Seriously, fuck Oprah. She should stick to slapping her name on (what I stubbornly perceive to be) glorified chick books. Maybe the occasional falsified memoir. But recently she’s been veering into the realm of actual literature, as evidenced by her selection of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road for her eponymous book club. Didn’t she learn her lesson with Faulkner? I know she is trying to promote literacy and all, but there are probably hundreds of thousands of copies of The Sound and the Fury gathering dust on the shelves of bored housewives scattered across the country.
I, for one, was hoping to purchase my copy of The Road sans Oprah’s gaping yonic seal of approval, thank you very much. Its mere presence implies a lack of credibility. Oprah’s O is a snarling toothless maw, swallowing everything in its path without balls for ballast. The weak are cradled in its womb in some sort of bizarre reverse gestation, only to be spit back out in an antiseptic birth devoid of blood or filth or free will.
And that brings us to McCarthy. What’s the matter? Having one of the best reviewed novels of 2006 wasn’t good enough for you? Whispers of Pulitzer floating around every corner clouding your judgment? I know somebody who is going to get kicked out of the reclusive old author’s club. I can only hope he is getting some perverse joy out of subjecting all those unsuspecting soccer moms to his patented brand of bleak, soul-crushing fiction.
Is it too much to ask for something bad to happen to Oprah? Can anyone stop this woman?
Assuming tall Asians everywhere would be interested in my take on their King, I translated the previous post into Chinese (because all Asians speak it) via the infallible Babel Fish Translator. I then had to translate it back into English, so I would know how my unique wordsmithery came across in their heathen language. The results are as intimidating as the prospect of poor Xia Shujuan’s wedding night. Yowsa!
Dryings you the eye, madame. The world highest person officially is a market. That is good! Fort Xishun, the international celebrity and the hero to the porpoise * everywhere, finally marry.
And who is lucky madame, you request? Why, with to Mongolia’s own summer Shujuan! The time in merely 5 feet six inches, the small bride is 2 feet unusually the is short high compared to her husband. When the request commentary to soon occurs nuptials, his joyous mother only has this to say that, “I always knew he is not joyful!”
Lucky is he. It enough difficultly found a partner when you look like look like you to be supposed to bury decide by yours neck in Easter Island.
* The porpoise, works their way to enter other posts.
Dry your eyes, ladies. The world’s tallest man is officially off the market. That’s right! Bao Xishun, international celebrity and hero to dolphins* everywhere, is finally getting hitched.
And who is the lucky lady, you ask? Why, none other than Mongolia’s own Xia Shujuan! Clocking in at a mere 5 feet six inches, the tiny bride is over 2 feet shorter than her freakishly tall husband. When asked to comment on the pending nuptials, his joyous mother only had this to say: “I always knew he wasn’t gay!”
Lucky for him. It’s hard enough finding a mate when you look like you should be buried up to your neck on Easter Island.
*Damn dolphins, worked their way into another post.
When they are not busy raping our women (see previous post,) dolphins pass the time engaging in rampant gay blowhole sex, which, if I am not mistaken, would be the human equivalent of someone ramming their joint inside your nasal cavity. Look at the smile on that dolphin’s face. Is it any wonder one of nature’s smartest creatures is also one of it’s most perverted?
But the dolphin is not the only dirty bird in Mother Nature’s twisted menagerie. As these crude hand drawings clearly prove, animals of all types enjoy the gay sex, especially hedgehogs and koala bears. Filthy. And to all those who would attempt to downplay the notion of widespread animal homosexuality, I offer this piece of incontrovertible evidence:
First masturbation, then homosexuality, and now rape. Yet another behavior once thought to be uniquely human exhibited by the animal kingdom. Is nothing sacred?
Any attempt to refute said ownership of your balls would be futile. They belong to Mastodon now. I saw them live and they rocked my balls clean off. I am now sans balls. Their new song on the Aqua Teen movie soundtrack is further proof that when they are not out rockin’, they are at home, counting a huge pile of other people’s balls. Balls which they rocked off, and now own.
Couldn’t find a clinically diagnosed anxiety disorder already on record, and I wasn’t sure about the nomenclature, so I just used an amalgamation of three existing phobias. In the event of an error on my part, there is a good chance scopoailuroautoerotophobia may actually mean “A fear of watching cats masturbate,” or, the far more disturbing “A fear of being watched while masturbating cats.”
But it makes you think. Is it really so weird to feel uncomfortable engaging in sexual activity with a pet in the room? I would like to put forth that it is the people comfortable with such a display who are the weird ones. Because one day there you are, innocently having sex in front of your animals, and then before you know it you are producing your very own bestiality videos.
Think about it. On one side you have Greece- pillar of western society, birthplace of democracy- representing the United States. On the other you have the barbaric hordes of the Persian Empire, which today is everyone’s favorite Axis of Evil member, the Islamic Republic of Iran.
The moment of realization came for me when the Senate denies good King Leonidas authorization to wage his war, a ruling the King promptly ignores. Sound familiar? To top it off you have dialogue that sounds like it was written by George W. Bush speech writers. They actually used the line, “Freedom isn’t free…” I half expected one of the Spartans to affect a hick drawl and chime in with “It costs a hefty fuckin’ fee.”
In response to what is being labeled as an attack on Iranian culture, a petition has been circulating online, entitled 300, An Unethical Movie Picture. Who wrote this thing, Borat? Way to establish your credibility, guys. No matter what the underlying message may be, it’s still just a movie.
Indie hipster shitheads are the new yuppie. Urban semi-professionals, more American Graffiti than American Psycho, simultaneously involved in and concerned with gentrification, have been systematically infiltrating the boroughs and taking over. Take Brooklyn, for example. A once thriving Hasidic community is on the verge of a turf war with these parasites, a war that will be fought not with bats and chains, but with facial hair.
Hipsters have ruined the non-ironic mustache for everyone. There was a time when a man could display his unshorn nose pubes with pride. A man could channel his inner Burt Reynolds without fear of comparison to the gay porn icons of yore. But then it was appropriated by the fad conscious. And when they sink their teeth into something they lock their jaws like a pit bull and shake until it is dead.
Do you really think you can win against someone for whom the mustache is a time honored right of passage? The gay cowboy? The 14 year old Mexican boy? Do you think you can win against a culture whose hirsute history is thousands of years old? I think not. Unless you can bring it like this guy, don’t even fucking bother.
In light of the sweaty man-epic that is 300, a movie who’s amazing violence is eclipsed only by its homoeroticism, I have decided to revisit another milestone of the “so macho it’s gay” cinema. I am, of course, referring to Tony Scott’s Top Gun. Now the homoerotic subtext of Top Gun has been well documented, most notably in a monologue written by director Roger Avary, later co-opted by the hammy Quentin Tarantino for the film Sleep With Me. A quick search online produced THIS more serious expansion on the theory, which includes a handy list o’ gay quotes, my favorite being, “I want somebody’s butt, I want it now, I’ve had it! God dammit! I want some BUTTS!!!” And if that isn’t enough to convince you…
I, for one, was hoping to purchase my copy of The Road sans Oprah’s gaping yonic seal of approval, thank you very much. Its mere presence implies a lack of credibility. Oprah’s O is a snarling toothless maw, swallowing everything in its path without balls for ballast. The weak are cradled in its womb in some sort of bizarre reverse gestation, only to be spit back out in an antiseptic birth devoid of blood or filth or free will.
Dryings you the eye, madame. The world highest person officially is a market. That is good! Fort Xishun, the international celebrity and the hero to the porpoise * everywhere, finally marry.
