorpio, after waiting for two weeks I owe you a doozy of a prediction for this week. Here it is: by the end of the week all of your mother-fucking problems will be solved. And I mean ALL of them. That's right, you lucky shit...no more worries, anxiety or fear. Too bad it also means no more eating, breathing and having sex. Lucky roll: egg

sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
I believe in you, Sagittarius, even if those closest to you have deserted you. Your spouse has abandoned you when you needed him / her the most, and nothing feels worse, I know. Nothing except maybe a knife stuck in their back, instead of yours. And in this case, I mean literally, not figuratively. Get a knife and stab the prick / bitch. Lucky getaway car: Pontiac Sunbird

capricorn
December 22 - January 19
I can't believe I wasn't deluged with complaints about addressing you last week as Cancer, Capricorn. Just goes to show that as a group, your astrological sign isn't all that bright. You're a friggin' Capricorn, okay? Not a Cancer! I hope you followed my advice last week, though. That part was right on. No lucky anything.

aquarius
January 20 - February 18
Okay, Aquarius. I give up. You win. Go ahead and ruin your life. You know that having an affair with your best friend's boyfriend / girlfriend isn't a good idea, but you're proceeding anyway. Just know this: best friends can be psychos, too, and they can fuck you up good if they find out. Lucky position: doggy-style anal

pisces
February 19 - March 20
What's shakin' this week, my Pisces friend? Not much, you say? Well, hold on to your hat because by the end of the week there'll be a whole lotta shakin' goin' on. So much so that you'll feel like you survived the San Francisco earthquake. Which one, you ask? Okay, just for that, you won't survive. No lucky numbers... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)

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2006-07-14T15:43:00.000-04:00

Chapter Four
Without calling in help from a forensic pathologist, I couldn’t really be sure how Jackie had died. I guessed that she either hit her head during our struggle or I choked her...maybe a combination of both. It didn’t really matter, as I saw it. She was dead and my goose would be cooked either way.

Even though the tape had evidence of me acting in self-defense, they’d pin a manslaughter charge on me for sure at the very least. I’d be found guilty and I’d do time. What good would that do? I asked myself. Would it bring Jackie back? No. And I was no killer, in spite of what had just happened.

I looked at the clock again: 7:05. I’d have to hurry.

I went to the kitchen and put on some vinyl gloves that I use when I’m cooking. You know, to cut up hot peppers and stuff without getting anything on my hands. It’s a bitch if you get pepper juice on your hands then take a piss. Very painful. I went back to the living room and did a quick visual survey.

Her hand bag was on the floor near the body and I searched the contents for a hotel key or rental car key. If she had come by cab, I was sunk. Lo and behold, there it was...Hertz had put her in the driver’s seat and I began to have some hope.

I dumped the entire contents of her purse on the dining room table: two pairs of sunglasses, a wallet with over $300 cash and a hefty stack of credit cards in it, lipsticks, eye makeup, house keys, gum, mints, a couple of ink pens, airplane tickets and her cell phone. I picked up the phone, unlocked the keys and checked her call log. It looked like the last call she had made was to her sister in L.A. around 11:30 the night before. A quick check of her plane ticket showed that was around the time of her scheduled arrival at Detroit Metro. Probably just to let her know that her flight arrived okay, I thought. The call log also showed no received or missed calls since she landed, and none of the rest of the dialed numbers were mine. I let out a sigh of relief. Nobody knew that she had made it to my place.

Good.

First, I had to get rid of the car before she was reported missing and the police got involved. After that, I’d worry about the body. I figured that if I dumped the car somewhere, it would be at least a day before the cops got involved and a couple more days before they actually figured anything out. Plenty of time, I thought.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw a white Mustang was parked across the street. I didn’t recognize it from being in the neighborhood. The rental key was from a Ford and that meant it was probably the car Jackie had driven here in. Again, good. That meant even if somebody saw it, they couldn’t say for sure that whoever drove it here had come into my house unless they actually saw her do it. Since I lived right across from a water treatment plant and the house next door was vacant, I was pretty sure that nobody saw anything. It had been late. A forty-minute drive from the airport put her here well past midnight on a weeknight. I crossed my fingers and rolled the dice.

After making sure the place was locked up, I went out the side door, slid into the rental car and started it up. Nice car, that Mustang. Jackie always did have good taste in cars.

I drove it several blocks away, to a particularly desolate area just off Van Dyke. It looked more like Baghdad than Detroit over there, with burned out homes and empty lots filled with rubbish and piles of tires as high as your head.

I parked the car in a driveway next to one of the shabbier abandoned houses on the block, pulled it as far off the street as possible and left it, keys still in the ignition. Candy to a baby.

It wouldn’t be hard to imagine a woman from out of town getting lost in this area and being car-jacked, robbed and killed. Happened all the time in Detroit, I told myself. All the time.

I took half of the money from her wallet, then dropped her purse near a rusted out 55 gallon drum around which a group of crack-heads could often be seen socializing. My hope was that somebody would find the money and credit cards, try to use them, get caught and be arrested. With any luck, they’d get a quick conviction on something even if the cops couldn’t turn up a body. Case closed and I’m home free. I strolled back to my house as nonchalantly as possible, resisting the urge to whistle. So far, so good.

I had just one more problem to get rid of: Jackie’s body.

#

2006-07-14T15:35:00.000-04:00

#t#

Global warming, insane oil prices, bad jokes, dollar burgers, stupid blogs, way too many celebrities, sick chickens, homos, heteros, hope, despair, fuck … this ball of confusion is making everybody crazy.

Let’s all get on our knees and pray.

Right after we read this column.

ROCK STAR, SHLOCK STAR!
This train wreck of a show, Rock Star: Supernova, may well be this season's most entertaining. It's about a rock band looking for a singer.

Watching the band / judges - Tommy Lee (Motley Crue), Jason Newsted (dumbass that quit Metallica), and Gilbey Clarke (late Guns & Roses? Not sure, sorry) - is not unlike seeing bad Spinal Tap outtakes with Tommy Lee as obnoxious as ever. Makes you wish one of the contestants would strangle the fucking guy.

Rock is the latest way to make a buck in reality TV.

The would-be rockers vying for the chance to front Supernova are spoiled snot-nosed wannabes; they make the Americal Idol crew look like seasoned pros.

The highlight and sexiest part of Rock Star is when hosts Dave Navarro and Brooke Burke exchange blouses. Navarro looks like a young Geraldo Rivera in drag.

Extremely entertaining televison at its sickest.

A.) Jason Newsted? That's the clown that quit Metallica?
B.) Yes - ha, ha, ha ...
C.) To do his own thing, ha, ha, ha ...
A.) Hey, now he's on TV with Tommy Lee, ha, ha, ha.
B.) Maybe he can make a sex tape with Tommy Lee, ha, ha, ha.
C.) I like that Rock Star show.
A.) Yeah, but you like crack too.
C.) That's true. We should go to the crackhouse.
A.) There are a few upcoming pieces to comment on, I think.
C.) Fuck that, let's go get high.
B.) Yeah - fuck it, it's Friday.
A.) Hmmm ... I got it! Let's just write a few generic lines ...
B.) ... and plug them in ahead of time ...
C.) ... and it will be swell.
A.) Yeah, fuck this place, stupid blog; let's go.
B.) Let's hurry up and type some crap.
C.) Let's do it right now.

SCREAMS FROM THE BALCONY!
Hipster book reading fiends are drooling on their thrift-store Dockers: Charles Bukowski's Factotum with Matt Dillon as Chinaski is coming to the big screen this August. Don't count on too many moviegoers checking it out; ten out of ten people don't know who the fuck Buk is. That means the DVD should be available by Christmas which means Factotum will be on dollar store shelves in the second quarter of 2007.

A.) Yes. As usual, the writer is right on the money.
B.) No, he's wrong - but he is incredibly handsome.
C.) I buried a prostitute under home plate at Comerica Park.

BALL OF CONFUSION 2006!
What's wrong with these teenagers today? They're kookoo. Did you hear this? Some kids in Burbank, Illinois beat up a fifteen year old boy. Then they tore off the prosthetic leg from his body and used it to whack another kid on the head. Now he doesn't have a leg to stand on. See how life is?

And the youngsters and their drugs ... why, Norm Macdonald remembers when pot was something you used to boil hot dogs in.

A.) Huh. I never looked at it like that before ... a refreshing take, thanks.
B.) I can't agree but your punctuation is always top-notch.
C.) Most Embarassing Moment? Drank too much and licked a lamb's genitals.

BONADUCE OR BUTTAFUOCO? WE GIVE UP!
Not sure if it's Danny Buttafuoco or Joey Bonaduce, but one of those knuckleheads has scored their own new game show on the Game Show Network. In case you're one of the suckers that still actually watches cable TV, the name of the waste of time is Starface.

Pop culture, ha, ha, ha.

A.) Someday Oliver Stone will make a movie about that person you just mentioned.
B.) First the war, now this.
C.) I wonder if Miss Perchakowski really blew a priest.

THE TRUTH, MAN - LIKE IT OR NOT!
Unless they can add a couple of hours to a day and then give it to me for free, satellite radio can kiss my ass. That’s right, I have spoken. Stern, Oprah, Martha, Jesus, 70's music, Blahbla … who fucking cares? I mean, really.

You have AM, FM, CDs, records, cassettes, TV, and DVDs to watch and listen to. You've got a mother, wife, mistress, and gay lover to entertain you. Will the motherfuckers never cease? I think we have enough crap for awhile, okay? Everybody take a deep breath, get a firm grip.

Refuckinglax; let's smell the roses.

And remember there’s a beautiful thing called silence that won’t kill you for two fucking minutes either, for fuck’s sake.

A.) Tell it like it is, brother.
B.) Rock Star rocks!
C.) Can’t read the column right now, I'm too high on crack.

artlyzak@ladybombescorts.com

#

2006-07-14T07:52:00.000-04:00

#

#

Chapter Three

My heart sank as I listened to the sounds of what had happened. Flashes of memory caused me to close my eyes in pain as images from the previous evening flooded my brain. It was all there...the argument, the fight, her screams and finally, the sounds of my heavy breathing as I shuffled out of the room, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the bedroom.

Then silence.

It had been only a matter of ten minutes or so, but they were ten minutes of absolute horror that had changed my life forever. I remembered...

She had knocked on the door while I was working, both on material for the blog and on my second pitcher of martinis. It was obvious when listening to the playback that I was more than a little drunk. Our divorce wasn’t final and Jackie was after more money, even though she had bled me dry before I moved here from L.A. She took the beach house and the majority of our savings, while I was left with just enough to buy this broken down bungalow in one of the seedier neighborhoods on Detroit’s east side.

I remember the judge saying at the time that it was ‘fair’.

During my relocation to Motown I had been very careful to cover my tracks. No land line telephone. No forwarding address. I was hoping to never see Jackie again and she shouldn’t have found me so easily. Pat would never have told her where I was, even though he knew, and the folks at the Bomb had no clue as to where I actually lived.

Then I heard her mention Andy’s name on the tape. He had been in lockup with me the weekend I spent in Oakland County over the dead squirrel picture.

Fucking Andy had ratted me out.

At some point during the argument Jackie had turned up the heat, like she was so good at doing. That bitch always knew just what buttons to push to send me over the edge and she had pushed like there was no tomorrow that night...calling me names, spitting at me and eventually brandishing the aluminum softball bat that I kept near the door because of the shitty neighborhood I lived in.

She was feisty, I had to hand it to her. It was one of the things I used to like about her, but with a bat in her hand and her pissed at me, being feisty was a definite negative. Jackie swung like Barry Bonds and hit me on the arm. When I grabbed my arm, she swung again, lower this time and struck me in the ribs. The pain shot through me and I saw red.

That’s the last I remember, really. Even on the tape, what happened after that is kind of hard to decipher. There’s the sound of glass breaking, some grunts and groans, a scream or two and that’s pretty much it.

I turned off the recorder and looked out the window. It was just starting to get light outside and the clock on the living room wall said it was a quarter to six. Birds were chirping, my deadline was looming and Jackie was dead.

I switched on my laptop and spent a half-hour churning out some lame Beyonce story, found a crotch shot photo of her, pasted the whole mess into an email and pushed ‘send’.

Then I began to formulate a plan.

#

2006-07-13T15:10:00.000-04:00

#

Happy Birthday
Erno Rubik
Still can’t figure the guy out …

The inventor of possibly the most original of all puzzles, Rubik’s Cube, turns 62 today.

Back in Budapest 1974, Rubik was a lecturer in the Department of Interior Design at the Academy of Applied Arts and Crafts. It was there he designed and played with the Cube’s prototype after studying the simple beauty of pebbles at the edge of the Danube.

Abstract and cerebral, it was patented in Hungary one year later. Friends who tried it were fascinated and engaged and urged Rubik to manufacture and sell it in his homeland where it became a big hit with the cobbled road set.

Rubik eventually pitched it to Ideal Toys in America in ’79 and a year or so later – right time, right place - sales went through the roof. Everybody was working the Cube, working the Cube, working the Cube until eventually the fad died a slow death as most fads do.

But it made its inventor a millionaire many times over.

Unfortunately, his next creation – Rubik’s Ball – proved too high-concept and failed miserably. The public wasn't ready for a red ball made out of rubber even if it did have the Rubik name on it. Red rubber balls had been done to death.

And besides, the Pet Rock was the new king.

Erno Rubik hasn't changed much since then; he's still into games and puzzles.

A.) I used to have a Rubik’s Cube.
B.) Yeah, me too.
C.) I traded mine for X-Ray glasses.
A.) I had a pair of those.
B.) Me too.
C.) I’d look right through the teacher’s dress and see her naked.
A.) That was Miss Perchakowski, right?
C.) Oh, yeah.
B.) She had big bazoombas.
C.) We had sex many times ...
A.) What ?! How old were you?
C.) Fourteen.
A.) Dude ... Miss Perchakowski was 82 years old.
B.) Whoa - how could you?
C.) Hey, you had sex with a priest in grade school, didn't you?
A.) Well, yeah - but that's different.
B.) Wait, wait ... now I'm remembering something ...
C.) What?
B.) I think I saw Miss Perchakowski blow a priest.
A.) What?
B.) I can't remember for sure. It was so long ago ...
C.) I should have kept my Rubik's Cube.

#

2006-07-13T09:03:00.000-04:00

#

#

Chapter Two

Choking back the urge to panic, I rushed to her body and felt for a pulse along either side of her neck. Nothing, but she was still warm. I rolled her over and tried mouth-to-mouth, even though I really didn’t know what I was doing.

It didn’t work.

Poor Jackie. What was she doing here? How did she find me? Was that purple lipstick I was wiping from my mouth? When did she start wearing that color?

My mind raced to try and remember what had happened, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that I had probably killed her. The likelihood of a third person doing the damage seemed pretty slim, even though I had visible signs of fending off an attacker. Nope. The killer had to be me. And Jackie had to be the attacker. But why?

I looked around the room and it was only slightly more out of order than normal. I kept a pretty sloppy house and an overturned chair here and there was a common sight, but more than a few things had been knocked around and there were books on the floor, some open and face down, others face up with torn pages. I was always careful with books, even when I was drinking.

There was also broken glass in various places around the room. Something had caused a ruckus, that was for sure.

I sat down heavily on the chair across from the sofa and tried to make sense of the whole damn thing.

"What was the last thing you remember doing?"

I was startled for a second before realizing that I had said this out loud, and it was my own voice that I heard. "Oh my God," I added. "What have I done?"

The very last thing I could remember was working on the fucking blog. Oftentimes I use a hand-held cassette recorder to make verbal notes about possible stories before researching and typing them up. It’s also an indispensable joke-writing tool. As I sat there searching my mind for some memory of what happened, I spied the blue plastic casing of the recorder on the floor by the couch, half hidden under a book that had been tossed there.

My hand was trembling as I picked up the recorder. The tape had run to the end and was stopped. The ‘record’ button was still pushed in.

I thumbed re-wind and held my breath.

#

2006-07-12T13:26:00.000-04:00

#

Singer Yells at Musicians
It's like Dad yelling at the dinner table ...

HIGHLAND PARK, Illinois ... Holy shit, be glad you're not playing in Paul Anka's backing band. The smart asses at Noisetank are featuring a killer audio post where you can hear Anka ream his band out because one or two guys wore tee shirts on stage. The singer wants the fellows spiffed up in shirts not tee shirts. "That's just the fucking way it is," he bellows.

Then Anka jumps on the musicians for arrangement clams - specifically at the end of My Way. Ha, ha, ha, those poor bastards take it all and more.

"When you guys get your checks, do they cash? Is the money good?"

Yes, Mr. Anka - thank you, Mr. Anka.

"That's just the fucking way it is," the singer tells them over and over after threatening their jobs, ha, ha, ha.

Be glad you're just a roadie for a local band.

Fucking Paul Anka yelling at musicians - what a hoot.

#
#

2006-07-12T13:22:00.000-04:00

#

20th Century Bomb: 1906
RISE AND SHINE, AMERICA
Yonder in Battle Creek lives a man named Will Keith Kellogg. And in this town he sells boxes of a new health food he recently invented. They are called Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.

Tis a large thin crisp flake of toasted corn—a supposedly healthy, tasty breakfast food eaten in a bowl awash with milk.

A.) Breakfast? Bah, that’s for women.
B.) Kellogg is insane. They are for vegetarians, the weird cult that doesn’t eat meat.
C.) Corn on its cob with butter and salt is best.

20th Century bomb: 1907

MACHINES FOR
EVERYTHING NOW
What next? Tell-A-Vision?

It is most incredible--nay, almost unbelievable--but Alva J. Fisher of Chicago has taken a galvanized tub and added a motor powered by electricity to create an “electronic washing machine.” Just add water, soap, and clothes to the gizmo and voila! Your garments are clean!

A.) American women aren’t lazy enough—now this.
B.) Letter A is right! Watch; women will want the right to vote next!
C.) Beating clothes on rocks and rinsing them in the river is best.

20th Century Bomb: 1909
LIKE SCREAMING
THROUGH A MEGAPHONE!

Our mayor, the honorable Cass Corridor, has been seen sporting around town in a brand new black Ford Model T Roadster passing a flask back and forth with actress Minnie Woodward.

We sure hope that Mrs. Corridor don't catch wind of the indiscretion. Mugs that saw hizzoner and the floozy at an out-of-the-way dive claim Miss Woodward wore a dress so short her ankles was showing.

A.) I’m an ankle man. I like 'em smooth and shaved.
B.) To he** with Mayor Corridor--I shall vote for Warren Forest.
C.) A flapper and liquor in a new Model T? Mayor Corridor governs his penis well.

#

2006-07-12T07:26:00.001-04:00

#

Prologue
The past few weeks have been a nightmare for me. Regular readers of the Bomb will already know that recent times have seen the quantity and quality of my written output plummet. Very few things were written and fewer still were funny.

My life was turned upside down with the PETA debacle and, even though I presented a brave front, things have been going steadily downhill since.

What follows is an expose, one might say. It deals with the real dirt and pain that is my life. Be forewarned. Some details, though grisly in nature, were necessary to include in order to fully portray the horrific turn which my life has taken recently.

My hope is that this will also serve as an apology to you, dear readers, for falling short of your expectations, plus do double-duty as a big, fat, glorious announcement that I’m back, bigger and better than ever.

- Marty Sherman, July 12, 2006

Chapter One

I had blacked out from drinking before, but never like this.

I woke up in a cold sweat, fully clothed and lying in bed. The room was pitch black except for the red LED on my clock radio which told me flatly that it was 3:19. Since it was still dark that must mean 3 a.m., but I couldn’t remember anything. About coming to bed, about the time before coming to bed, nothing. The room was eerily silent, even though my window was open wide to the night air. No barking dogs, no traffic. Not a sound.

I sat up with some difficulty and realized that my rib cage on the left side was very tender. I fumbled for the switch to the reading lamp on my night stand and winced at the brightness of the bulb when it came on. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light I could see my reflection in the mirrored closet doors to one side of the bed, and what I saw wasn’t pretty.

I had expected to be hung over, but this was ridiculous. I’d never looked worse in my life...pale, bloated, with a three-day growth of beard. There were bags under the bags under my eyes.

What day was it? I couldn’t recall. In order to get to my feet I needed to steady myself with one hand on the wall. I limped out of my tiny bedroom avoiding piles of dirty clothes, books, porno magazines and the occasional shoe. When I got to the bathroom I could see down the hall that the light was on in the living room. It wasn’t like me to leave a lamp on, no matter how drunk I got, but I needed to check out my ribs before I did anything else. I was just then realizing how difficult it was to breathe and I was experiencing sharp pain every time I tried. It suddenly dawned on me that the pain was what had awakened me in the first place.

I splashed some cold water on my face in an effort to feel better or normal or something, but it didn’t help. I spent some time staring straight into my own eyes and trying to recall what had happened, but I just couldn’t. Then I lifted my soiled and sweat-soaked shirt to reveal a nasty bruise that was already turning blue about half-way down my left side.

There was also a wide bruise on my upper left arm near the shoulder and both of my hands were sore along the knuckles. After checking my face more carefully and probing for loose or broken teeth with my tongue, I came to the conclusion that I was basically okay. I must have been in some sort of fight, but didn’t remember leaving the house.

My balance seemed to be returning so I decided to head to the living room and see if there were any clues as to what might have happened in there. I walked gingerly down the hall. The realization that my ribs might be cracked and not just bruised was weighing heavily on my mind until I saw what was in the living room. Suddenly, the pain disappeared. Unfortunately, it was replaced with overwhelming horror when I spotted the lifeless form sprawled awkwardly across the sofa.

It was Jackie, my ex-wife.

#

2006-07-11T15:58:00.000-04:00

2006-07-11T12:34:00.000-04:00

#

PARIS + NICOLE
STILL ON THE OUTS!
Sure wish they'd get it together ...

HOLLYWOOD, July 11 … Uh oh – look out - Paris Hilton is gnarly pissed off. Fuckingly gnarly pissed off. She says TV success has turned her Simple Life co-star Nicole Richie her into a snob and a bitch and she doesn’t like it one teensy bit.

"Fame affects people in different ways,” Paris says icily, “I've always remained the same girl, and she's just not the same person any more.”

The 25-year-old hot chick named after the capital of France stamps her foot. Believe it or not - she like, wants to be friends again - NOW - but Nicole is being weird and it’s freaking her out.

"I think she just let fame get to her head - she's only nice to famous people,” the slutty hot chick says. “I don't know what happened to her, she's just not the same sweet girl I used to know.”

A writer remembers the time he gave it good to both Paris AND Nicole in a nightclub VIP lounge during their Simple Life promo swing through Detroit in July of 2004. Has it been that long? Damn, it feels like it was just two years ago ... Jesus, that was some night; be still, my penis.

The writer gets back on track.

Does the heiress with the same last name as a major worldwide hotel chain wish Nicole would come back? Is it breaking her heart?

"I wish that she'd come back. It breaks my heart," Hilton says while filling a crackpipe.

She lights up, puffs, and holds the pipe aloft. The writer declines and lifts the snifter of Chinaco to his lips instead. He orders the waiter to bring another then wonders aloud if Paris and Nicole will ever kiss and make up.

Pretty please? With a bright Rudolph-red cherry on top?

The chart-topping, pay-for-play skirt looks heavenward. “Nicole needs to say she’s sorry for being mean. I hope we will be friends one day."

Yes ... if there is a God in Heaven – please make it happen …

Who said it’s a simple life?

A.) It's sad when friends bust up.
B.) Yes. They probably drank champagne together.
C.) Makes me appreciate you letters more.
A.) You know, staying friendly with all 26 letters is a beautiful thing.
B.) It sure is, it sure is ...
C.) I ... I ... why, I'm starting to cry ... it's so fucking beautiful ...
A.) For Christ's sake, C - get a grip.
B.) That's right. You're a pop culture blogworker - toughen up, fucker.
C.) Sorry, it must be my period. Get it? .
A.) Ha, a period.......that's funny, ha.
B.) Yeah, and gay.
C.) I need a Kleenex.

#

2006-07-11T10:50:00.001-04:00

#

A Chat With Satan
Featuring Wacky Dictator Kim Jong-il

Satan: I have to confess I’m a big fan of yours.

Kim Jong-il: Sank you. You my idol, too. I hope to someday be big man down in Hell. I work very hard. Make my country rule the world soon. You will see.

S: I’m rooting for you. A lot of people are dying to know if you play poker, because it seems like you’re playing a mean game of Texas Hold’em with the rest of the region right now, not to mention the United States.

K: Ah, poker...I watch on Satellite television. I know what you mean, but this is not poker I play. It is chess. Your move Mr. Bush. Ha ha ha.

S: I must say your English is very good.

K: Oh, I learn from best teachers at University of Malta. They teach me well.

S: So you play poker and chess?

K: Yes, but my favorite game is Guess Weight of Criminals. I take lawbreakers in my country and guess how heavy they are. If I am right, they are shot. Wrong, get torture, but allowed to live. I love that game.

S: Torture?

K: Yes, break fingers, burn face, chop off toes, cut tongue...rape. Man or woman, rape is always big fun. A win-win situation for me. I enjoy that game very much. Also, wrestle with arms. No one ever beats me. I am champion of the arm wrestle. How about you Mr. Bush? Wrestle arms with me? Ha ha ha. Maybe you try, Satan. I bet I beat you, too.

S: Some other time perhaps. I’ve read that you’re bi-polar. Is that true?

K: Not bi-polar! I have sinus trouble.

S: Okay...What did you think of how you were portrayed in that Team America movie?

K: Oh, puppet movie! Very funny South Park guys. I have complete South Park on DVD. Watch all the time. I like it very much. Also big fan of Bernie Mac, Michael Jordan and Beyonce. She so hot I want her for personal performance. Request many times but always she says no. Planning a kidnap next time she comes to Japan.

S: You mentioned Michael Jordan. I also read that you like to watch NBA basketball. True?

K: Yes. I like basketball very much. Root for Houston and Yao Ming.

S: What do you think of Ben Wallace signing with the Bulls?

K: Detroit make big mistake with free agent. They also lose Darko and get nothing. If I know Joe Dumars, he has something up sleeve. But Big Ben in Chicago spell big trouble for rest of division. Look for Bulls to make noise in playoffs next year. Mark my words.

S: Think they’ll go all the way?

K: No, but pre-season favorite to make Eastern Conference Finals. My people say Pistons try to work three-way deal with Atlanta and Houston to get Yao Ming. If deal go through, they will be champions again. If not, middle of pack in Central Division.

S: Well, you certainly sound like you know your basketball.

K: Sank you.

S: For the record, can you clear up what your official title is?

K: Not President! No elections! In my country I am called Great Leader or Dear General. I am Supreme Commander of the Korean People’s Army and General Secretary of the Workers’ Party of Korea. Some also call me Dear Father and am also known as The Sun of the 21st Century. I make last one up myself. But whole world will soon know me as Lord of Darkness.

S: Wait, Lord of...?

K: Whole world except for you, Satan. Sorry.

S: No problem...

K: Say, why don’t we wrestle arms for it? I win, I am Lord of Darkness. I lose, you take name and I call myself Sweet Dark Lord of Planet Earth Above Ground.

S: I don’t think so. But it’s been fun talking to you and we’re keeping a prime spot here in Hell for you when you’re done with your work there on Earth. Good Luck.

K: Sank you, Satan. I look forward to it. (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) He’s a fan of the Rockets, get it? In the NBA? The HOUSTON Rockets?
B.) I got it. I’m more interested in the torture and rape and stuff.
C.) You are one dark letter, B.

#

2006-07-10T12:47:00.000-04:00

#

7 / 10 / 89
"That's all, folks!"

... Behind every great cartoon character is a great voice. Mel Blanc was the best of the best: Bugs Bunny, Donald Duck, Porky Pig, Elmer Fudd, Road Runner, Foghorn Leghorn, Tasmanian Devil, Barney Rubble … and too many more to mention on a Monday.

This man was born in San Francisco on May 30, 1908 and passed on 81 years later, killed by heart disease in 1989.

A.) It's important we don't forget Mel Blanc.
B.) An extremely talented artist.
C.) Nice way to start a week ...
A.) I'm hungover.
B.) Oh man, me too.
C.) Me three.
A.) Not funny, dumbass.
B.) What a stupid letter.
C.) Hey, I'm hungover.

#

WARNING - Do Not Click:

FIVE MONDAY
NEWS LINKS
YOU DON'T NEED

Human Trash
Cheap Crap
Bad Chocolate
Dead Kids
Nightmare Over

2006-07-10T09:00:00.000-04:00

#

aries
March 21 - April 19
Oh, man. Do I really have to tell you what you’re doing wrong? Aries, you have moved to the dark side. I salute and fear you at the same time. Enjoy the taste of blood. No lucky numbers.

taurus
April 20 - May 20
It’s a good idea to stock up this week, Taurus. Nuclear apocalypse is a possibility thanks to those pesky North Koreans. Make sure you have at least three week’s worth of supplies. That includes pot, tequila and canned food. The end is near. Lucky numbers: 8,1,2.

gemini
May 21 - June 21
Hey, Gemini! How’s it hangin’? I’m guessing that the last two weeks have been something to write home about, good or bad. Next stop: trouble. Expect major setbacks in the coming week and it could mean a death in the family. Lucky letters: R.I.P.

cancer
June 22 - July 22
It’s a given that shit is going to go wrong, Cancer. But this week is the King of Shit for you. No lucky anything. I’m talking MAJOR SHIT.

leo
July 23 - August 22
Your effort the past week hasn’t earned you any fans, has it, Leo? Well, don’t be surprised if that same indifference earns you a pink slip. No, homo, a pink slip is NOT a good thing. Lucky animal: elephant.

virgo
August 23 - September 22
Is it the end of summer already? I realize we’re early for birthdays, Virgo, but you need to know that there are special days coming this fall. Don’t expect to live through them, though. Lucky blanket: grave.

libra
September 23 - October 22
If you free your mind, Libra, your ass will follow. Major mental overhaul followed by major ass reaming. And I do mean reaming. Lucky fuckstick: 9 incher.

scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Sorry, but one more skip this time, Scorpio. Nothing happens this week. And even if it does, who cares?

sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
I wish I were born in December, Sagittarius. That way I could share something with both you and Jesus–Fucking-H-Christ. I can only wish you and your crucified cousin the best. Hope you do better than he did, fucker. Lucky cross: Maltese.

capricorn
December 22 - January 19
I can’t believe that I’m almost done with my horoscopes for the week, Cancer. Only a couple left after you, and believe me, those Aquarius and Pisces retards will believe anything, unlike you. This week, you’ll be suddenly wealthy beyond your wildest dreams! Yeah, right, loser. No luck.

aquarius
January 20 - February 18
This is the absolute dawning of the age of Aquarius, Aquarius. It won’t last long, though. People are really tired of your bullshit. Lucky clock: alarm.

pisces
February 19 - March 20
It’s all I can do to stay interested in you plight, Pisces, let alone writing something funny. Honestly, I just don’t give a fuck. But you can move out of that basement apartment if you find a roommate. You’ll need to admit your homosexuality to get the best deal. Lucky cake: fruit.... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)

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2006-07-07T14:29:00.001-04:00

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War in Iraq, the President’s birthday, North Korean missiles, metrosexual pirates, British talent show judges, wasted out-of-control celebrities, sudden death, midgets, cons, love, heartbreak, fuck … this ball of confusion is spinning out of control.

Let’s throw some of this on the screen and see what sticks.

Opera: O SOLO OUCHO!
Our favorite crack-smoking tenor Luciano Pavarotti underwent surgery yesterday for pancreatic cancer. His manager says the 70-year-old surperstar is "recovering well," and will still open for the Red Hot Chili Peppers in Cordoba’s Massaqua Stadium this Sunday. That’s good news ... cancer of the pancreas isn’t pretty. It is a deadly horrible disease unlike alcoholism where at least you get to drink while you have it.

A.) Thanks for mangling a Norm Macdonald joke.
B.) Pavarotti is the man.
C.) Did he say pancreas or pancakes?

Television: TV BLOWS ME!
The very important Emmy nominations have been announced and – no surprise, I’m told – action/adventure show 24 picked up 12 of them. Yes, best this and best that and other blahblah television shows blahblahblah. Kiefer Sutherland, of course, blah,blah,blah,blah ... blah. Like everyone else, we’ll just have to blah,blah,blah, to find out for sure. Blahblah ...

A.) Why, yes ... blahblahblah ...
B.) No, blahblah.
C.) It's why fucking blahblahblah blah blah.
A, B, C.) Ha, ha, ha.

Movies: 1, 2, 3 GREEN LIGHT!
If you follow IMFP religiously, you know that Steve Martin and I sold our first script together, Giddyup Vagina (formerly Showdown at the Crack of Dawn), to Miramax subsidiary, Edge Hell last week. While Steve doesn’t want the amount of the sale disclosed, I’m not shitting you when I say it’s an absolute fuck load of dough. This is a dream come true for me. If it hits big I can quit this stupid fucking blog business. God, how I hate that word … blog.

Anyway, Norm Macdonald will play Marshal “Rope” Chambers with Lindsay Lohan and Kate Moss as the red hot, naked, tenderly probing first-time lesbian lovers, Paris and Dawn.

Troy “Boondock Saints” Duffy directs.

A.) What a coincidence—I’m drinking Busch beer.
B.) I smell a hit. Oops, no--I stepped in dogshit, fuck.
C.) Norm MacDonald is the David Niven of his generation.

Teen News: 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 an afternoon what you'll never get.
B.) It means he sticks his wiener into 2 girls - one on each side - when he makes sex.
C.) Go ahead, laugh ... guess who’s slipping the salami to Simpson now? That’s right, fuckers—me.

Dear Fucking Diary: WIFE CALLS WITH NEWS!
Christine just rang me on the cell. Says she found a pill on the floor at the 7/Eleven. Says it has a M357 imprint and asks me what it is. Ha, she sure is something … I love her to bits. I Google “M357” and POW, jackpot: hydrocodone … a good old fashioned generic Vicodin.

It's like finding a lucky penny - Detroit 2006 style.

A.) I love stories with happy endings.
B.) Yes, there’s far too much sadness and ugliness in this world.
C.) As artists we must promote truth and beauty …
A.) 3 ... 2 .... 1 and we're out ... later, letters.
B.) Fucking A!
C.) To the weekend then ...

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artlyzak@ladybombescorts.com

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2006-07-07T11:25:00.000-04:00

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The days of wine and roses ...
YOUNG LOVE, TRUE LOVE

DETROIT, July 7 ... A suburban Detroit couple have made national news after a marital spat last weekend cost the wife her right arm in a bizarre traffic accident.

Stephen Humphrey is currently being held in the Monroe County Jail on charges relating to the incident including drunk driving (his third offense) causing serious injury and driving with a suspended license.

His wife of three years, Brenda, is in the hospital with injuries that include her severed arm, ruptured bladder, a broken hip and various scrapes and bruises. Her condition is reported as fair.

Humphrey’s original story was that he stopped by the side of the road to let his wife pee after a long afternoon of drinking at a local bar. He says he drove down the road (a gentleman always considers a lady’s privacy) and when he returned found his wife in the ditch missing her arm.

Thinking that she was hit by another car, he then gallantly rushed her to the hospital, thereby saving her life.

Police now say that evidence suggests another scenario.

After a heated argument, Humphrey put his wife out of his pickup truck at the side of the road and drove off as she reached through the open door to get her cell phone. Her arm became entangled in the seat belt, causing her to be dragged down the road until eventually her foot was caught under the rear tires and her arm was literally torn from her body.

The missing arm, along with Brenda Humphey’s shoes, are still being searched for by police. (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) Bet they were listening to Garth Brooks on the juke box and drinking Bud.
B.) I wonder what kind of sound it makes when an arm gets torn off?
C.) I’m guessing there’s a lot of screaming, but we should ask Kim Jong II. I’m sure he knows.

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2006-07-06T10:15:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1975

Record Now, WATCH Later!

Japan’s Sony Corporation has introduced the Betamax - a recording/playback machine you can use to record your favorite television shows to watch later. The programs are stored on a "video cassette" that's the size of a paperback book.

A.) I can’t wait to start my Starsky and Hutch collection.
B.) Wish I could watch dirty movies at home.
C.) I wish Sony would invent a cassette player I could listen to while I walk, man.

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2006-07-06T10:00:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1977

Spotlight On The Dead ...
A Gunshot
to the Head

Freddie Prinze, the star of top-rated TV show Chico and the Man is dead.

The cat couldn’t handle the fame: too many chicks, too many bucks, too much dope and too little sense. When his old lady got fed up and split with his kid, he snapped.

After phoning everyone he cared about to say goodbye to, the 22-year-old lifted the piece, put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The blood splattered the walls like Pollock on a bad day... it's the drag of all drags.

While a bullet did the most damage, the real killer was the Quaaludes — he ate too many every day and every night. The upside? Freddie Prinze no longer has a drug problem.

His wife, Kathy and baby son, Freddie Jr. will just have to carry on.

A.) Rest in peace, Freddie.
B.) 'Ludes and vagina can make a man crazy.
C.) Quaaludes are a dead end, man — I’m switching to cocaine.

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2006-07-06T09:55:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1978

Too Young for Love,
Too Hard to Stop ...

Director Roman Polanski has skipped bail and fled to France after pleading guilty to charges of having sex with a 13-year-old girl after plying her with Quaaludes - the soporific drug that makes everything fun.

A.) Hear about the Polish director that locked his keys in the car? Took him an hour to get his prostitute out.
B.) Why did the Polish director cross the road? Because his penis was stuck in the chicken.
C.) Are you guys high on cheap weed or what?

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2006-07-06T07:41:00.000-04:00

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DETROIT vs
LOS ANGELES
Left-Coasters Clear Losers
In Holiday Weekend War

My first full weekend (without being in jail, that is) on a holiday in Detroit left me feeling pretty goddamn good about moving here from L.A., even without Pat.

First off, I’d like to say that the local meteorologists (I call them chicks with clickers) were waaaaaaay wrong on the forecast. Luckily, though, as they say in Ferndale, it was ab-so-fuck-ing-lute-ly ‘fantabulous’!

I have honestly never experienced a nicer weekend on the West Coast. Ever. Well, except for that time in Napa...Hey, Kelli! How’s your Mom?

We had some unbelievable skies here in the Lower Peninsula. 84 degrees, partly sunny ... completely cunnilingual. And there were no wildfires. Just hanging low clouds.

Incidentally, I try to watch UNIVISION for the weather. I’m never absolutely sure what she’s talking about, but that chick is hot as Hell.

Raves for the Tastefest. They close off Grand Boulevard and Second Street in the New Center Area and have a big free music party with local restaurants providing a ‘taste’ of Detroit.

Good food and drinks, great atmosphere and phenomenal music.

One bitch: TICKETS?! The first night I was there I decided I was going to buy just beer and go even on my tickets, which were 10 for a mere six bucks. That means no food, just beer and go home with nothing in my pocket but cash.

Guess what? That means that in order to come out even, it cost me thirty-six-motherfucking-dollars. That was only seven beers, by the way. And I had to go back and forth between 9 ticket Harps and 8 ticket Buds.

Next year they should call it Ticketfest.

HAPPY NEW YEARS!!! ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) He really needs to stop drinking.
B.) No shit. For Christ’s sake New Year’s is in the DEAD OF WINTER!.
C.) Leave him alone, he bet on Brazil.

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2006-07-05T17:00:00.000-04:00

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2006-07-05T14:34:00.001-04:00

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Holiday Weekend
To Remember ...
No Computer + Tequila, Friends, Love = Fun

MALIBU, California, July 5 ... Since the wife and I can't catch a last minute flight to Paris on Friday, we opt to spend the long weekend at our Malibu pad. We even make a few bucks by renting out our chateau on the outskirts of Saint-Etienne to an architect and his girlfriend.

FRIDAY, JUNE 30
Like the movie says, it's a wonderful life. Kid delivers the groceries from that overpriced place on Malibu Ave. I knead, chop, shred and slice the fixings of my famous to-die-for pizza. I bake it perfectly. Christine and I wash the pie down with high-octane margaritas mixed with equal parts Chinaco, Grand Marnier, and Rose's Lime juice.

They say you're supposed to use fresh squeezed lime but I snub them. I am sick of listening to what they say. They are too smug for me. There's nothing wrong with Rose's, it's fine. And the Chinaco is magic in glass. I pour them tall, I pour them proper. I top them with all the ice in the world.

I watch the sun slowly disappear into a shimmering ocean. The first margarita relaxes me. The second one makes me contemplative. The third stuns me with clarity and the fourth kicks me hard in the ass. I'm too clear and the room spins; I have to get to the bed. The ball and chain is in similar shape. We hit the sack.
I love my wife. And I love tantric sex as much as the next guy, but two hours of foreplay, 9o minutes of intercourse, and a twenty minute orgasm later, I have had enough. Of everything. I pass out. I am only a man.

SATURDAY, JULY 1
I admit it: on this morning I am hungfuckingover as a fuckingmotherfucker. Nothing outside of having a few on the rocks will change that. I take Advil and drink coffee instead. I correct my sexual faux pax from the previous night - ladies first, after all - and press myself up against Christine. I shift from foreplay to fiveplay and give her 41 orgasms. I count them.

We watch a James Bond flick in bed, then shower, dress, and have lunch in a trendy forgettable restaurant. We go shopping. The wife gets DKNY shades and a Lucky hoodie. I score a copy of Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper by Diablo Cody. This chick is funny. Diablo talks about her life as a stripper and peepshow goddess. She pulls no punches while her clientele pulls their puds. Strippers are angels from heaven.

I sit near the pool, it's late afternoon ... I finish the book in a breezy couple of hours while Christine floats by on a pink raft, back and forth. I drink two Blues ... slowly. The hangover finally splits.

SUNDAY, JULY 2
We wake up late. Sean comes by at 4 with his latest girlfriend, Jennifer, and we start drinking. We hit it hard. Oh, it's fun all right but it seems that Jennifer can't shut the fuck up. Not for one fucking minute. I nod and pretend to listen. Jennifer is hot as a crotch - don't get me wrong - but her constant yammering makes me nuts.

Snaps, pops, and kudos to Sean, though - that's for sure. He's a good man. After a dozen or so, towards the end of the night, the bastard starts reading Bukowski out loud. He mesmerizes. For those moments he is Hank. Sean slurs; we all slur. He slurs that he was friends with Buk; I can't be sure.

MONDAY, JULY 3
Truth be told, we stay in bed all day and alternate between having tantric sex and watching more Bond flicks. Did you know that Sinatra sings the theme song of You Only Live Twice? That's right - Nancy Sinatra.

TUESDAY, JULY 4
I don't complain, the weekend is swell, but in the early evening the hospital calls - I have to perform emergency surgery on a guy. And I'm half in the fucking bag from margaritas. Luckily, Sean meets me in the parking lot and powders my nose. The operation goes smoothly; the patient goes home the next morning.

How was your weekend?

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2006-07-05T08:11:00.000-04:00

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aries
March 21 - April 19
You’ve heard of a Catch 22, right? Well, Aries, you’ve just found yourself in twice as much of a dilemma. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. And I do mean, literally, damned. Straight to fucking Hell. Say "hi" to the Devil for me. Lucky number: 44, as in Catch-44, get it?

taurus
April 20 - May 20
Let’s see, the stars say...hmmm. For some reason I’m not getting a thing on you this week, Taurus. Do me a favor and hold a mirror up to your mouth and see if there’s fog on it. I’ll wait...No? Just as I thought. You are one dead motherfucker. No lucky numbers again.

gemini
May 21 - June 21
I can relate to your stress these days, Gemini. Between working a fucked-up job, dealing with that fool you sleep with and trying to keep up with your boozing, you’ve got it pretty rough. You can cut your stress by eliminating one of the problems. I suggest the fool. Lucky weapon: trash bag (over the head)

cancer
June 22 - July 22
If it were up to me, Cancer, I’d give you a pass this week. Unfortunately for you I have to stick to what the stars say, and they’re telling me that you’re fucked. Financial problems involving an ex-business partner will wipe you out. Physical revenge will make you feel better. Lucky weapon: baseball bat

leo
July 23 - August 22
How many times do you have to be told you’re an asshole before you straighten up your act? Huh, Leo. Oh, I see. You’re listening now you say. Well stupid, it’s way too fucking late. And to be honest, I don’t give a shit what happens to you anymore. No lucky anything.

virgo
August 23 - September 22
It’s gnawing away at your insides, isn’t it Virgo? That sinking feeling that he / she’s cheating on you again. My advice is to accept it and drop the worry. So what if the they need more pussy and/or cock than you can provide? Does that make them bad? I don’t think so. Lucky blanket: security

libra
September 23 - October 22
Ah, you’re a sly one, Libra. You truly planned the perfect murder. My hat’s off to you! Know this, though: You may not do jail time for it, but you will have to live with it for the rest of your sorry life. Plus, you’ll always wonder if you’ll do it again. Smart money says you will, and you won’t be so lucky next time. Lucky color: orange jumpsuit

scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Is there any way we can just skip Scorpio this week? Fine with you? Okay, thanks. Later...

sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
I wish there was a way to express my overwhelming joy today, Sagittarius. You’ve broken so many of the commandments that Moses is taking it personally. I hereby give you my blessing to break even more in the week to come. Kill. Kill. Kill. Lucky TV character: Baretta

capricorn
December 22 - January 19
You have hit one sweet stretch of good fortune, my friend. Capricorns don’t often get me envious, but this week is something special. Keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll be richer than Trump in no time. Who would have thought that selling drugs would be so lucrative? Lucky metric unit: gram

aquarius
January 20 - February 18
Listen up, Aquarius. That big guy / gal with the skull tattoo in the next cell block is sweet on you, new meat. I know it’s not your thing, baby, but try to relax and enjoy it. After all, it’s only for 20 to life. No lucky numbers

pisces
February 19 - March 20
Hot diggedy-dog, Pisces. Celebrations all around this week. By that I mean that all around you people will be celebrating the holiday, but you will be closed up in your room strung out just like you are most of the time these days. Good news is those loud bangs are fireworks this time and not guns. Lucky tree: Sequoia... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)

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2006-06-30T12:52:00.000-04:00

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA
Turn off the computer and start grilling ...

Four days off? Fuck, I get goose bumps just thinking about them. Well, right now I’m off to the grocery store to pick up a few things and then a quick liquor store stop for some of that. The Bomb staff wishes everyone that reads this mess a fine holiday weekend.

All Americans should not forget what July 4th is about. Dig your freedom. Sure, our President is a fuckhead but this is still the best country on the planet.

If other countries don't like it - they can lump it.

A.) Whew, finally a long leisurely weekend.
B.) Yep, I'm beat.
C.) I've got nothing to say either.

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2006-06-30T12:44:00.001-04:00

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"A Guy Walks Into A Bar ..."
Writer and Scholar Team Up To Help Readers

And right now, local media star Musty Scribblins officially kicks off the weekend with three jokes in case you end up at a barbecue with nothing to say to people you don't want to be around but you don't want your wife pissed off at you so you're there.

BOMB BONUS! After each joke, Professor Stanley Stakarski from the University of Warsaw follows up with an in-depth analysis designed for the intellectual hipster set.

Joke Number One
A man bumps into a woman in a hotel lobby. His elbow hits her left breast, and they are both quite startled. “Madam,” the man says, “if your heart is as soft as your breast, you will forgive me." She replies, "If your penis is as hard as your elbow, I'm in room 227."

Genre: Hotel Sex Joke
Accidents happen, and in this case, it finishes with a happy ending or two.

The man’s elbow excites the woman and the woman wants the man’s penis inside her. And being a modern woman, she understands that when a man gets a hard penis, he wants to have sex. She, as evidenced by how casually she tells the excited man her room number, is ready for hot sex action. The punchline is priceless—and of course, the number 227 is the funniest room number in the annals of hotel sex jokes.

Joke Number Two
One night, a couple lays down for bed. The husband suggestively rubs his wife's arm. She turns over: "I'm sorry honey, I've got a gynecologist appointment tomorrow and I want to stay fresh." The husband, rejected, rolls over. A minute later, he turns around and says, "Do you have a dentist appointment tomorrow, too?"

Genre: American Newlyweds Sex Joke
As any young married couple knows, oral sex has the same end result for a man as vaginal sex and is way less work. In this scenario, the man signals his wife that his penis is hard and he wants sex. She, being a modern married woman, understands the importance of pleasing her husband while balancing the need to keep a “professional eye” on her vagina; she is justified in not wanting the doctor to discover semen in there the next morning. He could have worn a condom and had vaginal sex, but the husband obviously understands his wife’s need to “stay fresh” and suggests in a witty, marital way that she blow him instead.

Joke Number Three
For 26 years, Bill worked in a pickle factory. He came home one day and confessed to his wife that he had a terrible compulsion: An urge to stick his penis into the pickle slicer. The wife suggested he see a sex therapist to talk about it, but Bill nixed the idea; he vowed to overcome the compulsion on his own. A few weeks later, Bill came home early from work. His wife could see the twisted grimace on his face. "What's wrong, Bill?" she asked. "Do you remember that I told you how I had this tremendous urge to put my penis into the pickle slicer?" He asked. "Oh, Bill, tell me you didn't!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I did!" he replied. "My God, Bill, what happened?" "I got fired." "No, Bill. I mean, what happened with the pickle slicer?" "Oh...she got fired too!"

Genre: Old European Married Couple Sex Joke
An element of surprise is at work here--we are led to believe that the pickle slicer is a machine that would slice the man’s penis and cause horrendous pain. The Hitchcockian - no pun intended - elements of the story’s first half weave a blanket of mystery. The wife senses something wrong (“What’s wrong, Bill?”) and voices concern over Bill’s fantasy of sticking his penis in the pickle slicer. At the end, we laugh in relief as we discover Bill doesn’t want to slice his penis in the pickle slicer, he wants to stick his hard penis in the vagina of the woman that slices the pickles, AKA “the pickle slicer.”

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2006-06-30T12:43:00.000-04:00

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ladybomblinktank

Sex Pistols guitarist Steve Jones is one funny motherfucker. He talks about his popular Los Angeles radio show and all kinds of crap in this Rhino interview. Light up and blow your mind.

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Lord knows I have a love/hate relationship with the motherfucking Internet but I do prefer a book, newspaper, or magazine to a computer screen. David S. Hirschman writes about Online Media and the Future of Journalism. Crack one open and check this out.

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You might want to keep your GI Joe happy with Collette the Action Hooker. The idiots at the Weekly World News never cease to amaze. She's plastic and fantastic.

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Who’s the absolute funniest dude in the world? Dave Chappelle is – when he wants to be. And this may be the last of the old Dave: An hour of Lost Episodes from his Comedy Central show. It’s available at the end of July. Press play and laugh, bitch.

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Keith Moon was one badass drummer. No one beat the cans harder and more imaginatively than Moon … that’s right, no one. Here’s the drummer in one of his last interviews along with Who guitarist Pete Townshend on Good Morning America in 1978. Talking about my generation.

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2006-06-30T12:41:00.000-04:00

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Star Jones’ Cannibal Past
Taste For Human Flesh Motivated Weight Loss

Mangy cat fur is still flying after the ugly break-up between Star Jones and her gal pals from The View. Star says she was fired and claims to have been treated badly by the show’s producers as well as its most famous cackling hen, Barbara Walters.

The rest of the chatty cast couldn’t care less if it’s Jones, Rosie O’Donnell or Satan himself sitting across the table from them. Frankly, neither does most of America, but Jones appeared on the Today Show this morning, and Larry King last night to express her feelings on the matter.

Apparently, the fuss is over the way she was dismissed, but fired is fired. Move on.

Walters says that they tried to let Star go with dignity and give her time to find a new gig before Rosie took over the seat, but Jones got fed up with the whole situation and cracked on the air earlier this week. She’s no longer on the show.

Long story short...who cares? ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) I thought we were gonna hear about her eating people.
B.) There’s nothing like a good ass-cheek steak smothered in onions. Yum, yum.
C.) Stop, you’re making me hungry.

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2006-06-29T15:32:00.000-04:00

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Fat Is Where It’s At
Pass Me A Whopper And Crank Up The Air

A new study published this week in the International Journal of Obesity found that fat people can blame more than lack of exercise and poor diet for their condition.

Anti-depressants, lack of sleep, an increased number of ex-smokers and widespread use of air conditioning were also cited as contributing factors in America’s race to put on the pounds.

Many of these components, such as quitting smoking, have long been understood as causing weight gain, but the use of air conditioning raised a few eyebrows even in the medical community.
The reason, say researchers, is simple. The human body was meant to cool itself by sweating and warm itself by shivering.

Both actions use calories, and sitting in a cool room with air versus sitting in a warm room and sweating actually burns fewer calories.

Nowadays, widespread use of climate control, including the more modern phenomenon of air-conditioning, has made sweating a thing of the past for many Americans. We drive our air-conditioned cars from our air-conditioned houses to air-conditioned supermarkets (which are often uncomfortably cool, by the way) to buy food that is easy to prepare and full of fat. We work in air-conditioned offices and shop at air-conditioned malls.

Experts caution that this new evidence shouldn’t be used as an excuse for being obese, and that overweight people should take matters into their own hands by dieting and getting regular exercise.

A.) So, not only is air-conditioning contributing to global warming, it’s also making us fat?
B.) Hmmm...no more ozone layer, no more fat people. Sounds like a plan.
C.) Me, I’m big boned. Can I still use that for an excuse?

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2006-06-29T12:23:00.001-04:00

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New Bin Laden Tape!
Osama on Zarqawi, Bazoombas,
and Death to Pagan America ...

BAGHDAD, June 29 … A brand new Osama bin Laden tape will be available in stores in the next few days. Available on VHS only, bin Laden touches on the death of Abu Musab Zarqawi but saves most of his hosannas for Iraq’s burgeoning topless club scene.

“Don’t worry about Zarqawi; we will replace him,” bin Laden says sounding like a beaten-down old woman. “But I must somehow sneak into Plinqo (suburb of Baghdad) and see the beautiful things men have told me about in secret.”

The evildoer is referring to Baghdad Girl - a secret club where Iraqi men watch topless American girls dance ... in secret. Its location is telegraphed only by the word-of-mouth of excited men whispering in the alleys of metro Baghdad.

Here in the good old U.S.A., we can see strippers shaking them proper any damn time we want. Over there they can’t even say the word 'strippers' without being killed and burned in the town square at midnight.

And while we call breasts: jugs, patooties, cans, melons, tsitskas … whatever we want … like American men in the 1950s, the modern Iraqi dudes call the funbags bazoombas.

“Yes, we will destroy your pathetic pagan world,” Osama goes on, “But first I MUST SEE THE AMERICAN BAZOOMBAS … when I think of young bazoombas there is an uprising and insurgency inside these dirty filthy foul rags I wear … So be it - DEATH TO AMERICA!”

And life to bazoombas, thank Allah.

The five minute tape ends with bin Laden sitting on a dusty boulder in a bug infested cave whittling a new slingshot.

A.) That bastard. We will kill and burn him.
B.) Fuck that scumbag - stick a fork in him, he's done.
C.) He seems like an all right guy.
A.) What?!
B.) Letter, are you absolutely nuts?
C.) I've heard worse singers ...
A.) What?!
B.) Fuckhead, the guy's a terrorist and murderer!
C.) Taylor Hicks?
A.) Osama bin Laden, dumbass - pay attention.
B.) You smoke too much crack.
C.) You're right - I think I've got drain bamage.

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2006-06-28T07:56:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1971

The Squares
Are Taking Over
Leave Our TVs Alone, Man ...

This week the American ban on television cigarette ads goes into effect. Because watching too many cigarette commercials will give you brain cancer - the most insidious cancer of all - we will have to learn about new tobacco products in stupid magazines and newspapers.

A.) That’s uncool and bogue.
B.) A British cat asked me, “Can I bum a fag?” I rearranged his face.
C.) Smoke cigarettes, not war … oops, the Quaaludes kicked in.

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2006-06-28T07:55:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1973

The Stooges
Search And Destroy!

Michigan's The Stooges have a new album called Raw Power and it’s a real cool time. The record is mixed weird but it rocks.

The bad news is since David Bowie produced the record, the band is now known as Iggy & the Stooges and it’s the truth, man — like it or not: Lead guitarist Ron Asheton has been demoted to the bass guitar. How bogus is that? His replacement is some Ann Arbor dude, James Williamson. He’s all right, but he's no Ron Asheton — that’s for sure.

A.) Stooges forever.
B.) What a bummer — sounds like Iggy and Bowie are snorting too much coke.
C.) Letter B is right — they should take Quaaludes instead.

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2006-06-28T07:54:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1973

Movie Freaks Writer Out
Feels Faint Like A Woman

If you like getting freaked out at the movies, you’ve got to see The Exorcist. It’s gross and great.

In the flick, a young chick — we don’t have her name in front of us, sorry — spews green puke all over a priest who tries to save her after she’s possessed by the Devil. We’re talking world-class hurl here, folks; it’s pretty disgusting.

And since he is the Devil, he makes her say and do dirty stuff. ... (MUSTY SCRIBBLINS)

A.) Uh oh, now I’m going to puke.
B.) You're writing is foul; I just finished puking.
C.) Hey, we get your website down here in hell — it’s hot.

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2006-06-27T14:37:00.000-04:00

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IT'S MY PARTY ...
judy and johnny just walked through the door

THE STRANGE WORLD OF BRANGELINA
Someone has stolen Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie 's baby shower photos. Their attorneys have promised to come down hard as a motherfucker on anyone that publishes any of the photos. As a service to our readers at Lady Bomb Escorts, here’s an exclusive picture of the simply beautiful baby. It will only be up for 24 hours ... download it while you can.

A.) My God, what a beautiful child.
B.) It shall live a wonderful, privileged life.
C.) Looks like that Billy Bob dude.

FATHER AND SON REUNION
On Fathers’ Day, I took my Dad, Ed, to his favorite hamburger joint.

Since the crematorium handed me a gift bag with his remains in a box wrapped in gold foil, he sat on the stool next to me. “Oh, how nice—you have a gift for your Dad,” the waitress said.

“That is my Dad—he passed away on May 20th,” I said.

She made a quick Sign of the Cross over Ed. I ate a burger then took my Pop home.

A.) I took my Dad to a Tigers game.
B.) I treated my Father to dinner at a nice Italian restaurant.
C.) I don’t talk to my old man; I hate that prick.

THE TRUTH, MAN – LIKE IT OR NOT
Oasis guitarist Noel Gallagher says yes, he ripped off the chords of Burt Bacharach’s This Guy’s in Love With You for his own tune Half the World Away - but so fucking what?

Gallagher says, "It sounds exactly the same. I'm surprised Burt hasn't sued me yet." Then he picked up his sledgehammer.

A.) Gallagher is a comedy genius.
B.) Gallaher is the New McCartney.
C.) Look out for flying watermelon, fucker - look out!

BALL OF CONFUSION 2006
Guns N' Roses canary Axl Rose was busted by cops in Stockholm yesterday after allegedly biting a security guard’s leg in his hotel lobby. It’s a puzzle as to why the rock dude bit another dude but a cop did say that Rose was so loaded he had to be cuffed and restrained.

A.) No one rocks harder than Axl.
B.) Axl IS rock.
C.) My dad's dead, too.

WALKING THE DOG
Taxi is a good boy; my wife, Christine, and I really love that rascal. We were out for a walk.

“Save some for the other trees, dude,” I said to the doggie as he peed like crazy on the first tree we passed. I sipped coffee as we strolled past tree after tree with the cute Border Terrier lifting a leg and whizzing on seven of them till he finally ran out of urine.

Then he took a healthy crap. I picked it up with a baggie, tossed it into a trashcan and we went home.

I’ll be damned ... then I had to squirt and dump. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Thanks for sharing, man.
B.) Coffee does that to me too, man.
C.) Taxi is the cutest dog in the county.

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2006-06-27T12:46:00.000-04:00

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PETA DROPS CHARGES
Marty Sherman Vindicated, Still Jaded

First off, I’d like to thank all the readers who wrote in support of me after my animal cruelty arrest fiasco.

From the bottom of my heart I thank you all, especially those of you in Slovenia, where I’ve been informed that squirrels are often kept as pets, cherished as a delicacy (squirrel goulash), commonly stuffed and displayed for good luck, and routinely worn as winter hats.

Believe it or not, my lawyer got a call from the Michigan Chapter of the ACLU last week and they were eager to help me get off the hook for that dead squirrel photo that was published a while back on Lady Bomb. Once the PETA folks found out that the ACLU was on board, they decided to drop the charges. Hoorah!

I’m having my attorney work on a counter suit against the pricks for defamation of character and wrongful arrest. I’ll keep you posted.

Ironically, I met Pat S. In NYC two weekends ago for a quick visit. I say ‘ironically’ because Pat was there to personally woo Beyonce, who recently had a much publicized run-in with the PETA people herself, for the Wheel Of Fortune’s upcoming R&B diva week.

Even though she had already tentatively committed to do the week-long series of shows to help promote her new CD, Pat is always looking for a good excuse to do the Big Apple, and a chance to meet with Beyonce was something I just couldn’t pass up.

We met Beyonce at a trendy Soho supper-club, where she and I commiserated over our PETA difficulties while drinking Mimosas and eating shrimp cocktail. She was shocked (along with most of the civilized world, I might add) that I actually spent time in jail for publishing a photo of a dead squirrel.

We talked for hours about fur, dead animals and which ones look best when hung around which parts of her body, eventually coming to the conclusion that it was a shame Prada didn’t make fur slingbacks.

It was a conversation for the ages and I wish I had a recording of it.

After several more drinks, the three of us jokingly decided to start our own organization called PETE, which stands for People for the Ethical Treatment of Entertainers. A quick vote amongst ourselves produced an Executive Office that consisted of Beyonce Knowles - President, yours truly - V.P., and Mr. Pat (my good friend) Sajak - Secretary / Treasurer.

Pat lost the minutes to our first meeting, by the way.

Once dinner was over, we talked Beyonce into singing a funky rendition of Rocky Raccoon, with Pat on backup vocals and me playing my bare belly like a bongo - I’m very adept at cupping my hand and slapping over my navel to create a loud, hollow back beat. There was zealous applause all around and we got a standing "O" from the rest of the crowd, many of whom let out with shrill whistles and shrieks.

After Beyonce called it a night, Pat and I encored with a stirring version of Wipe-Out, then bar-hopped around Manhattan until 4am. ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) Man, that Sherman prick lives a charmed life.
B.) He did spend a weekend in jail you know.
C.) He deserved it, dead squirrel photo or no. He’s got to be guilty of something.

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2006-06-26T13:53:00.000-04:00

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rEPORT fROM bAGHDAD:
"Bo Bice and Me
at Neverland ..."
Writer Drinks Pulsay Kudars and Reminisces …

MUSTY WOULD MAKE A FORTUNE!
Since his girlfriend Renay had the flu, Musty took me along for a quick flight to California. He had a great money making idea: Sell drugs to the media at Bo Bice’s arraignment for messing around with little boys. The crème de la creme of world media - dope users all - would be together in the Santa Maria courthouse parking lot. And bored out of their skulls. Musty would make a fortune.

But that was really none of my business. To me it was an assignment … something to write about.

WORKING THE CROWD INTO FRENZY!
Thousands of fans excitedly hung outside the courthouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bo Bice. A dapper dude in Raybans asked me to hold up a “Poland Loves Bo” sign.

Yeah, right ... no, thanks.

He waved a $500 bill under my nose; I held the sign up proudly.

Suddenly, cheers filled the air as the King of Pop’s entourage pulled in front of the courthouse ... it was Bo Bice in the flesh!

“Yay!”
“Hip, Hip, Hooray!!”
“Poland Loves Bo!!!” we cried.

After disappearing into the courthouse for a few minutes, Bo was back and dancing on top of his limo, working the crowd into frenzy. I held up and waved my sign. Bo saw it, smiled, and waved me to join him. I moonwalked with Bo!

Then the Rayban guy gave me an invitation for the arraignment after party at Neverland.

MOUNTAINS OF ICE!
Against a backdrop of fans and amusement rides were three large buffet tables with every type of hot dog imaginable: grilled, boiled, and steamed.

A large banner read: “Enjoy A Wiener Everyday!”

It was weird - in the Motor City we call them hot dogs, but at Neverland everyone called them “wieners.”

There were humongous trays of potato salad--each flanked by large bowls of pretzels and jugs of Coca-Cola. And mountains of ice cubes surrounding what looked like a large sculpted ice wiener.

KEPT MY COOL AND FOCUSED!
I bit into my third one with mustard when someone whispered, “How’s your wiener?” I turned around. “Why, it’s delicious, and…”

Oh my god--it was Bo Bice! I kept my cool and focused on my hot dog. “Wow, hey man - it really is delicious. I love hot do … oops, I mean wieners … I had three!” I stammered. We munched and talked.

IN THE REPAIR SHOP!
Bice knew everything about wieners—from their ingredients to how they were stuffed. He could even tell you how many wieners every nation in the world consumed. We had a couple with ketchup and I told him about “Coney Islands,” grilled hot dogs with chili, mustard and onions. It's how we scarf them in Detroit.

Bo scrunched his face; he had never heard of chili before! I described it as hearty soup made from ground beef usually eaten from a bowl but also used liberally as a topping on our “wieners.” He couldn’t believe it. Bo immediately wanted to fly his private jet, “SkyWiener,” to the D to pick up some chili but it was in the repair shop. I promised him I’d send him a gallon from Lafayette Coney Island downtown.

RICH WHITE LADY!
“Want to go on a ride with me?” Bo asked. “Sure,” I said as we cut to the front of the line, jumped on the Merry-Go-Round and rode wooden horseys side by side.

Mine was light blue; Bo’s was pink. I named my horse Ginger.

Then guilt set in. For years I’d goofed on Bo Bice—telling my readers that only in America could a poor black boy grow up to be a rich white lady. I told Bubbles the Chimp sex jokes also.

Now I had to admit it: Bo Bice was a good, sharing human being unafraid to share his music and wieners with all.

ENOUGH TIME TO CATCH MUSTY!
We sat in front of a roaring fireplace. “Hey, want some hot cocoa?” Bo asked. “Sure, man—thanks!” I said. Fifteen minutes later I finished the cocoa and yawned. I could barely keep my eyes open. “Would you like to lie down for awhile?” Bo said. Sounded good to me; I sure was sleepy. Bo showed me to a guestroom. I slept for twelve hours and woke up in the afternoon with just enough time to catch Musty and our plane back to the Motor City. Didn’t get the chance to thank Bo for the hospitality. Musty made $167,586 selling drugs!

Me? I got a story. Hey, that’s weird…my ass hurts.

Oops, wait a minute – come to think of it: it wasn’t Bo Bice, it was Michael Jackson, sorry.

And my ass doesn't hurt - that's a joke. ... (LYZAKO)

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2006-06-26T10:20:00.002-04:00

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aries
March 21 - April 19
Hey, Dumbass! Wake up! You’re about to be taken advantage of, Aries. I realize that this is nothing new to you, but if you don’t watch your back this time you could be penniless in the very near future. Court dates, fines and fees are in the stars. Lucky number: 9

taurus
April 20 - May 20
How many fingers do I have up, Taurus? That’s right. Just one, and you know which one it is. I represent the world telling you to fuck off. You can either lie in bed in the fetal position or get off your dead ass and do something to make things better. No fucking lucky numbers this week, fucker.

gemini
May 21 - June 21
I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you this week, Gemini. You’ve avoided all the mistakes that could have sunk you by now and you’re thriving doing something that you marginally enjoy. Unfortunately, health issues will cut your life tragically short. Lucky letters: IRA

cancer
June 22 - July 22
Pull yourself up by the bootstraps this week. I know it’s not easy, Cancer, but you have to get off the bottle. You’re about to hit rock bottom. Again. Get a mirror, look yourself in the eye and embrace your weakness while acknowledging your strength. Then have a drink. No lucky numbers.

leo
July 23 - August 22
Desperate times call for desperate measures, Leo. It’s time to make sure that handgun you have hidden in the bottom dresser drawer is in working condition. There’s a couple of liquor stores near you that are just ripe for the picking and the pricks behind the plexiglass deserve a gunshot wound or two. Don’t be afraid to pull the trigger. Oh, and wear a mask, dummy. Lucky fatal game of chance: Russian Roulette.

virgo
August 23 - September 22
Gambling isn’t the worst addiction that you could have, Virgo. But we both know that it also isn’t your only one. The blow is going to get more and more expensive while the casino continues to take more and more of your money. You’re falling into a deep hole, my friend. I don’t see you getting out. Lucky lady: Queen of Spades.

libra
September 23 - October 22
So, Libra, you think you’ve got everything under control, eh? In spite of my warning you will be blind-sided this week in some kind of way. Unexpected bad news from an ex-lover means another trip to the clinic. Unlucky letters: S.T.D.

scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Hooray for you Scorpio! You win first prize in the stupid fuck of the year contest! You have made so many mistakes since January that the shit that happens this week shouldn’t come as a surprise. Just remember, though...whatever happens, it’s all your fault. Lucky numbers: 3, 0, 5.

sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
Crap, crap, crap. That’s the sound of the shit raining down on you, Sagittarius, and I don’t see any let-up this week. I’m a lot more accurate than that motherfucking weatherman that keeps telling you the sun is going to shine, too. It’s not. Not for you at least. No lucky anything.

capricorn
December 22 - January 19
An unwanted pregnancy is at the forefront of your bad news this week, Capricorn. I happen to be an advocate of choice, but if you’re the father, you may have none. If you’re the mother, though, think long and hard about your decision. No matter who the dad is there’s a good chance you’ll drop a future felon onto the streets, and the entire process will be painful beyond your wildest imagination. Even with a spinal block. Lucky day: Tuesday.

aquarius
January 20 - February 18
If you managed to avoid jail last week, Aquarius, you were one of the lucky few. But the cops are still hot on your trail and you need to relocate somewhere where they’d least expect to find you. I suggest a big city where you can still get the drugs you need to get by. Lucky tattoo: Mom.

pisces
February 19 - March 20
I saved the best news of all this week for you, my Pisces friend. An accident will cause you pain and horrible disfigurement, and there will be absolutely nothing you can do about it. Play your cards right, though, and the future holds a big insurance settlement and maybe even a book deal. My advice: keep your fingers crossed and drive carelessly. Lucky licence plate: GETREAL. ... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)

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2006-06-23T12:56:00.000-04:00

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rEPORT fROM bAGHDAD
Writers Goof Off In
War Ravaged Iraq
'They didn't murder and burn us...'

PLINQO, Iraq, June 23 ... In Baghdad on Baghdad Girl business, Musty and I took a walk through Saddam Hussein’s old palace.

What a dump: cruddy furniture and cheap wood paneling with peeling Hustler Honey centerfolds on every wall. I laughed and pointed at a certain pair of bazoombas when suddenly a rock hit me in the back of the head.

I didn’t realize this till I picked myself up off the hard dirt floor. Stunned and rubbing my head while mumbling ‘What the fuck?,’ I looked out the filthy window. A dozen insurgents stood with flaming torches chanting: “We will murder you and burn you! We will murder you and burn you!”

Thank God, I had a flask of Pulsay Kudar (chilled potato vodka, bathwater, and grenadine) in my pocket. I tore off a piece of my shirt, and Musty stuck the woven cotton into the flask. I lit it and threw it into the middle of the brouhaha.

Holy shit, there were arms and legs flying all over the place. Problem fucking solved, ha, ha, ha.

Later that day, the Iraqi police arrested Musty for 'vending without a license.' It seems the musty one had been hawking his new icy sensation, the Pulsay Kudar Shlurpa, in the middle of Saddamarama Square without first greasing the police chief with a blowjob from a dancer from Baghdad Girl, our strip club in Iraq.

And a bathtub full of PK Shlurpa, of course. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Potato vodka, bathwater, and grenadine beats the heat … PK Shlurpa!
B.) Tonight at Baghdad Girl — Pulsay Kudar jello shots only 16 dinar!
C.) Visit Pulsaykudar.com for more exotic drink recipes!

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2006-06-23T10:33:00.000-04:00

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A Labatt Forty
& Pack of Ladyfingers!
Fourth of July Holiday Around Corner

We’re Michiganders and fireworks freaks, so when we need our fix, we hit the net and visit MichiganFireworks.com.

You can search the most comprehensive listing of every fireworks show in the Big Mitten by city and date. You’ll be oohing and ahhing damn near every night if you want to.

A.) Everybody loves boom booms—that’s for sure.
B.) Am driving to Toledo to score fireworks. Who wants what?
C.) Can’t use a conputer too good. Blew off all of my figners after carlessly dorpping a lit cigrettes into a large open box of M-80’s I was carraying. Am typing wiht my nose, fukc.

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2006-06-23T10:21:00.002-04:00

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Open Letter To Simon Cowell
AMERICA’S GOT TALENT?
YEAH, RIGHT - NOT!
New Show Blows Big Time...

Dear Simon,

How's it going? Hey, I love you, man. You are some kind of judge on American Idol - the best - you give it to the contestants good. And you get what … $36 million a year for doing it? I salute you, fucker. I salute you. Never has one man made so much for goofing on the pseudo talented.

It's not unlike what we do, except for the money part, ha, ha, ha ...

Per your request, last night I watched the new show you sold to NBC - America’s Got Talent -and dude, you have to agree it was a train wreck. I’ll give it another week but then I may have to bail. I could barely watch the 2-hour debut. I wish I’d spent the two hours more carefully and wisely.

I really do have to alphabetize my tofu recipes.

Ah, but you’re a genius, mate; I know you got your money up front.

AGT is nothing more than a new fangled Gong Show / American Idol hybrid without the charm, right? Except for the precious and genuinely funny 8-year-old stand-up comic, Syd the Kid, there was no heart - just a funeral parade of egotistical yahoos compelled by their need to be on TV.

Yo Simon, who’s idea was it to sign Regis Philbin as host? Enough with the Regis already. Look under his toupee; he’s two years past his shelf life. God bless him - he’s terrific – but goddamn it, come up with a fresh face, grab some up-and-comer … or get Chuck Fucking Barris, for Christ's sake; he has to be at least ten years younger than Regis.

And the judges led by washed-up TV star David Hasselhoff … come on. I’m too busy to research his um, body of work, but I’m sure at one time he was really something. I have no idea who the Bozo is, but this Haselhoff clown is absolutely gay. No, not in a homosexual way, but you know … fucking gay. Like hard-to-watch gay.

If memory serves he wouldn't gong the 65-year-old male stripper until Gramps was about to reveal his wrinkled package.

Come to think of it, maybe he is a homo ... but hey, that's cool.

The other judges – a snarky Brit guy and a thin black chick – are useless. Put me and Musty on - we'll give you a performance.

Well hell, you asked me to check in and tell you what I think. You got paid, that's the main thing, bro.

Give Yolanda my best, and thanks again for the dough to get the Bomb website up. The cops are getting closer and Marty Sherman's an occasional pain in the ass, but other than that it's going swell.

Best,

Lyzako ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Damn, I missed it. Did you TiVo it?
B.) Dickhead, you traded the machine for crack last night.
A.) What?!
C.) Dont you remember?
A.) What?!
B.) After you threw up at the bar, we went to the crack house.
A.) I threw up?
C.) On an Asian realtor.
A.) No!
B.) Yes.
C.) Then we went to the local crack house and smoked rocks.
A.) I don't remember.
B.) You have no brain, stupid.
C.) We ran out of cash. You traded in the TiVo machine for more crack.
A.) Why, that fucking crack ... see how it is?
B.) Yeah, you were a riot last night.
C.) Don't forget the Asian chick's body is in your car trunk.
A.) What?! Fuck.

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2006-06-22T14:55:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1972
An Offer You
Can’t Refuse!

LOS ANGELES, June 21 ... Hollywood has a lot of nerve. They’ll do anything to get their hands inside your wallet. This time around they’ve got washed-up actor Marlon Brando and a bunch of other overacting yahoos in a gangster piece of tripe called The Godfather.

It's too long, the script is corny, and newcomer Al Pachino will never have a career in movies. The kid cannot act.

Save your money. ... (MUSTERVILLE SCRIBBLINS)

A.) Marlon Brando? Bah. Ernest Borgnine - now that's an actor.
B.) The Thing with Two Heads — now that’s movie magic.
C.) Can’t read the column right now, I’m seeing double from Quaaludes.

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2006-06-22T14:54:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1973

The War Is Over!
Give Peace A Chance, Man ...

DA NANG, Vietnam, April 7 ... After 7,078,032 tons of bombs, 3 million deaths and American troop levels that peaked at 543,400 back in ‘69, we’re happy to say the Vietnam War is finally over.

On March 29, the last 2,500 US troops finally left that life-sucking godforsaken place. After this mess, it's safe to say we'll never get ourselves in a similar predicament again.

A.) Sorry, can’t read this Bomb right now — I'm watching M*A*S*H.
B.) Sorry, can’t read this Bomb right now — am going to see The Godfather.
C.) War. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing — say it again.

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2006-06-22T10:34:00.000-04:00

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No News Is Good
Study Finds Link Between
Broadcast News And Anxiety

PROVIDENCE, Rhode Island, June 22 ... In a recent study at Brown University, researchers turned up startling evidence that regularly watching, reading and/or listening to news broadcasts over a period of time as short as one month can adversely affect your health.

The study, which included subjects from all walks of life who ranged in age from 5 to 85, found that "the more news that test subjects were exposed to, the more likely they were to develop psychological problems that ranged from anxiety and depression to anti-social behavior and uncontrolled outbursts of violence."

"Initially we were surprised at the results," said one researcher, "but we took a hard look at the numbers and there’s no denying that too much news is bad."

To explain this sudden spike in these behavioral problems, the study cites the proliferation of television in general, everyday use of the internet, and the trend towards running text stories across the bottom of the screen while showing other information - such as stock market reports and weather- in combination with a live newscast, as pioneered on the Bloomberg Report.

This last practice, which has come to be known as ‘Bloomberg-ing,’ is the major culprit when it comes to causing confusion, anxiety and even depression in the viewer.

"We found that 24-hour news stations like CNBC, FOX News and CNN have all adopted this overload approach to presenting the news, and for most of the test subjects it was just too much."

The study concludes by recommending that we spend no more than an hour a day getting our news and that we try to read it in an actual newspaper if possible. Listening to hourly news updates on the radio is also a relatively safe way to be informed, but the study strongly cautions against watching any of the all-news networks and limiting television news to one half-hour each of local and international news per day.

It went on to say that we should "avoid the internet and blogs" as sources for news because of the "vast amount of confusing misinformation" that exists on the web. ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) The weatherman said it was going to rain today and he wasn’t lying.
B.) Yeah, it’s pouring out there. Glad I’m inside, high and dry.
C.) Even this is too much news. I’m gonna take a nap.

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2006-06-21T17:15:00.000-04:00

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rEPORT fROM bAGHDAD:
BAZOOMBAS A GO GO
IN WAR TORN COUNTRY
a wRITER tAKES a lOOK aT eDGY iRAQ

PLINQO, Iraq, June 21 ... Benwa "Jojo" Ameesh is one of the lucky ones. He is rich beyond his wildest dreams because he is in the spider business.

“Ha, ha, ha, my father told me there could be no future in spiders; that stupid fool - he was so wrong,” Ameesh says while taking a fresh roll of dinars from a burlap sack and ordering another pitcher of his favorite drink.

He opens his jacket to reveal his spider, Flunker. He pets the arachnid gently.

Spider Cave, the store Ameesh opened the day American troops invaded Iraq, sold over three billion dinars worth of spiders last year. He finds them in dank, dark caves on the outskirts of Mothra.

"Everybody in Iraq buy spider as pet. They bring good luck," he smiles as a bomb explodes in the distance. "Spider, spider, spider - they good for me."

Very good, in fact. It’s why Ameesh sits at Baghdad Girl drinking expensive Pulsay Kudars (chilled potato vodka, bathwater, grenadine) and watching bazoombas with a Bon Jovi cassette blasting from a cheap boombox.

“Pulsay Kudar is good,” Ameesh slurs. “Bazoombas good … spider good ... everything is good.”

He rolls a crisp dinar bill, sticks it in his mouth like a cigarette, and waits for a dancing Connie to come to him. Connie sees the dinar and wahtusis over. Ameesh lovingly nuzzles the money into a purple G-string that barely covers her poosay.

The spider seller lingers there ...

Apparently too long as a husky bouncer grabs him by the collar of his polyester cloak and whips him out the door onto the hard dirt road. A bartender tells a writer this same scene is replayed every night.

Ameesh gets up and dusts himself off. He takes Flunker out of his pocket and places him on his shoulder.

He stumbles into the warm Iraqi night and walks the 60-odd miles to get home.

A.) Wow, nightlife is off the hook in Iraq.
B.) Sounds like it to me. Thank God for the War.
C.) We're lucky letters to be living in such exciting times.
A.) So fucking lucky.
B.) I concur.
C.) Yep.

$#

2006-06-21T09:26:00.000-04:00

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PETA LAUNCHES
SURPRISE ATTACK
Animal Rights Group Badgers
Beyonce, Orders Vegetarian

After winning an on-line auction for a dinner with Beyonce, PETA sent several members to NYC’s Nobu 57 to confront the R&B singer about her new fashion line, which prominently features fur.

The wearing of fur is a no-no to the squirrel-hugging do-gooders and they let Beyonce know about it in no uncertain terms.

Beyonce, who was expecting an ass-kissing during dinner from a group of adoring fans, was reported to have sat quietly until the persistently pestering PETA people were eventually thrown out of the restaurant. She then ordered "a large miso soup, several California rolls, an assortment of nigiri, featuring shrimp, tuna and eel and two orders of tempura shrimp." ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

The PETA folks ate rice balls and split a cucumber roll just prior to leaving.

A.) My uncle has a lampshade made of human skin that he got in WWII.
B.) I think Beyonce looks hot wearing fur. And her ass looks great in jeans.
C.) Daniel Boone wore a coon-skin cap, remember? Where was PETA then?

#

2006-06-20T14:59:00.000-04:00

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'Star Wars' Character
Irritates Web Surfers!
Writer Cares Less, Thought Movie Sucked

Wow – approximately 5,000 movie lovers have voted Jar Jar Binks the most annoying film character of all time. This breaking news comes via Brit website LoveFilm.com. A buck says it’s a great site.

Having walked out halfway through Star Wars when it opened many years ago, a writer can't agree or disagree about the alien named Jar Jar. He merely sips his lukewarm coffee, scratches his head, and remembers why he gave up on a flick that millions love: Um, it seemed fucking stupid.

The second irritant on the list is Andie MacDowell's character, Carrie, in Four Weddings And A Funeral. This time, the writer shakes his head; he won't watch anything with Hugh Grant in it. Grant is this generation's Stan Laurel - without the talent and charisma.

Writer pours more coffee and wonders what kind of chump pays to see Hugh Grant.

Third most annoying is Rowan Atkinson's Bean – yes, can’t stand him either - followed by Jim Carrey's Ace Ventura in fourth place. Writer agrees; Carrey annoys.

Number five on the list is Ben Stiller's White Goodman in Dodgeball. Yep, another annoyingly stupid flick with an annoying Stiller; bailed after 20 minutes.

Writer prays to God to bring back the Three Stooges. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Guy's nuts. Star Wars is the greatest film of all time.
B.) It's a classic, but Gone With The Wind is the best!
C.) Frankly, my letter, I don't give a damn.
A.) Ha, ha, ha. That's funny.
B.) Ha, ha, ha, you smell like crack.
C.) Ha, ha, ha, you got me. Here are my car keys ...
A.) Glove box, Altoids tin?
C.) Back seat floor, under towel, Band-Aid box.
B.) Good man, can't wait.
A.) Pipe, lighter ... check. Thanks.
C.) Leave me some, fuckers.

#

2006-06-20T07:29:00.000-04:00

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MORE SHERMANISMS

Marty Sherman on Tipping...
Somewhere along the way I got a reputation for being a lousy tipper. Well, my friends, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Whether I’m out on the town for drinks or having lunch at Twingo’s West, I’m a solid twenty-percenter. I’m a leg-and-ass man, myself, and have been known to double that, so keep yourself in shape, ladies.

Note: There’s a direct relationship between the number of drinks I’ve had and the amount I tip. Make sure I’m well lubed and I’ll hold up my end of the deal.

I never leave a strip club with folding money in my pockets. Never. Ever!

Do I tip every Tom, Dick and Harry that brings me mail, holds a door open, cuts my hair, gives me a manicure, washes my car or picks up my trash? Fuck no! Do you?

By the way, I never got a tip for telling a good joke, either.

Oh, and I’ll carry my own bags, thank you.

On Being Funny...
Nobody’s funny all the time, but I come pretty damn close. Either you think I’m a riot or you just don’t get it. That’s on you and I really don’t give a shit either way.

On Not Giving A Shit...
In jazz lingo it’s "bust your conk" and the French call it "sans-souci" but "not giving a shit" has a much funnier sound to it. For example: "This sans-souci motherfucker busted his conk a long time ago and I really don’t give a shit."

Jokes are like sex. They’re really only funny when you don’t have to explain to the audience that you’re done.

Did I mention that women are like anchors? Well, they are.

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2006-06-19T15:31:00.001-04:00

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Spotlight On The Dead:
"Hey Knucklehead,
I'll Moider You!"

Had he not died in 1975, Moe Howard would have been 109-years-old today.

Moe – born Moses Horwitz in Brooklyn - was the leader of the Three Stooges, America’s finest comedy trio, best known for their wacky shtick in tons of short films throughout the middle of the 20th century.

Those numbskulls would fuck up absolutely any situation and then Moe would beat Larry, Curly and Shemp before poking them in the eyes, ha, ha, ha.

Now we have Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, and the too-cute guy with the blond mop of hair to make us laugh. ... (MUSTY SCRIBBLINS)

A.) Jesus Christ. They don't make 'em like they used to.
B.) Women hate the Three Stooges.
C.) It's why they're from Venus and we're from Mars.

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2006-06-19T14:35:00.000-04:00

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BROKEN EGGS? OMELETTES!
Lady Bomb Embraces War!
Opens Gentlemen’s Club Near Baghdad Suburb ...

Yes, North Korea has developed a nuclear missile that can reach America, but more importantly, Musty just flew back from Baghdad where he helped oversee the opening of our new ‘secret’ strip club, Baghdad Girl. It’s a ‘secret’ because a woman’s breasts are not to be bared in Iraq — under any circumstances whatsoever.

And if you are caught looking at them for any reason, you will be killed and burned in the town square at midnight. Go ahead and laugh, but Baghdad — and its surrounding cities, Mothra, Plinqo, and Toomush — hosts a vibrant, word-of-mouth, 'secret' nightlife where men pay billions of dinars nightly, in secret, to see a woman’s bare breasts. It’s why we flew in three dozen 19-year-old dancers and opened Baghdad Girl in a former Costco building just outside Mothra’s city limits.

At the top left is the flyer that men secretly hand to other men in the alleys behind the streets. They recognize Ryan Seacrest in the photograph. They whisper and tell secrets.

They tell each other where Baghdad Girl is located.

The men of Iraq love American hot chicks — "And why not?” asks 37-year-old shopkeeper Benwa "Jojo" Ameesh, spending a late night at Baghdad Girl enjoying the sight of young bare breasts.

“Everyone knows United States ladies have the hottest bazoombas in the world,” Ameesh says while sipping a Pulsay Kudar, the 3,200 dinar drink special made with chilled potato vodka, bathwater, and grenadine.

Once again referring to breasts as American men did back in the 1950s, Ameesh laments, “Why we cannot see bazoombas only in secret? All over world man see bazoombas — but not in Iraq. It suck and not right.”

Ameesh pulls a wad of dinars from his cloak, orders another Pulsay Kudar, and watches the bazoombas bounce. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) See? America is the greatest fucking country in the world.
B.) Strippers are wonderful, giving human beings.
C.) Pulsay Kudars for everyone — Musty’s buying.

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2006-06-19T07:52:00.000-04:00

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aries
March 21 - April 19
Don’t look to your friends for help this week. You are truly on your own, Aries. A misunderstanding with the opposite sex means a lingering, painful death by Friday. For you, Aries, I want to make sure that you understand that you are the one going to die. No lucky numbers again.

taurus
April 20 - May 20
Good news, Taurus. That extra weight you’ve been trying to drop will start coming off this week with little or no effort on your part. The bad news? You’ll be well on your way to rail thin by the time they diagnose the tumor. Lucky surgical tool: rib spreader.

gemini
May 21 - June 21
If you’re celebrating a birthday this week, Gemini, avoid the water. The stars are painting a vague but beautifully impressionistic picture that depicts capsizing, shipwreck and/or drowning, depending on how you look at it. Unlucky nautical name: S.S. Minnow.

cancer
June 22 - July 22
Dealing with depression by drinking and using drugs only exacerbates the problem. And exacerbates means makes it worse, you Cancer dolt, not better. Nevertheless, you have my blessing to exacerbate away. Lucky drink: Chocolate Rothko.

leo
July 23 - August 22
Remember when you were a kid, Leo? When you didn’t have a care in the world and summertime meant three months with no school and unlimited fucking around? Well, those days are long gone and you can expect a summer full of painful surprises. I could be specific, but surprises are more fun. Well, these won’t be. Lucky numbers: 32, 33, 34, 35.

virgo
August 23 - September 22
You know what they say, Virgo: Love is for Losers. I see that you’ve lost big time and it’s really got you down. He / she broke your freaking heart, right? Well, you can teach them a lesson they’ll never forget with a strong rope, a quiet corner in the garage and a folding chair. Oh, don’t forget the suicide note that blames them for everything. Your luck has run out.

libra
September 23 - October 22
You should be feeling better than you have in a long time, Libra. The stars are aligned in a very favorable pattern for you through mid-week. Oops, I guess that wasn’t a star there on the chart, just a crumb from my bear claw. Sorry. I see poor health and unemployment. Lucky cartoon character: Betty Boop

scorpio
October 23 - November 21
No shit, Scorpio. Have you finally decided to stand on your own two feet and show the world what you’re made of? I’m surprised. You’re normally such a chicken shit that I’d expect you to buckle under the pressure like Kirstey Alley’s knees when she waddles down the stairs after dinner. Good for you. Lucky buckle: belt.

sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
I know it’s hard to hear that you have a terminal disease, Sagittarius, but it’s true. It won’t be some run-of-the-mill illness like cancer or heart disease, either. I see something so exotic and rare that it could land you on the six o’clock news. See, you’ll be kind of famous. Not so bad, is it? Lucky finger: index.

capricorn
December 22 - January 19
You’d probably consider yourself lucky if only you had a rare terminal illness this week, Capricorn. I see a bludgeoning from a relative that you would least expect. There’s a less than 50-50 chance that you’ll survive. No lucky numbers.

aquarius
January 20 - February 18
You will need to move quickly this week in order to avoid arrest. If you’re newly paroled from prison, Aquarius, you can expect to end up back in the joint if you don’t drop what you’re doing and get out of town now. Now! Move it! Lucky cigarette: Lucky Strike. How lucky is that? And they’re like money in jail.

pisces
February 19 - March 20
Avoid air travel this week, Pisces. Due to unresolved labor issues, I see planes falling from the sky like rain in the...umm, rainforest. It’s probably a good idea to spend the week underground. If you don’t have a basement, dig a hole and hop in. Lucky nonsense word: dagnabbit. ... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)

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2006-06-16T12:35:00.000-04:00

#

20th Century Bomb: 1970
Extremely Tired,
If You Know What I Mean!

The president of Bolivia, Alfredo Ovando Candía, has resigned because there is simply too much cocaine in his country, do you understand?

It is in his office, in his car, in each room of his palace ... his moustache, in the beard — it sits everywhere. Add the vaginas of the Bolivian women to the mix and slip into Presidente's shoes: There is not enough time to govern a country when you cannot govern your nose or penis.

To take his place is General Rogelio Miranda. He is the new top banana.

A.) Because he has appeal.
B.) Like Che Guevara said: “If you govern the penis — you rule the world!”
C.) President Alfredo sniffed so much cocaine they named a fettuccine dish after him.

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2006-06-16T12:33:00.000-04:00

#

20th Century Bomb: 1971
Bad Ass Little Ride!

Hip, smart, cool and named after a Mexican bean, the Ford Motor Company proudly introduces their new Pinto automobile.

Like most cars, it has four tires, two doors, headlights and a horn but it’s main selling point is its small engine which will get you 30 miles to the gallon — a groovy thing since gas prices are up to 36 cents a gallon.

A.) Forty-cents next month — watch.
B.) A car named after a bean, ha, ha, ha.
C.) That car looks bogue. I’ll keep my Beetle, gratias.

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2006-06-16T10:23:00.001-04:00

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No Boys In Beyonce’s Band
All Girl Line-up Fodder For Future Celebrity Lesbianisms?

A flurry of auditions were held this week to fill spots in the band for Beyonce’s upcoming world tour, scheduled to kick off this summer with the release of her second solo album B’Day.

The catch? All the instruments, from drums and keyboards to guitars and horns, will be played by women. Real women.

Beautiful women with real, working vaginas, ample breasts and soft, full lips.

Local auditions were held in several major cities including the diva’s hometown of Houston, and finalists will move on to New York where they will be hand-picked by Beyonce herself. Aside from having their ‘chops’, musicians will have to demonstrate compatibility with the sexy songstress and individual ‘closed door meetings’ with Beyonce will be scheduled once the line-up is finalized.

Beyonce’s first solo effort, Dangerously In Love, earned her five Grammys, and her Live At Wembley DVD, which was recorded during that tour, continues to sell briskly. The former lead singer of Destiny’s Child hopes her sophomore outing will mirror that success.

Deja Vu, the first single from the upcoming album, features main squeeze Jay Z and dropped on Tuesday this week to good reviews.

Incidentally, B’Day is scheduled for international release on the bronze goddess’ own birthday, September 4. ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) Not too many chicks can play drums. I can only think of Sheila E.
B.) How about lead guitar. Name one good girl guitarist.
C.) Hmmm. You’re right, but who cares? As long as Beyonce dances, I’m in.

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2006-06-15T10:48:00.000-04:00

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Message To Parents:
IS YOUR CHILD ADDICTED?

As if worrying about your teenager using drugs wasn’t enough, parents now have a new reality to deal with. Recent studies suggest that the video games that kids play can be just as addictive as crack or alcohol, and without treatment can lead to premature loss of vision, dizziness, carpal tunnel syndrome, anti-social behavior and even death.

Well, maybe not death, but the rest of the stuff for sure.

A clinic in the Netherlands (where else?) has opened in response to the need for hooked gamers to kick. Because gamers often use drugs to help focus and extend their playing time, the program takes a two-prong approach that combines treatment for video game addiction, along with additional focus on game-related substance abuse on a case-by-case basis.

Since opening in January, the clinic has treated gaming addicts whose withdrawal symptoms range from involuntary hand and finger movements to breaking out in a cold sweat at the sight of a computer. More akin to gambling addiction than physical dependancy, video game addiction occurs when players use the games to avoid unpleasant situations and end up living the games as an alternate reality.

"I used to play 15 hours a day and more," said one patient. "I couldn’t hold down a job and I ended up robbing liquor stores to be able to afford new games. I had X-Box and PS2, along with over a hundred different games for each. I couldn’t stop. Sometimes I’d go through two joysticks a week."

While details of the detox program are not made public, therapists acknowledge that the basic treatment involves "going outside and being in the real world" while developing interests that don’t involve a computer, television or gaming system.

"We’re trying to get our patients involved with time-honored activities such as painting, singing, reading and writing as creative alternatives to playing video games,"said one of the clinic’s lead therapists.

A.) I like to gamble all night at on-line casinos while drinking beer and smoking crack.
B.) I like to smoke weed and have sex. It mellows me out, man.
C.) I drink whiskey and shoot handguns. Mostly at targets, but sometimes small animals.

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2006-06-15T10:12:00.000-04:00

#

First of all, that not my head.
Is that your head?

Toku make joke.

##

Look Out 4 New Video!
Singer from famous Detroit band, White Stripe, make new video for his band, The Raconteurs, latest single, Steady, As She Goes. It star Jack White and new friend, Pee Wee Herman, who better known as Paul Rewbens. No joke, it true.

Toku know girl with Rubenesque figure ... because she eat too many Ruben!

Mmm, now that a good sandwich.

##

She Get Blessing in Disguise!
Uh oh, American Idol judge and Hot Chick (some say) Paula Abdul hire 'spiritual guide' to help make her life easier. Her duties will include making diet for her. Must be nice to be needy celebrity.

##

Up Shit Creek Without Paddle!
Toku hate to say it but washed up rock star Gary Glitter fuck himself up. Court say he still guilty for having sex with 2 very young girl. It sad. Nothing wrong with fuck, shit, piss, skunk, et cetera, but doing something dirty with early vagina is wrong, so wrong. It embarrassing that some people so sick. Maybe that his picture in photograph at top left. Hate to say but Toku hope Glitter rot in prison after guard stick broom handle you-know-where.

He rot in prison - then in HELL.

Toku not joking.

##

Some of That, Thank You!
In latest Paris Hilton news: Paris meet rich man, drink champagne, screw him, and go home after she back into someone car, ha, ha, ha. But seriously, there is nothing new to know about her but it give us reason to run the hottest chick in the world picture.

That no joke either.

I am your humble servant and dancing monkey. ... (TOKUGAWA MARINSKI)

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2006-06-14T14:01:00.000-04:00

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ENOUGH BULLSHIT ALREADY!
Marty Sherman Gets Real

As I’m standing here watching my frozen dinner defrost in the microwave I can’t help thinking about some of the amazing advances in household technology.

I still can’t figure out how these things work. It’s like an E-Z Bake Oven or something. The light comes on and ten minutes later you’ve got hot food.

Amazing.

But computers? I can’t fucking stand them.

I hate, and I do mean HATE, turning the bastards on in the morning. The fucking white noise hum shit that goes with it. The noise they make when "updates are available". The warning beep when I do something that I’m not supposed to do.

Computers suck. Did I mention that I hate them? I fucking hate them.

Hang on a sec. My microwave is done defrosting and the motherfucker keeps beeping if I don’t push the ‘END’ button. And I mean keeps motherfucking beeping until you want to just rip the thing off the wall and throw it right through the motherfucking kitchen window!

Beep. Beep. Beep....Beep. Beep. Beep....Beep. Beep. Beep....Beep. Beep. Beep.

I can’t fucking stand it. Just beep once, alright? I know it’s DONE, for Christ’s sake!

Anyway...computers. THEY SUCK! Email, internet, fast connections, dial-up, spam, spam-blockers, html, viruses, spyware, blogs...MOTHERFUCKING BLOGS!

Couldn’t the world live without fucking blogs? I know I could. I’m sick-to-death tired of the fucking made-up words, the constantly changing new vocabulary that we need to get by on this god-forsaken ball of shit.

Shhhh, listen...Hallelujah! No more microwave fucking beeps.

I guess that means my tamales are ready, but I’m going to have to smoke way more pot and drink many more beers before I’m able to choke that shit down. God only knows where the stuff came from that’s inside those fucking tamales. For all I know it’s scraped off the shoes of the rednecks who work at the fucking Swanson’s factory.

I’ll bet dollars to goddamn doughnuts that cocksucker George W. Motherfucking Bush isn’t eating a goddamn frozen dinner right now. Motherfucking bastard.

Probably eating fois-gras and drinking fucking champagne! The son of a bitch.

And I’ll bet he never has to touch a fucking keyboard or mouse. Mouse? It used to be a tiny animal. Not any more, my friends. Not any more.

Double click THIS, asshole!

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Computers.

This Dell piece of shit I have has barely functioned since I bought it a year and a half ago. And you know what they tell me? I’ll need another one by next year anyway because this one will be hopelessly out of date. Every three years I’ll need a new one, just to keep up with the newest fastest shit there is and be able to run the latest operating system, etc., blahblahblahfuckingblah...

Well, you know what? I’m about damn good and ready to check out of this technological nightmare. That’s right. You heard it here first. Marty Fucking Sherman is about to go back to his roots.

I’m bringing back pencil on paper, baby. I’m dusting off my 1929 Underwood with the faulty backspace key.

FUCK THIS COMPUTER COCKSUCKER-BASTARD-PRICK BULLSHIT!

Hand me the fucking white-out and get out of my goddamn way! ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) I think he’s finally gone over the edge.
B.) I hope he realizes he’ll have to scan all his stuff into a computer so we can use it.
C.) Microwave popcorn is the shiznitz, my nizzle. Extra butter, please.

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2006-06-14T08:18:00.000-04:00

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Ball of Confusion 2006
They're Coming
to Get You, Martha ...

According to a recent Gallup poll, 32 percent of all adults say they “believe in ghosts” and that “dead people can come back.”

Forty-eight percent of us don’t believe it and 19 percent are unsure. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Casper is the friendly ghost, right?
B.) In case of a zombie attack, remember: Destroy the brain and burn the body immediately.
C.) You’re wasting time, you fool — we’ve got to make a beeline for the truck. Oops, I lost the keys. Fuck.

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2006-06-13T21:33:00.000-04:00

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NEW BOB ON
AUGUST 29TH
Can't fucking wait ...

Musty, Tokugawa, the whores at Lady Bomb and I are totally geeked. Last time the man released an album, Love & Theft, was September 11, 2001 ... better known as 9/11. Hopefully when this record drops there won't be similar conflict + drama.

I'd like to tell you I've been a Bob Dylan fan for many, many years but I can't. Truth be told, it wasn't till that ninth month of '01 that I really picked up the habit.

Oh sure, in '65 when Blonde on Blonde came out, my band the Rockin' Levis learnt a handful of the songs but it wasn't till three dozen years later that I really got with the program.

You see, four days after 9/11 there was a 9/15 ... I called it September 15, and the wife and I had driven to New York City for a planned vacation. We were supposed to fly but decided to drive instead. An eleven-hour drive seemed a lot more relaxing than a two-and-a-half hour flight.

Day before we left, I picked up a used Love & Theft at an indie record store. I told the ball and chain to leave it in the player during the whole drive to Manhattan. It was all we listened to.

From then on I was hooked.

When the Deal Goes Down, Spirit on the Water and Ain't Talking are just three of the ten titles in Modern Times ... on sale August 29. ... (LYZAKO)

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2006-06-13T12:36:00.000-04:00

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CDs Are The New Dinosaurs!
PhonoLogic Recordmaker®
is Finally Here ...

PHILADELPHIA, Pa., June 13 ... Here’s proof that vinyl records are back: The amazing PhonoLogic Recordmaker®.

Pour 150 grams of PhonoLogic TrueVinyl® into the top of the machine, upload your music and press the ‘start’ button. Thirty minutes later, a digital trumpet alerts you to push the ‘Deliver’ pad.

A door slides out and there it is ... a shiny new vinyl LP (or two singles).

The gadget’s creators, Bill Tennar and Ray Smith - two ex-fry cooks from Philadelphia - have already grossed well over $4 million since the gizmo’s introduction last January. Tennar, a 53-year-old ex-Marine, explained how it all came about.

“In my humble opinion, CDs sound like s**t. I hate them and I’m against them,” he said. “I met Ray at Monica’s Grille; we both cook there. He had just been fired from Microsoft because of his drinking problem. I discovered he also loved phonograph records. It pi**ed us off that you couldn't buy them anymore, so we did something about it.”

Once one of Pennsylvania's top engineers, Tennar, ironically, had also been terminated from his job because of alcohol. Both men ended up cooking and frying at Monica's. Seven days a week after every 14 hour shift, they would meet at Ray's to drink, listen to vinyl, and pitch ideas.

In a stupor one night, they smacked one out of the park: A machine that presses phonograph records at home!

Using technology secrets he “borrowed” from Microsoft, Smith designed a software program based on cutting edge HTML code that would power the first version of what would become the PhonoLogic Recordmaker®.

"I don't remember what happened with the first one. We were drinking like maniacs," Tennar said.

The soused new wave Edisons went through three more grueling months of trial and error before they finally perfected the device they had hoped and dreamed for.

“After all is said and done, it was a lot fuck**g easier than I thought it would be,” Smith said. “The computer stuff was a piece of cake - the hard part was converting the guts of a pizza oven into a functioning vinyl phonograph record maker. But Bill took care of that. Bill and his Mexican friend, Jose Cuervo. It's nothing but Easy Street for us from this day on."

And thanks to Bill Tennar and Ray Smith, collecting records will now be easier again.

The PhonoLogic Recordmaker® is $1,399 and available at Restoration Hardware, Best Buy, and Digital Junkie (Philadelphia) or online at phonologicrecordmaker.com. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) This is wonderful news — I don’t have enough music to listen to.
B.) Sure hope PhonoLogic creates a Cassettemaker®.
C.) Fuck Bush and fuck the War! What? Oh, sorry — yes, the PhonoLogic Recordmaker® is great.

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2006-06-13T11:37:00.000-04:00

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Baldwin
Brainwash
Brouhaha
Alec And Ex Play Ping Pong
With Daughter

Actor Alec Baldwin, who you may remember from ... well, hmmm ... no, that was his brother ... okay, um anyway, he and his ex-wife actress Kim Basinger, who you will definitely remember from ... shit, I had it ... right on the tip of my tongue, too ... damn!

Wait. That’s right, she was in Batman. Oh, and she was Eminem’s mom in Eight Mile ...

Anyway... the couple divorced in 2002 and are currently engaged in a custody dispute over their ten-year-old daughter, Ireland. At a court hearing on Friday, Baldwin was ordered by an L.A. area judge to submit to a psychological examination by a court-appointed shrink.

Baldwin had previously claimed that it was Basinger who was in need of psychological help and that she was systematically turning their daughter against him. Now the court feels that it’s in the best interest of Ireland to investigate Basinger’s claims that the 48-year-old actor is "brainwashing" his daughter to turn her against her mother.

According to a friend of the family, Baldwin, who has denied his ex-wife’s allegations, was overheard outside of court saying: "Did it ever occur to that shriveled-up harpy that if I could really wash brains, I’d probably be able to get a little more freaking work in this town?" ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) Didn’t he play Barney Rubble in that stupid Flintstones movie?
B.) That was his brother, Daniel.
C.) Can’t anybody in Hollywood give a kid a normal name?

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2006-06-12T14:32:00.000-04:00

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LadyBombEscortsLinkTank

You may be too cool to admit it, but you've got to love the new Paris Hilton track, Stars Are Blind. It's Blondie's The Tide is High for the 21st century. Always good to see Paris with clothes on and not blowing and screwing young billionaires all over the world.

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Sure hope I spell the 'Guggenheim' in Guggenheim Museum correctly when I give up the link for the new Jackson Pollocks hanging over there. They're works on paper and the show's called No Limits, Just Edges. Jack the Dripper, indeed.

#

Here's Paul McCartney in one of the best things he's done: Macca makes mashed potatoes for ten minutes. I wish it weren't true but it is ... I can't believe I watched the whole entertaining mess.

And liked it.

Show me someone that doesn't like mashed spuds and I'll show you a sick fucker.

##

#

2006-06-12T10:16:00.000-04:00

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'IDOL' ELLIOT YAMIN
MASSACRES
NATIONAL ANTHEM!
Singer's Rendition Worse Than War in Iraq?

FERNDALE, Mich., June 12 ... Hey, there's still blood coming out of my ears.

The wife wanted to see last night's very important basketball game. I was in the middle of Game of Shadows, the Barry Bonds steroid book, and said "Sure, watch it, I'll sit here and read." It's a killer book, by the way.

So I'm reading and I hear the Tom Petty song that kicks off the TV basketball show and the sportsguys talk about how exciting the game is going to be and then they announce that Elliot Yasmin from American Idol will sing our National Anthem.

Whoa, they have my attention; I look up at the screen ; I smell entertainment.

Yamin is the dude that looks like a dumbed down Adam Sandler. And like all of the American Idols, he's an oversinger.

I put down my book - there's nothing quite like a book: open it, read it, tuck a mark in, set it down and pick it up whenever you like, no muss no fuss. Books are the best.

I look up at the glowing tube as the announcer introduces Elliot Yasmin. The crowd goes nuts.

A few years ago, the wife and I had a similar situation, but Aretha Franklin sang the Anthem, and Good Lord, it was one of the most powerful versions I'd ever heard. Made me proud to be an American and a Detroiter ... tears ran down my cheeks, it's true ... yes, it was that good. But that was then ...

Tonight, Yasmin comes out and without any instruments behind him (in show business we call this acapella) and he absolutely nails it ...

... like when those fuckers nailed Jesus to the cross. Quite the caterwaul ... it was that painful.
'O say can you seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ...'

Every 'e' in see was a fuckingly mangled note - not unlike Yoko Ono's studio outtakes from the late 1960s.

From there it got worse.

'And the rockets' red glaaaaaaaaaaaaaare, the bombs bursting in ehrrrrrrrrrrr...'

Ow. Ouch.

The camera panned across the faces of the players; they couldn't believe it either.

It went on ... and on ... Goddamn, it was worst fucking singing I'd heard in my fucking life.

I should have been laughing my head off - it was that bad - but I thought about the TV network genius who invited Elliot to kick this beloved song in the balls and it made me sad.

He probably had a wife and children that would surely leave him after his horrific misstep.

The man would end up alone, in a one-room apartment with a hanging lightbulb and cheap card table, smoking curbstone beauties in a wife beater and piss-stained boxers ... asking himself why, why, why did he have to have Elliot Yasmin sing our beloved National Anthem?

He knew why.

I don't tape or TiVo television shows but this may have been a keeper. I'd like to maybe have a copy to pull out and show to friends. On second thought, probably not.

I swear to L. Ron, for a moment I thought it was a sick terrorist attack on America.

It went on ...

You know that one high note at the end that can make or break the performance?

'O'er the land of the freeeeeeeee eeee and the home of the braaaaaaaaaaaave?

Well, the douchebag didn' t even come close to hitting it. In fact, that note wasn't even in the city where the game was being played.

It was really something. Ow.

If there's any justice in this world, the cops are cutting Yamin's hanging body down right now, and Elliot left us knowing he did the right thing ... like a fucking manly man.

I shook my head and picked up Game of Shadows. The Stooges ticket stub took me right to page 194.

Books are the best. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Elliot Yasmin? I thought he was great!
B.) Elliot Yasmin? His Anthem cut Aretha's to shreds!
C.) Elliot Yasmin? Why, he's the Placido Domingo of his generation!
A.) Whew ... are we out?
B.) Yes, thank God...
C.) Wow, that performance was a piece of shit.
A.) Fucking horrible. I've never heard anything so bad in my life.
B.) You got that right ... how much did we get?
C.) Three hundred apiece.
A.) That's all?
B.) The fuckers at Idol are cheapskates.
C.) Wait a minute ... look at the monitor.
A.) Oh no, we're still on the Internet!
B.) What?! The readers caught us lying for money?
C.) Shit, we're fucked ... fuck!
A.) Fuck me!!!
B.) There goes our street cred, fuck.
C.) Fuck. What are we going to do?
A.) Let's apologize and say we will never do it again.
B.) Good idea. I'm sorry and will never do it again.
C.) I'm sorry and will never do it again.
A.) I'm sorry and will never do it again.
B.) Damn, that was one close shave.
C.) Fucking money, ha, ha, ha ...

#

2006-06-12T08:00:00.000-04:00

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aries
March 21 - April 19
Remember, Aries, there’s a dark cloud to every silver lining. So stay out of that gorgeous sunshine that the weatherman is making such a big deal about. There’s a large mole on your back that’s just about to become malignant. No lucky numbers.

taurus
April 20 - May 20
You’re my favorite sign, Taurus. I love watching you get waist deep in shit, like you are now. You have two choices: turn back towards dry land or head out to shit sea and swim like Lloyd Bridges. I’m betting you’re in a swimming mood. Grab your lucky snorkel.

gemini
May 21 - June 21
It started off innocently enough, I know, but your gambit is about to take a serious turn, Gemini. Your partner is planning revenge for something you didn’t even know until now that he / she knew you did. Confused? Me too. A trip to the emergency room is in your future. Lucky numbers: 9-1-1 .

cancer
June 22 - July 22
It’s time to take your frustration to a whole new level, Cancer. The world has come crashing down around you and I’m on your side. Everybody is going to pay for their transgressions against you. And that includes Mom and Dad. Lucky stuffed animal: Teddy bear.

leo
July 23 - August 22
You’ll be busier than Jim Nabors at a ball-cupping contest this week, Leo. But the bad news is, it won’t get you anywhere. Fortunately, you’re used to spinning your wheels. Well, step on the gas and go like Hell. The ride should be fun right up until you jump the curb and crash. Lucky prefix: anti-.

virgo
August 23 - September 22
You know, Virgo, I like you. Too bad the rest of the world isn’t on our side. I see some extremely painful experiences in the near future for you. Physical, mental and emotional pain beyond your wildest imagination. It will be horrible. Good luck.

libra
September 23 - October 22
Your best friend turns on you this week, Libra, and you will be shocked at the petty reasons for his / her betrayal. I suggest rather than forget the whole matter, you make them pay dearly for their behavior. Lucky weapon: bayonet.

scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Scorpio is one of the luckier signs this week, my friend. I must caution you that the sword of luck cuts both ways, though, and you could easily be in store for a long run of bad mojo. I recommend you prepare by drinking and playing the horses. Lucky pick in Wednesday’s trifecta: 7, 2, 8.

sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
That annoying cough that just won’t go away is what you fear most. While early detection is the key to a cancer cure, you haven’t caught it nearly early enough, Sagittarius. Sorry.

capricorn
December 22 - January 19
How many Capricorns does it take to screw in a lightbulb? It doesn’t really matter because you enjoy sitting in the dark anyway, don’t you? All alone. In a dark so dark that it matches the darkness in your dreary, black soul. Lucky numbers: 9, 199, 001909

aquarius
January 20 - February 18
Without being cruel, I’d say that you are in less than perfect condition this week, my Aquarian friend. If you were a collectable baseball card, your value would have been destroyed after weeks of being pinned to the spokes of a kid’s bicycle to make it sound like a motorcycle. Stupid fucking kids. No lucky numbers.

pisces
February 19 - March 20
Speaking of baseball, Pisces, I see a game in your future this week. But keep your eyes on the ball because there’s a good chance that a line drive will knock you out of that great seat on the first base line that you’ll be sitting in. Metaphorically speaking, I suggest you duck rather than try to catch it. Lucky mascot: Oriole.

#

2006-06-09T12:01:00.000-04:00

#

Explore Your Fantasies With...
Celebrity Lesbianism
Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan

Okay, you’re a cab driver who just picked up Paris and Lindsey after a night of partying at a chic Soho club.

They’re both stoned and horny and you can see everything in the mirror as it happens, the shadowy action highlighted by passing city lights...

Paris laughs and begins to softly fondle Lindsey’s breasts.

To your surprise, Lindsey doesn’t resist.

Instead, she lets out a low moan and begins to reciprocate, running her open hand in a circular pattern over Paris’ chest and up to her throat. Meanwhile, Paris is starting to really massage Lindsey’s boobs and as she leans in to kiss her, pulls the strap from Lindsey’s dress down over her shoulder to expose one perfect breast.

Lindsey’s head drops back as her eyes close. You can hear her breathe in and moan as she lets out the air.

By this time Paris is working on that perfect boob, cupping it with one hand and licking around the nipple. For a second you glimpse the lightly freckled chest of Lindsey as Paris pulls back and slides the other strap down, before diving in and squeezing both of Lindsey’s boobs while darting her tongue back and forth from nipple to nipple.

At this point it’s all Lindsey can do to contain herself.

The two kiss deeply, greedily.

Paris sits up for a second and Lindsey drags here tongue down Paris’ throat to her chest, then over her boobs, which are still covered by her silky, gossamer-thin low-cut dress.

Lindsey’s head disappears as she works down to Paris’ lap, and you can clearly see Paris’ erect nipples as she moans and reaches for her purse, pulling out a small cellophane envelope. When Lindsey sits back up, Paris slips her own dress down to reveal her breasts, then sprinkles some white powder over them, which Lindsey greedily snifflicks until it’s gone.

Both girls laugh as Paris repeats the scene, this time using Lindsey’s breasts to hoover up the toot.

They laugh, then begin kissing again.

It’s obvious to you that their hands are groping downwards, massaging each other’s thighs and working the moist spots in between. After a few minutes of rhythmic rocking, Lindsey shudders and rubs her hand up and down Paris’ arm, which is working furiously at her center. Lindsey comes, then pushes Paris into the corner and props up one leg, so she can get easier access to Paris’ soaking wet....

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!!!!!!!CRASH!!!!!!!!

You look up and realize you’ve just hit another cab which has stopped suddenly to pick up a fare.

Both girls sit up, straighten their hair and clothes, then act as if nothing happened. Paris gives you a sly wink in the mirror.

"Close enough, driver," says Paris with a smile as she drops a C-note your way. "We’re staying right around the corner. Thanks. Keep the change." ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) Wheeew!
B.) Double Wheeew!
C.) Did Paris come?

#

2006-06-09T10:40:00.000-04:00

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Ball of Confusion 2006!
WHO'S GETTING
HIGH
THIS WEEKEND?
We know you are ...

DUBLIN, June 9 ... Attention Ecstasy eaters — Dr. Thomas Connor of Trinity College in Dublin is warning you: “Ecstasy has potent immunosuppressant qualities which have the ability to increase an individual’s susceptibility to disease. People ingest these drugs in crowded nightclubs full of young people with lots of germs going around.”

You don't give a fuck about the doc’s advice anyway, so eat plenty of fruit and vegetables in order to boost your immune system.

God forbid you should catch a cold or something. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Wow, I’m gonna play safe and stay home when I take X.
B.) Am on X right now looking for R. Kelly sex tape on eBay.
C.) What happens in Dublin, stays in Dublin.

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2006-06-09T07:54:00.001-04:00

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Baloney Or Bologna?
Spelling Of Popular Lunch Meat To Change

OAK PARK, Mich., June 9 ... American bologna, a bland sandwich meat popular with children, takes its name from the Italian city of Bologna, where the sausage originated.

However, the U.S. version bears little resemblance to the original recipe for mortadella bologna, which is a unique spicy sausage made in the central Italian region surrounding the city from which it takes its name.

The American version of bologna is, more often than not, mass produced using scraps of meat that could be beef, chicken, turkey or pork.

In addition to trimmings from better cuts, allowable content may also include snouts, tails, eyelids, lips, ears, eyeballs, hearts, kidneys, lungs, livers, skin and genitalia. The scraps are ground into a fine puree and then poured into casings that are often made of plastic.

Mortadella bologna is traditionally made with choice cuts of meat and bound in natural casings made of sheep, hog or beef intestines.

In each case the meat is smoked and preserved so the product is ready to eat without cooking.
In an effort to separate the American version from its elder Italian cousin, the United States Meat Packing Association (aka US MEAT PACK ASS) is calling for a change in the spelling of the name to ‘baloney’ in order to reflect the American pronunciation of the product.

"It confuses kids," said one industry spokesperson. "This will make the spelling more logical in terms of how the word is pronounced. Plus, ‘baloney’ also means ‘nonsense’ or ‘bullshit’, which is much truer by definition to the American version of the product."

Because of the change, processed food giant Oscar Mayer announced that it has tweaked its famous jingle to end "...Oscar Mayer makes kids cry for B-A-L-O-N-E-Y."

The US MEAT PACK ASS is reportedly also considering similar changes for salami (salomey), keilbasa (kilbasey) and the popular pizza topping pepperoni (pepperoney).

Ham will continue to be spelled ‘ ham’. ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) My mom used to make fried baloney and cheese sandwiches.
B.) My mom chopped up the baloney and fried it with sliced onion. Yum.
C.) My mom made her own baloney out of rat meat. What? We were poor.

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2006-06-08T10:50:00.000-04:00

#

20th Century Bomb: 1970

Beatles Break Up!
Unbelievable!
No! It Can't Be!
Say It Ain't So!
Paul, the 'cute one' quits...
Music fans freaking out...
Can't think of more headlines...

LIVERPOOL, England ... Bass player Paul McCartney has quit the Beatles. What a bummer. He even has a new solo album coming out next week called McCartney, and he plays all the instruments on it.

It's hard to believe the Beatles are through as a group. Damn, can't they get a new bass player? What about Jack Bruce from Cream? He would be good. And they probably wouldn't have to pay him as much.

Don’t care what anyone says — it’s Yoko Ono’s fault that the Fab Four are busted up. That chick is a total drag, man ... sucking the good vibes out of John Lennon, my favorite Beatle.

Yoko Ono's an artist? I don't think so.

What ... you get inside of a big bag and go "Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee!" and you're an artist?

Uh uh, sorry ... that chick is bogue and that's that.

I can't believe the Beatles are finished. ... (WALLY PALMARCHUK)

A.) Yeah. First the Vietnam War — now this.
B.) The Stones are way better, man.
C.) Can’t read right now ... I’m tripping on acid ... my laptop is melting...

###

2006-06-08T08:29:00.000-04:00

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Game Boring - More Homers, Please
Baseball Needs Steroids
Picture on Left Too Big? Maybe Not...

Time to fix the National Pastime, America — let’s grow it up a bit.

Legalize steroids for professional ball players again. You have to admit it makes the game a lot more fun. Who doesn’t love watching monstrous home runs hit in bunches by humongously over-muscled athletes?

Is it gay to enjoy that? We think not.

Giant players and big homers make the sport feel more real — like a video game.

What’s the big deal? Other entertainers use drugs while performing, why not ball players? What - they’re better than musicians and dancers?

In fact, it is our belief that players should be encouraged to drink like fish during games and sit in the stands to shoot the shit with drunken fans whenever they’re not playing on the field.

Let’s make baseball exciting to watch again. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) You’re right ... you're always right, fucker.
B.) You’re right; it would be Heaven on Earth.
C.) You’re right as usual, genius – do you have the hunnert you owe me?

2006-06-08T06:41:00.000-04:00

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For Crying Out Loud, People...
It’s Only A Fucking Baby!
$4.1 M For Jolie-Pitt Baby Pics Sets New Record (For Stupidity)

People Magazine has won the North American rights to publish the first photos of baby Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt by paying the couple a whopping $4.1 million according to published reports.

Celebrity magazines and tabloid newspapers around the globe have entered the bidding for regional rights as well, and experts expect that worldwide publishing rights to the photos could fetch close to $8 million.

Unfortunately, an early pic was leaked onto the internet and British magazine Hello, which has secured the U.K. publishing rights, has taken legal action to force web sites displaying the snap to take it down.
According to the couple’s wishes, the money raised from the sale of the photos, which were taken by Getty Images, will be donated to charities that benefit underprivileged children.

Because of the cost to secure the photos, some magazines plan to raise the newsstand price of their explosive issue by as much as 15%. And they believe the public will "snap" them up without a second thought.

Hustler publisher Larry Flynt, who attempted to secure exclusive rights to the shots for the adult magazine industry, had this to say when his offer of $1,000 didn’t win: "I really don’t understand what the big deal is. I mean (newborn babies) all look like hairless wrinkled monkeys anyway."

A.) Amen, Larry. And they drool and cry and shit and puke all the time.
B.) I heard Brad insisted on a C-section to save Angie’s vagina.
C.) Ha ha. Hairless wrinkled monkeys! Ha ha. He’s right.

#

2006-06-07T10:30:00.000-04:00

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Sasquatch Denies
Film Deal Rumors
Quentin Tarantino Not Set To Direct

Former media darling and much-maligned biped Sasquatch has issued a statement that denies he is about to sign a deal with Lawrence Bender’s A Band Apart Productions.

It was rumored last month that either Quentin Tarantino or John Woo would direct the biopic.

"There is no truth to the rumor that Sasquatch is interested in having a film of his life story made, "said a spokesperson for the hairy giant.

"As always he just wants to be left alone."

You may remember that during the ‘70s, Sasquatch was thought to be the next big thing, and the mystery surrounding his whereabouts was headline news nearly every day. Since then, the mysterious monster has been laying low and enjoying life on his 120-acre chicken ranch just outside of Seattle.

Tarantino could not be reached for comment, but reportedly has been obsessed with Sasquatch since he was a child, amassing an amazing collection of cast footprints, color slides and audio tapes which feature the behemoth, who is also known variously as Yeti and Bigfoot. ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) I remember him as the Abominable Snowman.
B.) I always thought the big fella would go the pro wrestling route.
C.) And in this corner....Bigfoot!

#

2006-06-07T09:08:00.000-04:00

#

Tokugawa*
Hot Chick
Celebrity News

ONE HOT MAMA, BOY!
How come Tery Hatcher breast look so good? No sag even though she old? She say she use gaffer tape. It used in Hollywood and very much like duct tape except adhesive stronger and residue come off easier if you want to take off.

Whatever she use, Tery chest look hot. She tell magazine, “Any model or Hollywood actress who wears fancy designer ball gowns knows how to expertly manipulate gaffer tape to mush, lift and hold your breasts like a bra.”

Whew, Toku savor picture...

The Desperate Housewives actress refuse to go under knife for fake puppys, she like gaffer tape instead.

"When you wear those complicated, low-cut dresses, and you're 40, that's how you can achieve perfect cleavage. It's a perfect temporary boob job,” she said.

Toku have to fix radiator hose on Dodge and have roll of duct tape but will buy and try gaffer tape instead. Maybe it not work but it make motor hotter – like Tery Hatcher.

Toku make joke.

SHE IS ONE JUICY BURGER!
Uh oh, something happening in pants of Toku and it because of new Paris Hilton video for first new single from her album. Song called Stars Are Blind. Video not dirty but Paris frolic on beach with guy and hug and kiss him while pantomining song. For once she not look like whore.

The song? That another story: It okay reggae pop song with rhythm guitar that annoy Toku but song itself not bad. It sound like like cotton candy for sexy dance floor crowd.

Toku make plan to link video here but have to go and get Musty and Lyzako a McGriddle at McDonald.

Hey, that sound like catchy song title!

Toku make joke – I am Toku. … (TOKUGAWA MARINSKI)

* (say 'toe - koo - ga - wa')

#

2006-06-06T15:28:00.000-04:00

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Pat Sajak Small Potatoes?
WRITER GETS
LETTER & DRUGS
FROM PAUL NEWMAN

Lady Bomb Escorts writer Musty Scribblins is absolutely glowing. He recently received a hand written letter inside a package from his pal, legendary actor Paul Newman:

“Hey Musty, glad to hear you enjoyed my ‘Newman-O’s Crème Filled Chocolate Cookies.’ You’re right — they are way fucking better than Oreos! And they’re 100 percent organic!

You’ll be happy to know we are teaming with pharmaceutical giant SmithGlaxoKline to produce a new line of recreational drugs. While they won’t be available to the public for a year or so (you know how it is — palms to be greased first, ha, ha, ha), I know you’re going to like these, you prick.

You’ve probably taken 10 of them already, but that’s a 90-count bottle of Newman’s Own “Funax: TriLayered Time Release Fun Pill.”

Each 1000-milligram Funax tablet contains Vicodin and Xanax with a healthy dose of ExLax so you can take them everyday — no pain, no anxiety...and best of all - no constipation.

They’re fucking great!

Since we’re still in the nip-and-tuck phase, don’t report any of this letter on Lady Bomb or American Bomb or whatever you're calling that fucking online thing you call humor.

Enjoy.

Your friend, Paul Newman.

P.S. Give my best to Lyzako.” ... (LYZAKO)

A) You dudes get the coolest promotional shit.
B) Funax bootlegs are now available in the city’s trendier clubs.
C) Crack is King. Gimme 10 bucks till next week, you cheap bastard.

#

2006-06-06T15:21:00.000-04:00

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Jeopardy Jingle Pure Gold
Song Royalties Make Huge Payday For Merv Griffin

In an interview for The Insider Weekend, talk show host and game show creator Merv Griffin (yes, he’s still alive) confirmed that he has made over $60 million dollars in royalties for writing the jingle for Jeopardy.

The game show, also created by Griffin and originally pitched as What’s The Question?, is one of the longest running on television and second in popularity only to Wheel Of Fortune, also a Griffin creation.

Since it was first broadcast in 1964, Jeopardy has been a mainstay on American television, winning more than two dozen Daytime Emmys, and garnering fame for its host, Alex Trebek.

A Best Of DVD set which includes select episodes and the original pilot was issued last year.

Griffin, who will be 81 years-old next month, did the interview aboard his yacht to promote the upcoming DVD release of highlights from his long-running Merv Griffin Show, which ran, off and on, between 1962 and 1972.

While touring the 140' vessel, the former-singer-and-actor-turned-business-mogul dished on his good friend and former first lady Nancy Reagan. "We go out to eat a lot."

Along the way, Griffin also pointed out some of the vessel’s more unusual features, including an all nude gymnasium, a feather bowling alley and a men’s only sauna, where he confesses he likes to "sit and steam for hours."

Before parting Griffin sang the jingle, which he revealed was titled "Do do? Doo doo," then headed off for a Chablis at the poop deck bar, one of three located on the yacht.

A.) I remember Merv. Arthur Treacher was his Ed McMahon.
B.) Oh yeah, the fish-and-chips guy. And Jack Sheldon was the bandleader.
C.) Now to me, Mike Douglas was a better interviewer.

#

2006-06-06T11:27:00.000-04:00

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Marty Sherman’s
Nose To Grindstone
6-6-06 Just Another Day
At The Office
For Funnyman

It’s good to be back behind my desk here at the LadyBomb offices even if everybody’s giving me the cold shoulder. I couldn’t care less.

I slept in my own bed for a few days, ate some choice food and had my fill of liquor and women.

Pat picked me up from jail and escorted me straight to the Men’s Warehouse for some new threads (I’m pretty much an off-the-rack fit in the short and stocky department), then down to Eight Mile, where we made the lap dance circuit.

We started at The Coliseum with a 12 oz. strip steak, some cold Coronas and the lovely Alana, Mindy and Diamond (oooh, so nice), before working our way west and landing at the Platinum Club around 10 pm, where we finished the night with shots of Patron in the VIP, while grinding and grabbing with Lady B, Mystery (I came), Cocoa and Peaches (Pat came).

Somewhere in between I lost my underwear, the new Perry Ellis tie that Pat bought me and whatever crumbs that were left of my innocence.

It’s pretty much a blur to me now, but it was just what I needed to get the taste of jail out of my mouth.

I slept all weekend, took Monday off and now here I am, you pricks. Fresh as a daisy on the Devil’s Day. ... (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) Welcome back, fucker.
B.) Who are you calling a prick, you prick?
C.) I know the fucker’s not talking to me.

#

2006-06-06T07:59:00.000-04:00

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MATT STONE & TREY PARKER:
OUT OF THEIR MINDS?
Funny Motherfuckers
Win Peabody Award

Congratulations to Matt Parker and Trey Stone. Last night the wacky South Park creators picked up a prestigious Peabody Award for the show in recognition of "its work promoting tolerance in the US” according to the website we cribbed this info from.

Host Jon Stewart (we’re still on the fence about this guy) gave the boys their award onstage at New York’s fancy shmancy Waldorf Astoria hotel, the birthplace of the world-famous Waldorf salad (apples, celery, walnuts and mayo are world-famous? Oh, come on).

While introducing the pair, Stewart applauded their "ability to keep the show fresh and hilarious" after nearly 10 years on the airwaves.

Matt and Trey then bounded onto the stage to the left of the podium where they turned their backs to the audience, dropped their tuxedo trousers, and sprayed the front stage with diarrhea.

It was the most hilarious award acceptance speech ever … as long as you weren’t sitting in the first three rows, of course. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) BASEketball is an award-winning movie.
B.) Please don't start with your BASEketball shtick.
C.) Yes, please. Give it a rest - it's no Dirty Work.
A.) Douchebag ... I'm telling you it's fucking hilarious.
B.) King Douchebag, you're on crack.
A.) What does that have to do with anything?
C.) You've got some?
A.) Sure, why?
B.) Um, because BASEketball is an award-winning movie?
C.) And because BASEketball is better than Dirty Work?
A.) The rocks and pipe are in my glove box - here's the keys.

artlyzak@ladybombescorts.com
#

2006-06-05T13:53:00.000-04:00

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Finally! It’s A Motherfucking Girl!, But...
Baby Swap Shocks Hollywood
Angelina Trades Newborn For Katie’s Baby Plus A Baby To Be Named Later

In a shocking turn of events that has all of Hollywood buzzing, Angelina Jolie has given up her newborn child in a trade for the recently born baby of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

Why?

"It’s simple," said one tinseltown publicist, "Publicity. Giving babies funny names just isn’t enough to keep their names in the papers anymore. Brad and Angie realize now that they have to play hardball with this baby thing in order to stay in the news. They learned that lesson after being in Africa."

Because Angelina Jolie’s star power dwarfs that of Katie Holmes, the deal was sealed when Cruise offered to throw in his and Katie’s second child. The two Hollywood couples wanted to make the switch while both babies were young. Angelina’s baby, a girl named Shiloh Nouvel Pitt-Jolie, will take on the name of the Cruise baby, also a girl, who’s name is Suri.

"Essentially, the babies just change identities. It’s done all the time in Cambodia," said a spokesperson for the couple, who’s spent the past month in Africa trying to avoid the paparazzi.

"The deal also guarantees to add another member to the Jolie-Pitt litter without forcing it through Angie’s vagina, which made Brad very happy."

Both couples have agreed on Mysterioso Hectagon Pitt-Jolie as a name for the third child in the deal, regardless of whether it’s a girl or a boy.

A.) Enough with this freaking baby stuff already. I’m sick of it.
B.) It’s an interesting trade, though. Good for both couples as I see it.
C.) If I was Brad, I would’ve held out for a shot at Katie, too.

#

2006-06-05T13:52:00.000-04:00

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20th Century Bomb: 1958
New Employee is All Shook Up!
Our new copy boy, Musty Scribblins - son of our copy editor, Musterville Scribblins - is upset because Elvis Presley has been drafted into the United States Army.

Musty says, “When Elvis gets out of the Army he will start making lousy movies and records — just watch, man.”

Old man Musterville had no comment - he just shook his head and lit another Chesterfield. ... (KARL O'BRYAN)

A.) Elvis is the absolute King of rock and roll.
B.) You're kidding, right? Elvis was a one-riff pony.
C.) "Welluh, bless mah soul, uhwhuts uhwrong wimee? I’m itchin lahk a man ona fuzzitree."
A.) Ha, that's pretty good C - you sound like the King, ha.
C.) Thank yuh verimuch.
B.) Ha, ha, ha, that's funny.
C.) Ax the kernal to get me mah pills. And a pound o' crisp bakin'.
A.) Ha, ha, ha.
B.) You're one fucking funny letter, C.
C.) Thank yuh verimuch.
A.) Ha, ha, ha.
B.) Ha, ha, ha.

#

2006-06-05T13:12:00.000-04:00

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aries
March 21 - April 19
Ready for some intrigue, Aries? Well, that Taurus who has become a problem is itching for trouble. It would be interesting to see who would win in a knife fight. I’m betting on you, my friend. Lucky catch phrase: "Just do it".

taurus
April 20 - May 20
Watch yourself this week, Taurus. The Aries asshole next door just went out and bought a knife and he / she definitely plans to use it. You might want to hang with your closest Gemini friend and make sure he / she’s got your back. Lucky number: 14

gemini
May 21 - June 21
You have a chance to prove what you’re made of this week. A feud will erupt with a Taurus who is close to you and it could get bloody. That’s where you come in, Gemini. You need to be the third man / woman in and it couldn’t hurt to be strapped. No lucky numbers for you.

cancer
June 22 - July 22
If I were you, Cancer, I’d stay in the house this week. The street will be a dangerous place to be if Taurus, Aries and Gemini have their way. Whatever amount of alcohol you drink each day, double that and take a sedative if you still can’t sleep through the noise. Lucky letters: zzzzzz

leo
July 23 - August 22
I see relationship problems with a Virgo for you this week, Leo. He / she isn’t interested in a clean break. He / she wants to fuck with you as long as possible before taking you to the cleaners. I’m going to take the George W. Bush approach and suggest a pre-emptive strike. Good luck. No lucky numbers.

virgo
August 23 - September 22
Get ready for some underhanded dealing from Leo. The bastard / bitch has plans to screw you royally this week, Virgo, and don’t expect a kiss while he / she’s doing it. I see unemployment by the end of the week, too, but that could be the least of your worries. Lucky numbers: 2,3,5,1,0

libra
September 23 - October 22
It’s a good week for violence, Libra. If a fight breaks out in public and you are anywhere in the vicinity, I recommend piling on. You have my permission to punch, pull hair and kick wherever you please. It will relieve a lot of the stress that’s been building up in you. Lucky word: Bicep

scorpio
October 23 - November 21
Your mission, should you choose to accept it this week, is peacemaker, Scorpio. It will be fun to step in between battling friends, but don’t feel bad if you get a few licks in, too. I’m thinking a Jerry Springer type brawl. Scorpio! Scorpio! Scorpio! Make your own luck this week.

sagittarius
November 22 - December 21
Do whatever you can to crank up the heat a little this week, Sagittarius. Get drunk and be a mean drunk. If you’re not a whiskey drinker, try some and stick with the cheap shit. It will make you meaner, louder and more hung over the next day, which will make you mean even when you sober up. No luck for you.

capricorn
December 22 - January 19
It’s time to call a spade a spade, Capricorn. Whenever trouble rears its ugly head you disappear. You, my chicken shit friend, are a chicken shit. But...you have a golden opportunity to change this perception of you. Lash out this week at anyone and anything that upsets you. Don’t be afraid to use a weapon. Lucky numbers: 13, 666

aquarius
January 20 - February 18
Try to be the last man / woman standing at the end of the week, Aquarius. It’s gonna get wicked scarey bad, too. I see dead bodies strewn all over the streets...dogs, cats, people. If you do manage to be the last one standing, you have my permission to set fire to something large. Like a building for example. Lucky letters: T, N, T

pisces
February 19 - March 20
An Aries relative might need a little nudge this week. It’s up to you to do it, Pisces, since the hairless bastard / bitch probably doesn’t have the guts to do what needs to be done. Remind him / her that he / she needs to get a knife and cut the fuck out of somebody. He / she’ll know who. Lucky numbers: 4, 244, 544, 404

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2006-06-05T09:54:00.002-04:00

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Killer Drug Fodder for Hipster Humor?
FUCKED UP + FUNNY + FATAL = FENTANYL

Officials in Detroit, Philadelphia, Chicago and New Jersey say that overdose deaths from a lethal cocktail of heroin mixed with fentanyl, a painkiller 80 times stronger than morphine, are finally slowing down after a few hundred deaths although exact numbers are unavailable right now.

It’s Monday; we’re pretty beat up from the weekend.

Though good news for junkies, the real danger is just beginning at comedy clubs where stand-up comedians are killing with fentanyl jokes.

Over at Hardeehar’s in Terramonte, Ohio, Click Vikkers is onstage.

“How’s everybody doing tonight? Anyone here on fentanyl tonight?” Click asks.

A woman tries to shake her date awake. It doesn't work so she raises his hand by the cuff.

“Hey, you might be better off renting Drugstore Cowboy and drinking a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon,” he smirks to the couple, “I mean, that might kill you too, but it’s cheaper than fentanyl and you don’t have to go to the bad part of town to get it, ha, ha, ha.”

The Hardeehar crowd laughs and applauds.

“It’s the goddamndest thing,” says John Tremain, the club’s assistant manager and barback since 2006, “Weed and cocaine jokes have been a comedy staple since 1966 but that’s changing now … all of a sudden it’s fentanyl, fentanyl, fentanyl. It's edgy is my guess.”

Back onstage, Click is murdering club clientele with the lighter side of the dark painkiller.

“Hey, why does the chicken cross the road in the baddest, roughest part of town?” he asks.

“Why?” the audience asks in sloppy unison.

“To get a beakful of fentanyl … unless you’re a chicken, you wouldn’t understand,” the funnyman shrugs. The crowd howls.

No laughs from chickens, though; there aren't any there.

“But seriously, folks …” Click explains, “If I was a chicken and Colonel Sanders was chasing me with an ax in one hand and a limited-edition Mashed Potato Bowl in the other, I'd lace my feed with a pound of fentanyl and peck it like a motherfucker.” The audience is in stitches.

The pain-killing drug, manufactured by pharmaceutical companies since 1956, is now made in basement labs and used to cut heroin by dealers to increase their profit margin and to give junkies a more potent high.

“Yeah, if I’m going to spend the day sniffing or shooting a fentanyl / heroin cocktail, it’s impotent that I get real high!” Click rolls his eyes back so far in his head he can see hair growing and falls to the stage clutching his heart.

“I’m comin’ to join you, ‘Lizbeth,” he mutters using ‘junkman’ Fred Sanford’s funniest line.

With the audience in tears, Click gets up and takes a bow.

““You’ve been a kind audience and I thank you,” the comedian says sincerely.

“I’d like to leave you with a poem if I may: Roses are red, Violet is blue … quick, take Violet to an ER … she took too much fentanyl!”

The crowd gives him a standing ovation and Click Vikkers takes his killer jokes backstage where he liberally sprinkles a post-show smoked turkey sandwich with lots of fentanyl.

Ha, ha, ha, just kidding … it was fresh-ground pepper. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) I don’t think I’d like that fentanyl stuff.
B.) Fuck that. That shit is for losers.
C.) Exactly. Let’s make a pact: We will only drink alcohol and smoke crack.
A.) Done.
B.) Now you’re talking.
C.) Amen.

#

2006-06-02T10:03:00.000-04:00

#

Marty Sherman’s
Jail Cell Diary (continued)...

Day Five

3:15 am
I’ve barely slept in this hell hole all weekend, but at least I finally have paper and a crayon to write with. They won’t give us pens or pencils because somebody could get stabbed.

I think I could still defend myself with the crayon though, as long as I aim for the eye. Unfortunately, my crayon is yellow and it’s real hard to read on white paper, but I’ll manage. Like my old man used to tell me: "Shermans always manage. Even in jail." Well, I’m hanging in there, Pop.

Things have been rough since last week, but I talked to my lawyer yesterday and she said I should be released in the morning. The judge finally reduced my bail at the arraignment and LadyBomb was able to come up with enough cash to get me out. Thank God, because orange jumpsuit is NOT my color.

The holiday weekend was full of surprises in here. First off, I ran into an old drinking buddy who was in on a D.U.I. and we had a few laughs. He looked bad, though. It made me think seriously about getting off the bottle myself, but I know as soon as I get out I’ll head straight for a bar and get loaded. On second thought, maybe I’ll get a nice, thick, juicy strip steak first. With a baked potato and some garlic bread. Oh, and a garden salad with lots of bleu cheese dressing. Yeah, that sounds good.

Damn. I also missed out on that Electronic Music Festival and all the kooky, loose chicks. It was all I could think about all weekend. I was really looking forward to tapping some new ass...maybe a Japanese girl or something.

That gets me to thinking...When I get out maybe I should score some poon before I eat. It’s tough banging on a full stomach. Nah. I definitely will have to eat something to get the shitty taste out of my mouth from this swill they’ve been feeding me.

I really do hate jail. I always have.

8:45 am
Man, I wonder if Angelina Jolie ever had that freaking baby. News is hard to come by in here. There’s no cable and the guys watch soap operas in the day and UPN at night. I wouldn’t even think of asking to change the channel, and the only magazine I found laying around had a cover story of Sony Bono skiing into a tree.

2:32 pm
The guard just came down and told me they were processing me out before the end of the day. Sweet freedom! It turns out Pat showed up with the bail money, not those cheap pricks at LadyBomb. Good old Pat. I should have known he wouldn’t let me down.

A.) Sajak came all the way from Hollywood to bail Marty out?
B.) Now that’s what I call a friend, my friends.
C.) Unless you call him a sap. That’s what I’d call him.

#

2006-06-02T09:29:00.003-04:00

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Kevin Federline: DOUCHEBAG
Britney Spears: TERRIBLE POET

What could have been a serious, frank deconstruction of a recent stream of consciousness poem posted by Britney Spears on her website was cancelled after a writer drank three cups of coffee early this morning.

55-year-old Lyzako, Executive Publisher of Lady Bomb Ink, INC, woke at his usual 6:10AM time, put on a pot, and took a dump while the java brewed.

He sat wondering what news the Internet would present him with this morning. What would he write about? Lately, the ‘motherfucking internet’ as he called it, drove the Pacino look-alike absolutely nuts.

“There’s just too much goddamn information out there and most of it is fucking bullshit,” he said.

“After reading fucking dozens of items on talentless young nitwit celebrities, I discovered the Britney poem which seems to be a fuck you / goodbye kind of thing to husband Kevin Federline. I guzzled coffee and cut and paste the poem onto a clean sheet and began to create a line-by-line analysis of its meaning.”

No more chains
That you gave me

Lyzako explains. “This means Federline impregnated Spears, married her, and knocked her up again. Then because of his sudden fame, K-Fed signed a record deal and the bitches were all over him. Federline, a manly man, spent ‘quality time’ with the ladies. These are the 'chains' Britney opines of."

Enough of pain
Now I’m craving
Something sweet, so delight
How do you stand sleeping at night?

At this point the writer pushed aside the laptop - something snapped inside Lyzako.

“That guy’s a fucking douchebag, he married fame, his record’s going to suck hard, really hard, and I’m a grown man writing about this insanity. I put on a Lee Konitz record and poured another cup of the Kona.”

Lee Konitz is known to jazz fans as a killer sax player. Kona is a coffee from Hawaii.

The writer stood on his front porch sipping from the steaming cup and listened to Konitz blow awhile. He decided against writing the piece.

“That dude is such an obvious asshole. And she married the flake. As soon as I urinate, I’m bailing on this story – I have better things to do,” he admitted. “I’ve got to get to the bank, fill the gas tank, and launder my boxers. I’ll goof on the Federlines with a photo and Flintstones reference caption, hit the publish button, and be done with it.”

Why the Flintstones?

The writer finished his coffee, set the mug down and smiled.

“I feel pretty good today,” he said. "Get the fuck away from me." ... (MUSTY SCRIBBLINS)

A.) "Federline's upcoming record is a classic of the rap genre!"
B.) "I've heard the future of hip hop: His name is Federline!"
C.) "The Beatles, Led Zepplin, Eminem, and now Federline!"
A.) Well, that's that. Okay, how much is in the envelope?
B.) Whoa, fifteen C-notes!
C.) All right, that's $500 apiece ... sweet.

2006-06-01T14:03:00.000-04:00

#

From Beyond The Grave...
Jimmy Hoffa Laughs At F.B.I.
Interview With Satan Part Two

Satan: So, have you read the papers? They didn’t find anything on that farm, just like you said.

Hoffa: Sinatra told me. I’m not a big reader myself, but Frank polishes off the Times every morning.

S: Do you think this will be the end of the search for your remains?

H: God, I hope so, Satan. I mean, why does the F.B.I. need closure if I don’t? Know what I mean? I’m no genius, but it seems to me there’s better ways to spend tax money than diggin’ up the entire friggin’ country looking for me. Diggin’ and friggin’...ha. I’m a fuckin’ poet! Ha!

S: But the F.B.I. says that they had reliable information.

H: What? Some penny-ante dope dealer gets pinched and offers up my whereabouts to get a few less years in the joint? Shit, the Attorney General’s office shoulda known better than to make that deal. Listen, would you let me out of Hell early if I told you that I knew who had Jack and Bobby Kennedy killed?

S: No.

H: What about Martin Luther King? What if I confess to knowing who planned that one?

S: Uh-uh.

H: See, I rest my case. But you’re a lot more clever than the average government official, Satan, if you don’t mind my saying so. People won’t believe me when I say it, but it comes from the heart. You’re a pretty sharp cookie.

S: Thanks.

H: Don’t mention it. Now, enough about me. All that stuff about Mac’s farm reminded me of a story. Can I tell it?

S: Sure. Why not?

H: Well, he was one tough sonofabitch. One of the meanest bastards I’ve ever known. Still is probably. Anyway, the story goes that there was this union guy who needed to be taught a lesson and they sent Mac over to see him. This was way back in the ‘40s or ‘50s I think. So he catches this guy in his car and the guy’s scared shitless, right? I mean Mac’s a big sonofabitch, too and he could put the fear of God into you just by looking at you. No offense, Satan.

S: None taken.

H: Well, Mac gets in front of the car and punches the fuck out of the hood. Dents it! And starts shakin’ the car. This was back when cars were heavy, not like the lightweight plastic crap that comes off the assembly lines today. Then he comes around to the driver’s side, punches out the window and pulls the dumb bastard out by the hair. By his hair! Ha ha! Mac gives him a good kick, then reaches into the car and pulls the gearshift right off the steering column! Ha ha ha! Then he proceeds to beat the poor guy half to death with the thing. It was funny. Kinda like a cartoon, know what I mean? That’s all I could think of was it looked like a Bugs Bunny thing. Only a lot more violent. Maybe more like the Three Stooges than Bugs, but it was funny as fuck.

S: I can picture it.

H: Yeah, that Mac. He could sure swing a gearshift. Really takes me back... ... (SATAN)

A.) I didn’t realize that they got newspapers in Hell.
B.) I wonder if they read blogs down there?
C.) I think Shemp was the most underrated of all the Stooges.

#

2006-06-01T13:51:00.000-04:00

#

20th Century Bomb: 1954

They Make Us Look Cool!

Hope everyone can make it to this year’s Chesterfield Cigarette Smoking Contest.

Because of a recent bout with lung cancer, last year’s winner Trenton Bellmayer won’t be there to present this year’s proud puffer the gold plated, baseball bat-sized “Chesterfield Golden Smoke” award - his widow, Connie, will do the honors instead.

The late Mr. Bellmayer won the 1953 contest by puffing 10 cigarettes a minute — that’s 600 an hour, folks — for six straight days.

That's a grand total of 86,400 cigarettes!

Besides the Golden Smoke award, the winner also gets a lifetime supply of Chesterfields.

Hey pal, can I bum one of your Chesterfields? I left mine in the cigarette machine.

And can I have a light? I don't do magic.

Ha, ha, ha. ... (BENNETT VAN BRONSON)

A.) Martinis, bazoombas, and cigarettes ... now that's living.
B.) Chesterfield tastes good like a (clap clap) cigarette should.
C.) Does anyone have Connie Bellmayer's telephone number?

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2006-06-01T13:47:00.000-04:00

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New Definition For "Going Dutch"
Pedophiles' Push For Political Presence Plays Poorly

The Dutch have long been known for their liberal attitudes towards drugs, prostitution and pornography, but a new movement to establish a political party by a group of activist pedophiles is raising some eyebrows even in the Netherlands.

Changes advocated by the proposed Charity, Freedom and Diversity Party include lowering the legal age for an individual to have sexual relations from 16 to 12 years old, as well as allowing private ownership of child pornography, daytime broadcasts of non-violent porn, public nudity and non-abusive sex with animals.

Also on the group’s agenda is the legalization of all drugs.

In the long term, the Party advocates eliminating the legal age for sexual relations altogether, providing sex education for pre-schoolers, and allowing anyone 16 and over to work in the porn industry or become prostitutes if they so choose.

Opponents say that despite claiming to want to work for the rights of children, Party members are only trying to advance an agenda based on their personal needs.

A.) Hey, is Marty Sherman out of jail yet?
B.) I don't think so.
C.) That cheap fuck - no tip again, fuck.
A.) I won't comment on the above item then.
B.) Me, neither. How can a man hate squirrels anyway?
C.) Yeah, and no tip from Sherman again, fuck.

#

2006-06-01T11:05:00.000-04:00

#

Dating Jim Carrey?
JENNY TAKES A RIDE!
Free Wallet Photo on Left

Oh, they’re keeping it so hush-hush like anyone really gives a fuck, but sources in Hollywood say Jim Carrey and Jenny McCarthy have been an item since December.

Why? How the fuck should we know? Here at the Bomb, we look at it as an opportunity to shoot our fingers off and run a sexy photo of Jenny with a sexy caption.

The still hot 32-year-old (ha) McCarthy was recently on The View where one of those goofy bags, Joy Behar or Star Jones, asked her if she was dating “a well-known comedian who makes funny faces who is not Jerry Lewis."

The comedienne could have blurted “Yes, Al ‘Grandpa Munster’ Lewis,” and gotten the big laugh but went mysterious instead:

"No comment. Look it up online. Let's move on to the next topic."

Oops, sorry. Okay, how about that fucked up war in Iraq?

Yes, dear readers - everybody's got problems.

Us? We can take or leave Jim Carrey. He’s no favorite of ours. If he never existed it would be no skin off our nose. Food would taste the same.

It’s too bad twenty minute films aren’t in vogue because that’s about all we can take of the guy before we head for the concession stand and hot buttered popcorn - or the men’s room for a leisurely dump. Carrey’s a one-shtick pony.

And if you look at the pair in that broad, uselessly entertaining pop cult kind of way, Jenny McCarthy is Jim Carrey with tits and a vagina.

There, I said it.

But McCarthy does have that ‘dirty’ high school slut quality that drives men wild.

It makes you want to get her liquored up, have your way with her, then pull up your trousers and split to meet some pals for last call and a few laughs. ... (LYZAKO)

A.) Whoa, that Jenny chick is still hot.
B.) Uh, oh - I smell an upcoming Carrey / McCarthy movie project.
C.) No, look ... there's dogshit on your shoe.

LBE

2006-05-31T11:17:00.000-04:00

#

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun!
DUDE, USE COCAINE - NOT ROGAINE

By the time they turn 50, two out of every three men suffer some form of baldness.

Me, I wear a hat.

But researchers in America and the U.K. claim they can grow hair on a bald mouse. It’s true — by mutating the rodent’s “baldness gene,” they can reverse the loss process and instead promote successful fur growth.

So hopefully someday in the near future, man will grow soft and fuzzy fur on his head. Not unlike a Chia Pet or a cute fuzzy bunny rabbit.

Truth of the matter is, my shiny brothers, most women don’t care about our hair or lack of it.

But you’d better have a sense of humor, lover boy. The ladies like it when you make 'em laugh.....(MUSTY SCRIBBLINS)

A.) I kill chicks with my Homer Simpson shtick.
B.) I kill chicks by doing my Christopher Walken impression.
C.) I kill chicks and then bury them in my back yard.

LBE

2006-05-31T09:52:00.000-04:00

#

A LADY BOMB ESCORTS SPECIAL REPORT!

'Sick' fucked-up photo at fault...
MARTY SHERMAN:
MOST HATED MAN IN BLOGOSPHERE?

Poor Marty Sherman. He sits in a cell with other evildoers.

The air smells of piss and blood and vomit from the thousands that have occupied the space before him.

Lyzako and the Lady Bomb staff try to unravel this strange tale in this unforgettable, in-depth, exclusive report.

Tokugawa Marinski Make Report:
MISTER HOLLYWOOD
IN BIG TROUBLE

Marty Sherman in Oakland County jail for showing picture on left. Police say it mean to squirrel after Sherman write story about many squirrel commiting suicide. Then PETA (you know who they are) make complaint and Mr. Sherman, a Hollywood legend / writer, have trouble begin.

Why they do that?

Musty Scribblins Reporting:
'BOMB' WRITER IN JAIL
- IT STINKS IN THERE

On the right is the original photo chosen to accompany Marty Sherman's in-depth report on the squirrel suicide dilemma facing our nation.

At the last minute, someone replaced the poignant phot0 with what police and PETA are calling an unusually serious affront to small animals ... in other words, cruelty.

Authorities are trying to determine who would do such a thing.

LADY BOMB BREAKING NEWS...

Marty Sherman’s
JAIL CELL DIARY:

"Heeelp! Let me outta heeere!"

"Hey, get the fuck away from me man."

Holding cell in Oakland County is no fun. Am writing this on t.p. with burnt matches. Have to write. Record for blog. Note: Hitler wrote in jail.

"Listen, man, I said get the fuck away from me. Don’t you understand English?"

Peta can kiss ass. Didn’t kill squirrel, just used pic.

"Hey, when can I talk to my lawyer? Hey! Anybody! I need to talk to my lawyer!"

Fuckers. Must post bail. Must get out before Mem. Day wkend. Techno fest at Hart Plaza. Girls in trance from x and music. Dance. Drink. Smoke grass. X-Men movie opens.

"If you touch me one more time, man, I’m gonna kill you! I’m in for armed robbery you know! I wouldn’t think twice about fucking you up! I’m warning you! Hey, I NEED TO TALK TO MY LAWYER!!! IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?!! HEY!!!!"

2 more matches. Need more dry t.p. Drunks in here too. 1 guy shit pants & smells awful. Puke smell, too.

"HEY! WHEN CAN I SEE MY GODDAMN LAWYER?!!!"

"Hold it down in there, asshole. You’ll see your lawyer when I say so, got it? Now keep it down. Some of these people are trying to sleep."

Hate jail. Always have.

A.) I feel for the guy, I really do.
B.) Yeah, after all he didn’t kill the squirrel and the caption was funny.
C.) I have a pair of squirrel slippers with fuzzy tails on the back. They’re cute.

LBE