Tickle-Me Elmo, eat your f***ing heart out--first Amazon pulls the book for some reason and now Phillip Greaves just sold his last copy of The Pedophile's Guide to Love & Pleasureto the Sheriff of Polk County, Florida.
How are all those lovers out there supposed to get their hands on what everybody wants this holiday season? Who the hell do they have to molest to get a self-published first-edition copy so they know what they should and should not be doing in the sack this winter? How can any substitute gift even approach the utility of this indispensable guide? Will the world drown itself in tears of disappointment this Christmas?
Stay tuned and put everything you value up on milk crates just to be on the safe side...
"Our backs ache, our skirts are too tight, we shake our booties from left to right."
This is the controversial cheer that a Michigan cheerleader's mother objected to recently. This objection got her daughter kicked off the squad and straight onto the stage of Good Morning America.
The kicker: The former cheerleader is only 6 years old.
SIX YEARS OLD!
For whom do six-year-olds cheer? Six-year-old football players? The Catholic Priests Charity Football League?
Even more importantly, however, how does this cheer make any sense? Who wants to hear about people's problems? Their backs ache? Whose doesn't. Their skirts are too tight? Stop getting so fat!
Boring...
Or are these cheerleaders trying to say they are always on their back getting it from football players and their skirts are intentionally too tight because they're trying to show off the hot bodies they spend all day creating by not eating and ditching class to do bikram yoga and smoking cigarettes across the street?
Oh, wait, I just got it--these six-year-old girls are CHEAP SLUTS who really, really, really want their football-playing sex-partners to win the game against their other football-playing sex-partners who go to first-grade at a nearby rival primary school.
Or so their coach wants us to think, for some reason--probably because she thinks it's "cute."
A quick perusal of Huffington Post this afternoon was perhaps the most depressing thing I have done in a long time. For all of you out there that don't believe me, read on and see if you can stand it:
What Can Brown Do for You: Scott Brown blocks Wall Street reform to ensure that taxpayers, not banks, pay the $19 billion cost of the bill
This one wins best title, for its apt use of what is most likely the worst corporate slogan in history. I've said it before and I'll say it again: why is one man who is not the President powerful enough to stop anything from happening?
Pedophilia has been in the news a lot these days, thanks to those pervy Catholics, and I feel it is my duty to take this opportunity to warn you all that pedophilia does not always happen behind closed doors or confessional curtains--sometimes it goes on right in front of your eyes, on national television.
Just Like Mom was the longest-running game show in Canadian history, even though it was only on the air for six seasons (How quaint!-Ed.).
The last five seasons were hosted by famed Toronto Blue Jays announcer Fergie Olver, who was the husband (now divorced) of the show's creator, Catherine Swing--which is an unfortunate name, considering what follows (Zing! -Ed.).
Now, I am the first to admit that I don't know much about Mr. Olver--including whether or not he is still alive--but that is only because his wikipedia profile has been deleted and scouring the internet has mysteriously (?) turned up no leads.
Most likely that is a result of his camp's reaction to the following video, which no doubt has made life extraordinarily difficult for Mr. Olver, if he is still alive:
Keep in mind that this is what happened when he knew the cameras were on.
What happened backstage after the show? What happened during casting sessions? What happened when he took the winning kids to Walt Disney World?
If anything more sinister ever happened besides these televised kisses, I hope he died a painful death, bled dry as a result of repeated slashes of his penis with a dull, rusted knife wielded by a vengeful victim.
Can you believe the good people of Canada let this go on for so long? Did they think it was cute that it seems all Fergie was after was a kiss on the lips from little girls?
I mean, I know it was 'a different era' and this is a heavily-edited video, but still--if an unwanted kiss happened even once it would be worth mentioning, and that is clearly not the case.
Hmmmm...methinks once again, as with 'the Catholic situation,' the rise of the military-industrial complex, the lip-service of modern-day politicians, real-estate speculation, the health-care situation, Social-Security raiding, and the current omnipotence of guilt-free corporations, previous generations were asleep at the wheel and future generations must pay the price.
So sad...
(Thanks to Videogum, btw, for introducing me to this ass-clown!)
Wow. Nice. I love it when a silver-haired old pervert says LOL and uses 'your' incorrectly. It's a real turn on--makes me wanna go down to the junior high, get some kids drunk, and fuck some unsuspecting ass! Woo! Hypocritical Republican Roman Catholics rule!
In case you were curious, I found the above article while reading this gem.
Earlier today, in Los Angeles, my friend and I went to Griffith Park to lay in the sun/shade and read through a script we've been writing.
Despite the fact that we were two guys reading aloud to each other in a park, things were going well. Then we got swarmed by ten-year-olds on their lunch-break, riding out the back-end of a sugar-filled field trip to the nearby Griffith Observatory.
(photo courtesy LA Times)
Whoa! Don't worry--we survived. It didn't get that hairy. It's amazing how far a box of Nerds can take you, when scattered 'at random' by a professional...
Anyway, after all that hullaballoo ran its course and the bambinos were herded back onto their school buses, emaciated teenagers of both sexes began trotting around in strange matching uniforms, oddly tolerating the unreasonable barks of some overweight, Napoleanic coach sitting in a low-rent camping chair. I overheard him telling those kids the following, as they diligently set up an obscurely-branded 10' x 20' pop-up tent under a tree:
"Alright, alright--let's move this into the shade. Come on! Okay...let's get those waters out there, and the Gatorade. Make sure you put the Gatorade next to the water--no--ON TOP OF the water--but make sure you drink BOTH today, guys. Seriously..."
It was quite distracting--and not in the good way you might be thinking (none of them were hot). By the time we were back in the zone, my buddy had to head off to an inconvenient job assignment. I say that like it was court-mandated or something, but it wasn't. Well...no--it wasn't. That's all I can say. Legally.
Our semi-productive day cut short, we trudged through several feet of sunshine, back to my glistening Lamborghini Countach.
On the way, I couldn't help but notice this:
A totally creepy guy hanging outside his serial-killer-issue van, dancing drunkenly to deafening, shitty country music, in broad daylight, at a high-school cross-country meet, just after a four-bus-load junior-high field trip finished eating their lunch.
