Michael Jackson Phone Home

To a nation in mourning over the untimely passing of a Pop Legend:

Re. Fucking. Lax.

Would you cry like this if your Magic Bullet Blender died? Unless you had formed an illicit (and may I say dangerous) relationship based on its riveting vibrations, then no madam, you would not. That’s because the Magic Bullet Blender, although still able to make us feel something, is a machine, and we don’t cry over machines.

Would you cry like this if you found out The Cat in the Hat died? Unless you are 4 years old or enjoy an occasional methamphetamine with your Cheerios, then no sir, you would not. That’s because The Cat in the Hat is a fictional figment of our imaginations, and let’s hammer this home: he is not real. We don’t cry over things that are not real.

Finally, would you cry if your space alien friend — whose race was advanced enough for intergalactic travel yet whom you managed to trap using only Reese’s Pieces — began dying and needed to return home? Well yes Drew Barrymore, you precocious little thing, you probably would. But that’s only because he taught you the value of friendship, or some such shit. We don’t cry when aliens go home.

And let’s face it, that’s really what happened here. Michael Jackson was a fantastic space alien friend who showed us some songs and dances that were soooo last year where he was from, but were totally new to us! And instead of the value of friendship, he taught us another important value: the value of not letting your children sleep over with a  shape-shifting man/lady/junglecat.

Now, having imparted that knowledge, he has returned home, leaving us with only a handful of indecipherable mysteries, such as why anyone from any planet would find a baby and think to themselves “We shall call you…um….Blanket. Or Kevin. No, no…Blanket.”

So don’t cry, weary nation (except you, Blanket, you can feel free to continue crying). Just tilt your head toward the summery night sky, gaze into its sparkling glory, and remember the words of a god we created only so we might have a monster to destroy:

“Heal the world, make it a better place.”

“If you want to make the world a better place, then take a look at yourself and make a change.”

“Beat it. Just, beat it.”

Michael Jackson Phoned Home, and it was Awesomely Tragical.

VS.

Roommate of the Corn Gets an iPhone

I’ll just hone in on the one thing you need to know about my roommate, Drewbie-Snax: He is from Iowa, and that makes him a Children of the Corn.

I often ask him culturally insensitive questions, like whether he ever had a coonhound named Baxter, and whether ol’ Bax was ever fixin’ to find himself a lady dog, and when dem pups were born did he get ta keep’un an’ name it Shooter? And did ol’ Shooter hustle down to the swimmin’ hole Pa dug back round the outhouse an’ nab himself a right-good summer hare?! Hoo-weee!!

And other times I ask him if he ever saw a black person before coming to New York.

But even though he’s an amicable Iowa farm boy who politely ignores me when I mis-stereotype him as a Southerner, Drewbie-Snax has a dark side. He is addicted to hi-tech gadgets like MySpace is addicted to ugly and stupid. Seriously, browse that shit and weep for humanity.

To score his latest techie high, Drewbie-Snax got himself a brandy-new iPhone the other week. Since then it’s been like living in the Apple store, if the Apple store was a prison camp. He constantly shows me applications that can tell directions, find restaurants or even convince me that my life isn’t one horrific hamsterwheel of failure and defeat. Then there’s the one that got us forcibly removed from Coyote Ugly.

Drewbie-Snax decided to use the panoramic camera app Friday night to take several covert shots and sow them together for an “all-around” view of the bar, but made the mistake of snapping one just as Dancyboots (up on the bar with Sassyboots and Drunkyboots) flashed us her red-panty-clad underbritches. Large men whose faces seemed lovingly constructed with pebbles and tire scraps grabbed his shoulder and lovingly told us to lovingly put away the fucking camera.

“Holy pineapple sandwiches, let’s go,” I said.

“Wait, I need one more to complete the panorama,” he said.

“Oh for Sweet Baby Ray, will you put the brotherfucking phone away?”

“Just. One. Last.”

“Christ on a hot tin roof!!! WILL YOU FUCKING LISTEN TO–”

“Motherfuckers GET OUT!”

And then we were on the street. He got the shot though, the crafty bastard.

When Roommate of the Corn Gets an iPhone, things get Awesomely Tragical, awesomely fast.

WINNER:

Roommate of the Corn Gets an iPhone and I almost get my face broken. But Michael Jackson Phones Home and a nation’s brain gets broken. Don’t worry, with enough plastic surgery we’ll look great, because that has never backfired for anyone.

Michael Jackson Phones Home is Awesomely Tragical.

Narrator Voice Overs

I would not, in fact, “be the world’s greatest detective.”

I know I’ve claimed to have superhuman abilities of observation and deduction, but I’ve also claimed my bladder could hold a full gallon of urine, and that my blood contained the cure for HIV. So I want to feel special, sue me.

Anyway, I would suck at being a detective because without someone telling me exactly what’s going on, my brain automatically invents theories that are, as a Perkins waitress once told me, “full of bat-shit crazy.”

Quick example: I once reasoned, in all seriousness, that a bird must have flown into my apartment and stolen the last boston cream doughnut. My main piece of evidence was that I lived on the 4th floor, and cats cannot fly.

But see, that’s why Narrator Voice Overs are so great — no interpretation necessary. When the Wonder Years guy says “I needed a summer job,” you can pretty much rest assured that young Kevin will learn a lesson about fiscal responsibility, and not the perils of becoming a child drug mule. Much as we’d like him to.

When Ed Norton/Whoeverthefuck in Fight Club says “Bob had bitch tits,” you don’t have to feel so bad for thinking it first. Also, a new and useful phrase is introduced into your vocabulary.

Point is, we are awash in a world of sights and sounds that need to be interpreted, but alas, we are lazy fucks. Just like I tell the up-and-comers down at the old salt mill: the best way to get anything done is to get someone else to do it for you.

If you can stop me from declaring to a roomful of sober relatives that “A Christmas Story” is a liberal conspiracy plot to take away my guns and religion, then Narrator Voice Overs, you are Awesomely Badass.

VS.

Unlikely Duos

• A cop who plays by his own rules gets partnered with an FBI-trained chimp with a blackbelt — in fun!

• Can a streetwise Latino boxer and a spoiled heir to the Truck Nutz empire put aside their differences long enough to foil a global terrorist attack?

Admit it, you want to watch BOTH OF THOSE movies. Because America loves us some Unlikely Duos.

Whenever you see a pair of completely mis-matched folks, you know you’re in for either A) sassy comebacks, B) hilarious misadventure, C) a heartbreaking commentary on what makes us human, or D) another god forsaken Christ Tucker/Jackie Chan movie. It’s a win-win-win-LOSE HORRIBLY situation.

If I were to venture out and take a guess, I think what we like most about Unlikely Duos is knowing the moment will come when their unique differences will be the very things that save the day. That’s all anybody wants, right? I mean, I plan on bringing my blog, my encyclopedic knowledge of Jurassic Park and a six-pack (of beer) to any future relationship, and the girl can just supply the other stuff, like a firm grasp on reality, emotional maturity and vast financial resources.

There’s a lucky winner out there somewhere, ladies!

But while we’re waiting for that ship to come in, we might as well agree: Unlikely Duos are Awesomely Badass.

WINNER:

It wasn’t easy coming back to a blog I left dormant for 6 weeks. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be. Maybe it was time for me to learn an important lesson, that while Unlikely Duos made me clap like an idiot Sea World porpoise, Narrator Voice Overs brought me an even greater joy: someone saving me the trouble and embarrassment of thinking for myself.

And so as I signed off that night, I knew only one thing was for sure.

Narrator Voice Overs are Awesomely Badass.

!!!! BONUS TRUCK NUT GALLERY !!!!

Talk about unlikely duos! Whoa lordy!

Swine Flu

Who’da thunk that pigs, of all things, would take down the mighty dynasty that is man? Lizards, sure. They have mean eyes. Even cats, because I don’t put shit past those bastards.

But piggies? Sweet, delicious bacon supremes? You were our friends, dammit! Why in God’s Sweet Fuck would you leave the comfort of my charbroiled Whopper deluxe to become some stupid deadly flu?

I think we can all agree that the real problem is what bad PR this is for the swines that don’t give you the flu. Jewish God and Muslim God already thinks they’re unclean (those dudes usually don’t agree on anything), and pop culture portrays them as fat and dirty, even though 1995’s Babe broke these stereotypes by showing us a well-mannered piglet with the heart of  champion. But sort of a bad haircut.

In the end, we’re going to get over this the same way we got over SARs, MRSA and that pesky bird flu that was totally supposed to kill everyone but me in 2006. But we’ll all start acting weird around pork chops, and “casually” cross to the other side of the street when we see a young piglet up ahead, because maybe he’s listening to hip-hop, maybe he has an edgy haircut and some intimidating piercings. We’ll be judging that little piglet, when really in his heart he’s probably a gifted cellist or Orwell scholar.

And that will be Awesomely Tragical. You pig hater.

VS.

Who Do I Have to Assassinate For A God Damn Blood Orange?

When sad country folk put away their $2 jug of bourbon, their whittling and their pride to ask me what it’s like to live in magical New York City, I try to sum it up in one simple phrase they can grasp:

You can get everything your heart desires here, if you only dream a dream (bang, and just like that Susan Boyle invades your brain cells).

Everything except a God damn blood orange. Because apparently grocery stores make sure they stock aloe vera dinosaur leaves, wartime-era powdered milk and 43 species of canned Mexican beans, but not one fucking blood orange.

What the hell is so hard about this? No one has tried to keep me away from something this non-alcoholic since high school, when mom discovered the porn channel on dad’s hotbox. She pulled one of her “I’m going to break everything you love in front of you with a hammer” things that she usually reserved for pipes and beer bottles. I grew up with strict moral codes… look how well that went.

Anyway, the blood orange crisis reached a breaking point last night when I gave in and finally asked the citrus attendant if they had any. Punk reaches into a pile of navel oranges not 2 feet away from us and hands me one with this hopeful look on his face.

ME: This is a navel orange. It says so on the sign.

CITRUS ATTENDANT: What did you want again?

ME: A blood orange.

CITRUS ATTENDANT: [Attempts to hand me the navel orange again]

ME: That’s still a navel orange.

CITRUS ATTENDANT: What is a blood —

ME: Just tell me if you have it.

CITRUS ATTENDANT: But what –

ME: Don’t. Just tell me if it’s here.

CITRUS ATTENDANT: [Blinks. Hands me the navel orange once more]

ME: [Taking navel orange] Oh good, this will be perfect. I’ll just add blood, then. Thanks so much for your help, I hope you get the promotion to vegetable attendant so you can live among your kind.

CITRUS ATTENDANT: We don’t carry blood here.

Who Do I Have to Assassinate For A God Damn Blood Orange is Awesomely Tragical.

WINNER:

Who Do I Have to Assassinate For A God Damn Blood Orange may be the final question I utter to an empty universe as I slip into darkness, but it will probably be the Swine Flu that’s killing me.

Swine Flue is Awesomely Tragical.

Some of the fan base are bitching that my VS. deathmatch format is all we ever do around here.  They want shorter, more frequent posts to pleasure them in jack-hammer fashion, instead of the slow and intimate style of pleasure I’ve provided so far.

Well I’ve never left anyone wanting more, so in the interest of Giving the People What They Want, I’ll be adding some new features in the coming weeks.

This first one is “Open Letter,” which the literate among you might recognize from other publications. Stay tuned for more features that will give meaning to your life, such as “It’s gonna need Jesus!” and “Michiko Must Die,” where I bravely defend the world from New York Times book critic (and assassin death-slut) Michiko Kakutani.

————————

Dear Nabisco French Onion Wheat Thins,

So you really thought you could cash in on the family name there, huh? You thought you could just saunter in with your air of French sophistication and be the Belle of the Wheat Thins Ball, right?

Well I got sour news for you, bitches. It took a month for me to finish you all, because every one of you tasted like a hot slab of rotten coyote crap baked in the unforgiving Nevada sun.

I’ll give it you, your premise was strong. Sure, who among us have not caught themselves in the middle of a long jog or the Bar exam, when you literally cannot go on without sampling the delicate flavors of rich, sauteed Vidalia onions? It’s a bond we all share; it is, I imagine, what makes us human.

But taking the best and boldest creation of an entire people (French Onion Soup), and making it portable, for on-the-go bistro taste at your fingertips? A dream too glorious for man to behold…

I could not even eat you when I was drunk, that’s how bad you were. Remember last Tuesday, when I went on that bender and forgot to eat both lunch and dinner? At midnight I crept into the kitchen and took the Multi-Grain Wheat Thins to bed with me.

They were phenomenal.

We’re over.

-Skelwell

My New Hideous Disease

A wise soul once said, “Beer, the cause of — and solution to — all of life’s problems.” It was probably Plato or Amy Winehouse or Muhammad (may peace be upon him), I always get those three mixed up. What matters is that truer words have never been spoken, because out of nowhere beer has created My New Hideous Disease, and will (maybe) heal it.

Now as long as I’ve been drinking heavily, I’ve managed to look really good doing it. It also makes me sing good and be hilarious and a great fighter and dancer and impervious to bullets and gravity and the law. But starting last month, every time I take a few sips of beer my face turns bright red and splotchy like some kind terrifying leper-Muppet.

Out of nowhere I have developed an allergic reaction to booze. In the words of the Internet, Fuck My Life.

Now let’s get something straight: I am one vain motherfucker. As far as I’m concerned my face is carved from God’s laughter and my hair is spun from the joyful yelps of baby koala bears. Turning ugly when I’m drunk is not an option, unless you’re talking about that figurative “ugly drunk” thing, in which case I’m sorry about your cat, I’ll buy you a new one that doesn’t look at me funny.

But to add to the pain of being betrayed in the one stable relationship in my life (me+beer=2gether4eva), I found out last week that the New York Times thinks this alcohol allergy means 1 million Asian dudes and I could die. The redness indicates  a missing gene, and if you don’t have it you might build up a toxin in your blood. The real question is, how the hell did whiteboy get soy sauce in the pipes, and how come instead of making me really good at karate it is instead trying to kill me?

But there is good news. If I continue to drink through the redness, it goes away. So beer actually heals the disease! You might note that the scientists in the story are all like “You really should not continue drinking, blah blah blah I hate when you’re happy.” Ignore them, they are the same people that said Kriss Kross would never make a comeback. Now who’s laughi–

Shit. My New Hideous Disease is Awesomely Disgusting.

VS.

Trenton, New Jersey

Without even holding a deathmatch showdown, I can tell you that Bruce Springsteen can beat Jesus in a magic fight. One turns water into wine, the other turns New Jersey into something that is almost fit for humans.

That might be a little harsh, since we all know Jersey has its redeeming factors. Filthy shore bars, chain restaurants and Target are like the Ben-Gay of the soul, after all. But one godless hellscape always weighs Jersey down like the guilt of a trillion sins.

Not Newark. Or Elizabeth. Or Jersey City. Or Perth Amboy. Or Camden. Shit, kinda killing my defense of Jersey here…

Nope, it’s the Garden State’s capital, Trenton, a shitstack that needs to be flushed down the toilet along with Phil Collins and whoever made Beverly Hills Chihuahua. It looks like what would happen if you took Calcutta, sprinkled in a little heroin and built an IHOP in the middle.

Except Calcutta doesn’t have passive-aggressive bridges. If you’ve ever had to drive by Trenton you’ve seen the bridge I’m talking about. “TRENTON MAKES, THE WORLD TAKES.” Oh my god shut up, you sound like my mom.

The only time I was forced to breathe Trenton air was for my sister’s high school graduation. She didn’t go to school there, they just thought it would save time to send graduates directly into the inevitable life of casual murder and substance abuse that would no doubt await them all. The ceremony took place in a stadium built from leftover pieces of Hiroshima, and the bathroom attendant said he’d give me $5 if I peed in a jar for him. Easiest 5 bucks I ever made, and I bet he felt like a silly goat when the e showed up. Oh holler!

Trenton, New Jersey, you are Awesomely Disgusting.

WINNER: When you tell God to design a curse so cruel it forces me to choose between disfigurement and sobriety, you get My Hideous New Disease (and drunk me, obviously). When you tell God to create a city-sized bowel movement, you get Trenton, New Jersey.

Trenton, New Jersey is Awesomely Disgusting.

The Fast and the Furious: Toky Drift

Everyone’s got their little guilty pleasures, you know.

Some people know all the words to MmmBop and sing them quietly in the shower, hoping today will be different. Some people keep a small unmarked bottle of Popov vodka on their person and pour it into literally everything they drink, including other vodka. Some people have every episode of Passions on homemade DVDs they got off eBay last June, and god help the person who doesn’t return the episode where you find out Vincent Crane is an intersexual who got pregnant with his own father’s son. Just, god fucking help you.

So in comparison to those snack-sized bites of human misery, my own guilty pleasure doesn’t seem so bad. And in honor of the upcoming sequel, I will openly admit it: I love The Fast and the Furious movies.

And I like Tokyo Drift the best.

Tokyo Drift tore out all the dreams from my heart and showed them back to me in an unattainable movie world.

To those sad husks of life who have not seen Tokyo Drift, let me sum it up. A delinquent Southern teen gets sent to Japan to live with his reclusive Navy father after a wild car race lands him on the wrong side of the Law. On his first day of whatever Tamagachi shitstorm the Japanese call high school, he manages to fall in with the local underground car racing gang. Happens to everyone once, right?

Long story short, he must learn the Tokyo Drift, a driving maneuver that will A) avenge his friend’s death, B) settle a beef he manages to stir up with a Yakuza warlord, and C) make daddy love him again. In a scene just as simultaneously corny and magical as the part in Twister where they see the middle of the tornado and Helen Hunt finds Jesus there, the guy does the Tokyo Drift through a crowded intersection and skillfully avoids killing a single Asian. For better or worse.

How can I love this? It’s everything I’ve always wanted:

1. To be Southern and known for stirrin’ up a ruckus
2. To have a cool accent I ain’t changin’ fer no one, ma’am
3. To be immediately accepted by an illegal subculture that values my swagger and devil-may-care attitude
4. To survive battle with the Yakuza mob
5. To learn a new skill

And so I submit that The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift is Awesomely Badass.

VS.

The Apocalypse

The Apocalypse would really be a mixed bag for me.

On the one hand, I’ve always wanted it to happen. Not because I particularly hate the world (the world has things like Pop Tarts and dogs named Prescott, after all), but more because I think that if anyone should get to see this shit go down, it should be me. So really it’s an entitlement issue.

On the other hand, I am faced with the fact that I would not be the kind of person to survive long in a post-Apocalyptic world.

For one, I have no discernible skills (as referenced above). I cannot do important things like determine safe berries. I do not have any fucking clue how anything works, so I cannot recreate a single inch of civilization. I can recite Jurassic Park line by line and make god’s eyes out of yarn and popsicle sticks, but that’s really all I’m bringing to the party.

But in every movie ever, the Apocalypse looks like a delightful alternative to every day life. Some examples:

• Children of Men: Baby-free sex! (May the federal authorities please recognize the carefully chosen punctuation in that phrase)
• Terminator: Robots with powers!
• Mad Max: Dirt Bikes!
• I Am Legend: Zombies!
• Resident Evil: Zombies!
• Dawn of the Dead: ZOMBIES!

Now I showed you a fucking dog (that I) named Prescott and referenced three zombie movies in a row. Think that’s enough to conclude that The Apocalypse is  Awesomely Badass.

WINNER: The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift may fulfill all my dreams of escaping my small town Southern life to pursue danger and glory in a far-off land, but the Apocalypse is my real ticket out of work tomorrow.

The Apocalypse is Awesomely Badass.

Martha’s Explodi-Pooch

It’s been a pretty wet-N-wild news week:

• After a brutal beating, Rihanna Jim Cramer went back to Chris Brown Jon Stewart and promised this time it will be different, he’ll see!
• NYPD broke up an America’s Top Model mob battle before the inevitable love-making could ensue
• and Bernie Madoff’s awesome hair was incarcerated with the rest of him:

But despite all that crap, Martha Stewart managed to pull into the lead with the most (literally) explosive story of all!

HER DOG EXPLODED! OMFG I DIDN’T KNOW THEY COULD DO THAT!!!

Wee Genghis Khan, a fluffy bear-dog thing, died tragically in a propane-fueled megablast that also killed several non-celebrity dogs. Though the thought of dead puppies makes my soul weep tears of unfathomable sadness, there was at least one accidentally hilarious thing to come of this:

“Though badly burned, Kleinhagen [the propane delivery man] managed to toss a cairn terrier over the kennel fence to safety.”

Let’s just say that if I were all burny and trapped in a raging inferno, my first instinct would NOT be to grab a hot woofie and chuck it through the sky like a flaming death rocket, hoping against hope it might land in a conveniently located kiddie pool or something equally cinematic.

But it was a good thing this guy was there and not me, because the dog (whose name, somewhat ironically, turns out to be Chilli) survived both the blast and the free-throw-at-the-buzzer. He is set to bravely attend Genghis Khan’s funeral and will later appear on Oprah to recount his harrowing tail. ZING!

Anyway RIP, Genghis. He lived so fast and died so hard, which makes Martha’s Explodi-Pooch Awesomely Tragical.

VS.

“I Would Do Anything for Tripp” (But I Won’t Do That..)

The first line I wrote on this blog took a swipe at Bristol Palin, but I decided to lay off after that (despite my burning desire for “Oh Shit Babe, It Broke!” the Bristol/Levi reality show I could not get off the ground). Not to mention I haven’t written in several month, but fuck that. You’ll eat when I feed you, bitches.

But now it looks like Tripp — their baby who comes straight off Mama Sarah’s Top Ten Coke Induced Children’s Names — is going to be raised in a broken igloo.

Levi and Bristol broke up! Shockwaves through the core of your being, I know. Take a second; remember how to breathe.

I’ll venture a guess and say being a papi totally fucks up bro time and getting stoned at the 7-11, taking a few semis down to the quarry and shooting at bottles of Bud Heavy. I may not have grown up in Alaska, but my ability to blindly stereotype unseen people and lands is a gift, I’m told.

I can’t hang the guy any better than he hangs himself, though, so let’s let Levi guest blog for a Juneau Minute:

“I’d give anything for [Tripp], to be with him,” he said. “[There are] a lot of changes when you’re a father, when you hold him for the first time, you know. I don’t do a lot of things I used to anymore, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yeah, [I'm] growing up a lot,” he added. “So, it’s fun. It’s good times.”

Asked if he felt any pressure from the Palin family, Johnston said he did not.

“No,” he said. “Not at all.”

At this point in the interview, Sarah Palin shifted the gun slightly to avoid fucking up Levi’s hair too much. He still had the photo shoot, ya know.

Now regardless of the fact that I don’t want MyBlogIsAnAwesomeBlog going too political, Palins and Palin-associates will always be fair game here. Why? It ain’t their politics, homie. They can deny evolution and let Jesus touch them all night long. Have fun with that.

No, the reason I will take any and every nut-shot I can is because that bitch shoots wolves,

AND THAT SHIT DOES NOT FLY HERE.

No, I don’t know what to feel about this video, either.

Levi Would Do Anything For Tripp, as long as it involves chillen n shyt. Awesomely Tragical.

WINNER: “I Would Do Anything For Tripp (But I Won’t Do That) may stir up some of your daddy issues, but all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Martha’s Explodi-Pooch together again.

Martha’s Explodi-Pooch is Awesomely Tragical.

Fun With Mommy’s Oxycontin

Back in my home town, a highly organized ring of prescription drug dealers just got busted, ruining the weekend for untold numbers of high school children. Apparently they were stocked with everything from Adderrall and oxycodone to something called lorazepam, which sounds more like a mythical dragon friend than a euphoria-inducing narcotic, but what the fuck do I know?

A couple lines that need call-outs immediately:

• Last June, a 17- and 16-year-old boyfriend-girlfriend team went on a burglary and robbery spree (Um. Hot.)
• “I’ve been to more wakes than I’ve been to birthday parties” (Someone get this poor bastard a whale cake)

I mean it’s gotta be hard for these kids. In the face of a major life-altering dilemma like, say, reading The Great Gatsby, who can deny the need for a Vicodin-amphetimine-and-Banker’s Club cocktail? Hell, I used to toss those puppies back after a hard day at Vacation Bible Camp.

While I had to do unspeakable things to get my admittedly less badass 40 of Bud Ice (like actually trust real-life poor people with my money), all these punks do is raid Mommy’s stash.

Then again, you gotta count the Jenga pile of deadsies for something. If my generation glanced askew at their generation in the locker room, I feel like my generation would get some intense death-toll envy.

So although the way they score their scoobie snacks is lame-pants, they upped the ante with dramatic lines about going to more graveyards than Chuck E. Cheeses.

Fun With Mommy’s Oxycontin is Awesomely Badass.

VS.

Young Master Pimpy

Let’s pull a Good Morning America here  and superficially gloss over a social paradox:

When a male teacher has sex with an underage female student, she is a victim. When a female teacher has sex with an underage male student, he becomes Dr. Pimptastico, Master of Worlds! (c)

But is there any room in this runaway American dream for an enterprising lad who wants to take Chris Brown’s advice and (oh you think I’m going for it…I’m going for it, right? It’s coooooming!!!!) double the pleasure, double the fun? (AND I FAKE IT TO THE RIGHT! SHA-SNAP!!)

Well if there is a boy who can land not one but TWO of his own teacher, he must surely be the chosen one sent to save us from war, destruction and chicken nugget scandals. So let’s take a quick flight to Bountiful, Utah (too easy), where we’ll meet Young Master Pimpy.

Young Master Pimpy was not like the other boys. As they played with the single 1993 Happy Meal toy that fell into the godless nowhere pit that is Utah, this 13-year-old reached out both hands and pulled in a sweet babalicious with each one. Except in reality they’re putrid sewer lepers, but YoungMP gets credit for juggling the beasties while staying o-so-fly.

The affairs went on for months, and after sex YoungMP would roll over, turn on Shark Week and demand Double Stuf Oreos. Pretty much your average healthy sexual relationship, in other words.

It was game over when one of the bitchez got whack and narked on the extra-curricular activities, but Young Master Pimpy emerged Awesomely Badass.

WINNER: Fun With Mommy’s Oxycontin may be cutting down high school kids like oregano in a dime bag, but Young Master Pimpy is shooting down cougers from the cradle.

Young Master Pimpy is Awesomely Badass.

Rush Limbaugh

Rushbo has challenged Bam Bam to a duel! Of words!

No one really expects O to play ball since, let’s face it, it’s sort of unbecoming for the leader of the free world to accept random pissing match invites. Unless it’s from Hil, then it’s a manhood thing and who can blame him.

But for all his wacky shock jock exploits, Rush has quite a way with power. When elected officials are shining his shoes and miss a spot, he kicks them  in their malnourished orphan ribs, pulls them off the ground by their malnourished orphan ears, and makes them apologize as the dark wet spot spreading from their groin erases any last vestige of dignity.

Do you remember Fat Cat from Chip ‘N Dale’s Rescue Rangers? Of course you do, you didn’t have friends in 1991, either.

Fat Cat and Rush have at least two discernible traits in common. One, they are twinsies. Observe the arrangement of the neck and jowls:

The second is they make/made formidable foes. Even with the requisite bumbling sidekicks, Fat Cat managed to drop a big steaming one in Chip’s (or Dale’s? WTF knows) coffee every morning.

And likewise, Rushbo drops quite the deuce in the Dems’ grande chai lattes each and every bold American morning. The shape and frequency of said deliveries would impress even that infomercial poop guy (real quote, regarding to his 4-year-old daughter: her bowel movement was about as thick as my wrist and about as long as her arm!)

Rush Limbaugh is Awesomely Badass!

VS.

Joe the Biden

So if Bam’s not going pause pressing national and international obligations to cock-slap Rush (lame!), there’s only one man who could stand up to the task.

Rahmbo? Too ballerina-y!

Gibbs? Too jiggly!

Nope. Only dude for the job is Sweet Joey  B. And before any of you read another word, watch this in its star-studded, glorious entirety:

Now how could Sweet Joey B. possibly overcome a porpoise-like attack of the Rush? Easy.

A direct punch to the throat.

Because America, Sweet Joey B. is a crazy motherfucker. Note I did not call him a “mother-shut-yo’-mouth!” or a “mother-fekker” as may happen with those who do not fully earn the title. No, because Joe Biden will have intercourse with your mother. And then he will punch her directly in the throat.

Sweet Joey B. is the guy at the bar you know you shouldn’t fuck with when you walk in. You know it, and you promise you will not. But haha! that was a sober promise and those don’t count! So you grow a tiny ball (just the one) and mock him under your breath as you pass by, giddy with the thrill of it. Until his iron bear claw lands on your shoulder.

“Say it again,” Joe Biden says. The single tiny ball reverts to your usual vagin-jee.

“Come outside with me,” he says. “No…” you croak.

And then Joe Biden punches you directly in the throat. Because Joe the Biden is Awesomely Badass.

WINNER: Rush may have a big cigar, but Joe the Biden will resort to uncontrollable baboon-style brutality without blinking.

Joe the Biden wins for being Awesomely Badass.

Things in the shape of the Virgin Mary

The 10 Commandments. The Shroud of Turin.

A cornflake.

The good lawd chooses strange vessels for his message. And while vessels like Morgan Freeman and Alanis Morissette are definitely strange, at least they make some sense. Unless the rumors are true and you’re Dave Coulier, and that bitch calls you in the middle of dinner. I mean, fuck that – you’re the only thing standing between three wily girls and Bob Saget, and fucking Kimmy Gibbler keeps stopping by in a clearly coke-induced stupor so she can skull fuck John Stamos with a glow-in-the-dark 80s strap-on (as if there’s any other kind), and now on top of it all Alanis “Jagged Pill” Morisette is interrupting meatloaf night?!!??

Sorry, sometimes I just go there and it’s hard to come back.

What I’m trying to say is, a message of hope to humanity probably won’t come in the form of a pretzel:

sent to this Chosen One:

Milk goes on the cereal, sweetheart. Milk. Not a Dixie cup of mescaline-laced Scope.

Others have seen holy tree stumps, holy grapes, and even a holy Cheeto (Holy Cheeto, Batman!). There’s an entire blog [ virginmaryagain.com ] dedicated to harvesting these precious miracles. But it’s booming business! Turns out that cornflake sold for $1,350…bet the Cornflake rooster went home and beat his rooster babies when he heard they let that cash cow out of the factory.

Things in the shape of the Virgin Mary are Awesomely Retarded!

VS.

“That’s what she said!”

Everybody wants to be funny, but let’s face it, it’s really hard (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!)

Luckily there’s an old standby, and if you know how to stick it in the right spot you’ll make people smile (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!)

Now, some people overdo it, so you should just try to let it come naturally (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!). Good news is that The Office made it funny to say again, and in this clip Steve Carell shows you how to bring it up in any situation (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!):

My favorite part is when he erupts at 3:50 (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!).

It’s such a phenomenon that they got it all over the place, even on clothes (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!), so don’t be afraid to pull it out (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!). Let this sink in a bit — you’ll thank me later (THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!).

Whew…sometimes you have to just purge yourself of the 12-year-old inside of you (resisting…that’s just on the cusp of “too far,” even for me). Fact of the matter is, everyone from Kofi Annan to Snoopy has used “That’s what she said” to bring down the house, which makes it Awesomely Retarded.

WINNER: Things in the shape of the Virgin Mary get some people really excited, but that’s what she said!

“That’s what she said” wins for being Awesomely Retarded.