By contributor Professor Sean Torrie

(To be perfectly fair, Mr. Thomasson was trying to hire a cook.)

I got an email from a friend of mine a few days ago. He’s a funny guy, it’s always either extremely patriotic “pray for our troops” stuff, or naked women. I prefer the naked women; one would never have guessed that about me from the 2 terabyte hard drives I have filled with such imagery, but it’s a surprising truth.

In this case, the email I received was about the 2010 census and was inspired by this article here: Sending A Message With The Census from The National Review.

The interesting part to this is that it goes directly against a very personal opinion of mine. The article in point states that, instead of filling in your specific ethnicity, you write in “American” for your denomination. For me, this has always been an issue. Using as an example the fact that certain groups get extra points on their SATs just for spelling their name right, or that anyone who is 1/64th Native Indian (one of the newer PC terms for the people who were handed small-pox-blankets and instructed to take a nap) will be given a free college education on behalf of the US government, and for that matter only specific people can say specific words on television, I’ve always been annoyed that, being Irish, I never got any bonus points from society.

You may not be aware of this, because world history turns a blind eye to bullshit of this variety, but the Irish are a remarkably oppressed people. The first example I can think of is when the Romans chased the Gauls out of the very region named after them, and up to the British Isles.

Years later, Emperor Hadrian would be credited with building a wall all across the northern portion of the primary island to keep the Gauls (the name slowly mutated to Gaelic) in the colder region and away from their civilized territory. That same wall is, to this day, still considered the border between England and Scotland. If that’s not segregation on an almost eugenicist level, I don’t know what the fuck is.

Oh wait! Yes I do!

After the fall of the Roman empire, when the English decided that whole global domination thing sounded like a lot of fun, and they should take after their forefathers, they started nice and early on with shipping northerners, such as the Scottish, that while unkempt and savage, were considered more civilized than the Irish, over to Ireland so that they could breed them into civility. While I can admit, most of my relatives aren’t exactly the most balanced people in the world, I’d like to think that no one is trying to breed them into something more palatable, like so much Labradoodle.

(After the jump, so much more Mick you’ll start pissing Guiness and liking cabbage. Do it!)

Continue Reading…

Here’s something else you can blame Bryant Gumbel for. Ever since he aired his HBO specials, taking a look into the lives of athletes that viewers had no interest in or conceivable right to see, the Western World has salivated for more juiciness that has nothing to do with the sport those same viewers claimed to actually like. So screw it. Scumbag Style presents it’s first installment of a column called Sports Voyeur.

(Tiger Woods’ anonymous caddy and his bangin’ wife, recently expertly fertilized.)

EXCLUSIVE: Scumbag Style managed to get the only interview offered by the Tiger Woods camp in the wake of the announcement of his return to professional golf, at the Masters in Augusta. The media is awash with the scandal, and most journalists would have given their left nut for such an opportunity, but I have something better than a testicle: two. Seems Tiger’s caddy (who asked to remain anonymous until the most watched 18 holes of all time airs on the boring channel) has 14 clubs in his bag, but none that can impregnate his wife, and an interview is cheaper than a sperm bank, so… win/win/lose for me. The “lose” being I can’t construct a complete golf euphemism to save my life. I’ll leave that to CNN.

Scumbag Style: Your wife was great, thanks again.
Caddy: Did she do that thing with her knuckles…?

SBS: You’re damned right she did.
Caddy: Pretty friggin’ good right?

SBS: We’re not here to talk about how much your wife prefers myself over you. We’re here to talk about Tiger’s golf scandal. I did the bonkin’, you do the talkin’.
Caddy: What is there to say? Tiger feels blessed to have boinked so many broads, and could not have done it without the support of Buddha, his frigid, gold-digging wife, and all his little fans out there buying his name brand condoms he never used.

SBS: Sure, he’s a great fornicator, but what about all this talk about his return to golf? How is the camp taking it?
Caddy: You bastards in the media cannot get enough of this, can you? For God’s sake, the man is a sexual predator, not a golfer! Covering his many conquests, giving book deals to waitresses who got famous on their backs, inventing bogus medicine shows like “Sex Rehab” and then sweeping up unsuspecting Billy Bobs and Duchovnies in the wake of us getting our scandal fix: that’s all gravy, man, it is what Tiger Woods does in the public eye.

SBS: So, what you’re saying is that, just because he’s the most successful professional erection since John Holmes, with a satisfied forty-niner rating of like a billion under par, that he is not public property, and that his decision to play golf should be something worked through privately? [ed. Golf euphemisms are hard because those fucking Scottish bastards didn't know Americans would firmly establish later that more = good]
Caddy:  Look, what Tiger does on the links is none of our business. Thousands of men all over the world play golf. Is it really fair that his shortcomings be forced into the spotlight? Frankly I am ashamed of this country for latching on to his private life when all he wants to do is be left alone on the back 9, and figure this out with his family: Nike, Swatch, Titleist, and Cadillac.

SBS: That brings us to the next point. How are his sponsors taking this? How will Tiger make ends meet with just the few million dollars he’ll make playing golf?
Caddy: The man is just trying to be a positive role model for those who feel “hoes in different area codes” is merely a dream that will never be realized. Sure, the makers of the Tuggin’ Tiger novelty toy and Tiger’s Wood Cover brand condoms will be dissapointed, but he will still retain royalties from all Tiger Wood’s Preferred Personal Ball Washer units sold. The little pimps out there can count on Tiger to continue proving that anything, including marathon sex with women of all sorts of varieties, from waitresses to porn stars to hookers, is still as possible as becoming an NBA star. Even more so! Tiger’s message to the kids: Women can smell money and fifteen minutes of fame from farther away than talent agents. So don’t stop trying!

Tiger Woods Prefered Ball Washer: actually, just a Fleshlight shaped like a golf bag, but each unit guaranteed used by Tiger himself, so nobody complains.

SBS: So, never let something like something as mundane and unattractive as professional golf ruin your dreams of hittin’ more white booty than God?
Caddy: That’s right, scumbag. There’s always a way to overcome adversity like that, whether it be with the help of your wife and children, your sponsors, or your bang maid. But the worst thing that can happen is having the sensationalist media speculating and accusing, taking your attention away from what really matters: getting your dick wet. Worse comes to worst, you feel you’ve painted yourself squarely in a PR corner, invent something ridiculous, like say… “Golf Rehab.” Golf addiction doesn’t actually exist; I mean, who doesn’t like a round in the fringe every once in a while? But the media eats that shit up like some people eat Fruit Roll Ups for its nutritional value.

SBS: Well, sure, that will appease the masses, but what about the institution of Professional Golf as it exists today? Can it handle such a controversial player on its roster?
Caddy: Well, this is just between you and me – -

SBS: No, really it’s not. This is for a wildly popular and handsome website.
Caddy: Anyway, remember when Michael Jordan joined Major League Baseball?

SBS: Oh, sweet salty Jesus…
Caddy: Indeed. Ratings will soar due to his success in the arena  of professional whoring, but he will inevitably disappoint in the shifting of sports. Frankly, I think he lacks the fundamentals. Still, just like baseball, golf will continue with the support of the holdouts who pretend it’s interesting so they don’t have to talk to their wives for a couple of hours.

Sobering stuff, indeed. Still, there are some who hope – and I count myself among them – that Major League Doin’ It will find it’s savior, it’s David Beckham if you will, who will once again find some way to make anybody that counts care about a sport that seems to have no more popular steam. From the can in my office bathroom, this has been Sports Voyeur.

Is, “Insert euphemism here,” what she said? Or is it way too meta?

(”PS: Here’s my email password so you can answer me. MooseBLAMsucka. It’s case sensitive.” It’s not.)

Sometimes collateral damage can be avoidable, like that time last fall when Superman plowed through a V of migrating mallards instead of going around them, so eager was he to get his Lamest Superhero Ever award, and tons of would-be zombies had to go without fake blood on right around HAlloween time because PETA used up the world’s supply hating on him. Poor, poor uncreative costumers! But down in Tennessee lives the ultimate manifestation of collateral damage that didn’t need to be. From the Huffpost:

Ex-Gov. Sarah Palin is scheduled to travel to Knoxville, Tennessee, next month to testify in a case regarding the 2008 hijacking of her Yahoo! email account. Mike Kernell, is charged with “stealing Palin’s identity, improperly accessing her personal e-mail account, allowing at least one other person to access it and trying to wipe from his laptop evidence of his alleged crimes.” According to the case files, Kernell is not charged with hacking into Palin’s account — he instead used publicly available information to find out the security question, which he then answered, allowing him to change the account’s password.

This guy needs to put his inventor’s hat on and bring The Dumb Bitch Countersuit. Will somebody please make this a legal precedent so we can all get on with our finger lickin’, celebrity sex tape watchin’, unapologetic escapist lives? At what point does the criminal and civil justice system yell, “Stop wasting our time, you platitudinous cunt-rocket. You lose this case because you’re borderline super-retard. In fact, I award the defendant all of your money because they will not blow it all on electronic ab jiggling belts and holistic medicines.”

You are the world’s biggest dipshit, Palin. You go out of your way to violently plunge yourself into the double headed dildo of a world of celebrity politician (ask Tiger Woods what fresh hell his life would have been if he’d had Patterson’s job), and then put sensitive shit on a Yahoo! account? That’s like dropping trough and bending over by the TKTS booth in Times Square after winning an Emmy, and wondering why your loose lumpy pucker is in the top searches on Google five minutes later. There are email services designed for corporations, celebrities, and politicians with internet security P Diddy would cream himself over, and you went for a free account on a flailing disaster of a website that hosts the cream of the internet’s fuckwaddery on a forum called Yahoo! Answers? Seriously, go check that out. It’s astoundingly mind-numbing.

Example of actual questions on Yahoo! Answers. But no, give this guy the chair for cracking the code.

Alright, you made a mistake, and one that’s only semi-retarded: returning to the previous, super-eloquent example, you have to get your face and brown starfish in the same pic for there to be any proof that it’s you. But then you went on to make your security prompt public knowledge? That’s like bending over in Times Square and writing in Sharpie on one cheek, “Sperm deposits: $2″ with an arrow pointing to your back door. And on the other cheek, writing the disclaimer, “Sorry for the increase. They got this recession on.” And then bringing criminal charges against anyone who took the offer. Seriously, somebody turn her on her side before she swallows her tongue.

The thing is, you bend over every goddamned time you open your mouth, spouting complete ignorance about the issues you champion. Like this story from last week, when everyone seemed to let the whole hand-notes thing go, but you felt the need to throw another excuse out there, in case someone wasn’t satisfied with letting you get away with another verbal diarrhea gaff without having to answer for it:

“I didn’t really had a good answer, as so often — is me,” Palin quipped at an Ohio Right to Life fundraiser Friday.

Sorry, author of that news post, but that wasn’t a quip. A quip is a quick, witty statement that employs the use of context, joke, or at least a pun, to make a point. That was, instead, classic Palin: an idiot, meaningless quote with the coordination of a penguin with its pants on backwards (thanks Dani). The fact that she moved on to say that God wrote notes on his hand in Isaiah, so she was in good company just goes to show just how deep her dumbfuckery runs, and just who is backing it up.

Kernell’s attorney, Wade Davies, argues that his client’s actions warrant nothing more than a misdemeanor charge, and that the current severity of the charges is a clear result of Sarah Palin’s celebrity status.

Misdemeanor nothing! The judge should award Kernell a regular spot on FOX News and the governorship of Alaska for having such ridiculous charges levied against him. At least this guy, the son of a Tennessee state Rep. and an actual participant in the higher education system, would probably do a better job of it than she did. Dropping one elected office to run for the highest possible is like quitting your job at the fry-alator at Burger King to apply for the President’s job, and yet she’ll still get votes come 2012 because she has all the right polarizing words written on her hand. THAT’s the definition of unnecessary collateral damage: Some poor bastard gets steam rolled so the person Alan Grayson called a “Wild Alaskan Dingbat” can have a political career that will move America’s political system from Global Laughing Stock to Mentally Challenged Prison Bitch. From the reasonable sector of American society, Kernell, we are the epitome of sympathy, Broseph. Maybe take one for the team and strap some dynamite to your person on the day Palin testifies to save the rest of the innocents from the GOP’s well-used sock puppet.

(”Dot attributes her longevity to pretending to swim at the gym, all her friends in her mahjong circle, and a barely disguised disdain for the daughter-in-law that has changed her bed pan with minimal complaint for the past five years.”)

In a reckless and unnecessary display of the disregard the Sunshine State media have for its main import, the staff of Florida Today woke up with the collective goal of reminding old people how close they are to death. Of course they veiled it with what would be considered news if the whole world was a shopping mall at 6 a.m.

Two of the oldest people in the world have died on the same day. Mary Josephine Ray, who was certified as the oldest person living in the United States, died Sunday at age 114 years, 294 days… just hours before Daisey Bailey, who was 113 years, 342 days, said L. Stephen Coles, a director of the Gerontology Research Group, which tracks and studies old people and certifies those 110 or older, called supercentenarians.

Or, in layman’s terms, “burdens.” Gosh, what are the odds that two people, clinging disgustingly to life a good 30 years longer than the contracts of nature stipulate, would die? Well, considering they were pushing it already, and this was probably their year to buy the prune farm, the odds are about 365 to 1. You’d have much better odds of winning a monopoly game against your retarded neighbor and your narcoleptic uncle, but I think we can safely take this out of the “holy shit” column.

What’s with the day count there, Broshua? Six year-old spawn have that annoying tendency to break their ages into the smallest fraction their abortive brains can fathom, and even they don’t give a shit exactly how many days they lived. The Rat’s Ass Line Graph on age versus caring has to bell deeper than Kathy Bates’ tits in About Schmidt (etiquette demands you warn a brotha before you unleash that shit on his eyes). I am amused by the thought of “tracking” gerries, though. We tagging these blue hairs before releasing them into the wild? Is the process humane? I don’t care, I just want to know if in my daydreaming the old lady should be screaming.

“She just enjoyed life. She never thought of dying at all,” [granddaughter] Katherine Ray said. “She was planning for her birthday party.”

Of course the dementia was so advanced she was planning her Sweet 16, but you know. Just once I want to hear a survivor say, “She was a hateful old cunt, and her diapers needed changing thrice daily. She ate two pounds of red meat a day, by the way, slathered in that canned Frito’s cheese dip. We would use the diapers as missiles to keep the gangs of skinheads at bay, and you know what? I’m glad she’s gone.” Also, as Willard Scott deteriorates into mega-senility, I think we should give him a new segment called Smucker’s Jam Presents Finally: Televised Obituaries For the Criminally Long-Lived. Let’s take a look at the back of the Smucker’s jar, eh?

Smucker's Brand Spiritual Jam Bouquet: $75. Now in Boysenberry!

• Edith Booker finally made the pearly escalator trip at the age of 103, so ripe she fertilized her tomato garden by leaning out her second story window. Sharp as a tack ’til the very end, she could tell you how to make a sweet potato pie without even looking at a recipe, how about that? What’s her secret for looking so great in the casket? Welp, she used Crisco baking grease as facial cream, just one example of her addled sensibilities paying off in the end. Some 63 years ago, Edith told her family, “Life begins at 40,” and I, Willard Scott, have the honor of finishing that sentence for her.
• Millionaire George Vasquez was famous for saying, “You can have my life when you pry it out of my cold dead hands,” and folks, his inheritors finally managed it. Aged a whopping 111, he enjoyed riding his exercize bike every day and insisted on cutting the family turkey every Thanksgiving right up until his last, even after he lost a testicle to the electric knife his palsied hands couldn’t hold back in 2005. What. A. Trooper. Am I right?
• Leonard A. Garfield soiled his last diaper yesterday, ubiquitously completing the 108 year cycle he began in infancy of sitting around ineffectually with a shit-sack strapped too high on his waist. Garfield was first seen in the Macy’s Day Parade in 1984, and he’s still earning his lasagna to this day. Where am I? “Just read the – -” what teleprompter? Oh. Well, rest assured, the late Leonard Garfield will never have to “do mondays” ever again. Where’s my free Goober Grape? You hear about this stuff? You get the peanut butter AND the jelly in one jar! What’s next? Flying cars?

Well, they certainly did warn us, and now it’s all over. The most impenetrable fortress of good and light in the entire world, the epicenter of spirituality since it’s owners said so, the Vatican itself has been infiltrated by none other than the Father of Lies and the Son of Perdition, the Great Deceiver, Apollyon himself.

What has 2 thumbs and more aliases than a cross-dressing old west outlaw on stilts?

Or so says the Vatican’s chief exorcist Father Gabriele Amorth. Usually they have cooler titles for the big positions in Rome, but they probably figured that a surname that could easily have been a Tolkien mega-baddy was enough badass for one man.

Father Gabriele Amorth, 85, who has been the Vatican’s chief exorcist for 25 years [was ordained in 1954 and became an official exorcist in 1986] and says he has dealt with 70,000 cases of demonic possession, said… “When one speaks of ‘the smoke of Satan’ in the holy rooms, it is all true – including these latest stories of violence and paedophilia.”

For those of you not playing with your home Catholic Calumny Calculator, that’s a whopping 823 exorcisms a year, assuming Captain Saniclean Soul started in his infancy.  And since he was made a priest, which is when one is technically allowed to perform exorcisms, he would have had to perform 1,250 a year, roughly two a day, every day for 56 years. Sonofabitch was working on the Sabbath! Either that or he doubled up on Mondays, which breaks one of the 6 Davis Directives (”Thou shalt not do Mondays”). Either way, I believe a stoning is in order.

Still, you’ve got the Vatican’s chief Hellblazer soiling his soutane, seeing Satan everywhere he turns. In choirists, slap-happy relatives of the Pope that hit kids even though “they don’t like to,” priests with tiny oral fixations, American dioceses that cut off charity work for political gain (wait, that one’s me). See, in every other country, this is the stage of treatment called, “Not even close to ready for group therapy,” otherwise known as, “Crazy old knucklehead.” But this guy has been trained, he’s a global VIP (let that sink in, Catholics), and we should probably trust him because he’s an expert that has been doing this for years. He witnessed Hitler, Stalin, and some rando from the Swiss Guard who killed his commander and his wife because he didn’t get a medal… and because he was banging his commander. All possessed by the Devil, as were the attempts on the last two Pope’s lives, and

He said it sometimes took six or seven of his assistants to to hold down a possessed person. Those possessed often yelled and screamed and spat out nails or pieces of glass [because you were holding them down?], which he kept in a bag [por que?]… He was among Vatican officials who warned that J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels made a “false distinction between black and white magic”.

God damned fiction and it’s lack of truth about magic! Also, those damned kids who keep losing their Nerf footballs in his yard were definitely possessed by Satan. And the Nerf company, come to mention it. What motherfucking era do we live in? Wait, before we do this, let me buy a shitload of indulgences in advance, because this whole room is going to need some industrial strength spiritual TP.

He approves, however, of the 1973 film The Exorcist, which although “exaggerated” offered a “substantially exact” picture of possession.

Stop! No more! Jesus, we’ve heard enough to convert to Scientology just to tone down the crackass a couple notches. Demons? Possessions? Falsities about magic? Magic, I ask you. This isn’t some crusty fossil back from the early bird, harmlessly yelling inanities from his front porch. This is one of the guys you Catholics call one of your honchos, one of the men you trust to lead you through life safely and sanely to your final reward. That makes him a crusty fossil yelling inanities from a pulpit, and you‘re still a member of the organization that makes him the chief of anything but Cream of Wheat and bird feeding. (The punchline of this paragraph has been bolded).

It doesn’t matter whether you believe him or if you think he’s a nut. No, the pedophile priests are not possessed by Satan, they are at best confused by the complete lack of sexual outlet provided in your closed-minded culture, at worst sick deviants who demand swift chemical castration. The priests and nuns who hit kids are not possessed by Satan, they are incompetent care-givers that should not be trusted with children just because they wear a funny hat. The priests and Cardinals buying male hookers are not possessed by Satan, they want their nut without having to deal with your insane bullshit. Why? Because Satan doesn’t exist, but what do exist are scandals that are ripping away the absolute power you’ve enjoyed since you instituted the Dark Ages, and the Church needs a scape goat. What do exist are the sick fucks in your employ that don’t disappear when you play musical dildo-chairs with them, no matter how good Italians are supposed to be at making that happen. And those around the world that still call themselves Catholics are as guilty as if they boinked a choir boy themselves, because there is no good goddamned reason you shouldn’t bail and worship how you see fit. You can still make yourself a nuisance to the rest of us without literally, 100% being an accessory to hundreds or thousands of vile crimes and the outright lunacy evidenced in the psychotic babbling we just witnessed from the still-employed Father. And don’t give me that, “I’m not the one who blew little boys, I just love jesus and my neighbor” bullshit. That’s the same kind of misleading statement as “I was just following orders.” You’re still wearing the swastika. Let me leave you with some fun…

Were I Father Amorth, I’d check my GPS of Evil, and then crap my cassock (I had one more) over the Devil doing his work Down Under, with the release of AussieBum’s Bannana Skivvies for Men.

Left: The God-intended use for Bananas. Right: Satan's Shit Streak

Hunky AND Banana flavored? The Church needs to know about this. I’ve held your hand long enough, I think you can manufacture your own slew of jokes about underwear made from bananas. Otherwise, I have failed you.

(”Trust me, it’s sterile. The only raping here is Marlboro prices. Criminal! Hahaha! Bend over.”)

Pinch my perineum, because there is no way I’m not dreaming this news story out of New Jersey from NBC NY: NJ Officials Investigate Botched Booty Boosts. That’s some spiffy alliteration for what the video news report goes on to say is a medical concern of Kim “Badonkulous” Kardashian proportions. I’ll let Religious Programming Emmy Award winning correspondent Lynda Baquero revive and refresh an old standby:

The new Jersey health department is trying to get the word out about someone who is offering to enhance women’s rear ends, by using an injection that includes, believe it or not, cock.”

She went on to say, “Too late, bitches, you already forked over the Emmy.” Wait, hold on. OH! “Caulk.” See, you went with the antiquated and misleading medium of video reporting and we, the humble transcribers, come off as so much low rent closed captioners with tourettes.  Don’t crucify her yet, because the only excuse for irresponsible journalism is if it makes immature people do a spit take and feel good about the fact that they bothered to wake up. As far as I’m concerned, the report did not last even half as long as it should have, but the interviews yielded some goodies:

“Have you ever heard of caulk being used in someone’s body before?”

Did they say how the caulk felt in their bums? Was it something of an uncomfortable, full feeling, like you have to drop a deuce the size and shape of a walrus with elephantiasis? Well, Lynda, it was a miracle they could handle all that caulk in their rear ends, there was an awful lot of it. It’s a good thing this didn’t happen in the Middle East. You can get buried alive for having that kind of injection. Whachu gonna do with all that junk?

“Authorities say these women survived because they got swift medical attention.”

My word, that’s some powerful caulk. Hospital grade shit. Isn’t “medical attention” what got them into trouble in the first place? Some people never learn. Listen ladies, as a professed ass man, I was reticent to bring this story to the masses, because I would never want to discourage the Mix-A-Lot treatment. The report goes on to warn that you consult real physicians before offering your ass up for slicing in the back of the corner liquor store (it’s right next to the hardware store, dummy), as that was the mistake these Jersey sluts made, but that seems like a lot of work. I say: Just go for it. When the moment comes, and you hear your doctor/meth dealer giggling, it’s a good possibility that he’s about to turn your pooper into a living, jiggling pun. That’ll be your cue to take your business elsewhere, like a Mexican bait shop. Glad we had this talk.

"your waist is small and your curves are kickin, and I'm thinkin bout stickin" - Baby Got Back, circa 1992

By this, the good Sir was not, in fact, referring to industrial grade adhesives. But you should sue him for misleading women anyway, so he has to do another dumb Burger King and Sponge Bob cross-promotion for permission to sift through the dumpsters for food for another six months.

(You can strap me into the elaborate torture chair from Monsters Inc, but you can’t keep me from shitting my pants!)

It is incredible how little I care about a bunch of old dudes telling me what movies I should think are good. For a while the world forgot other things were happening, outside of the annoyance of the documentary category the Academy insists on televising. We get it, Flipper genocide and Burma is last on the Girls Gone Wild sites of interest list. Both things we knew. In the meantime, we’re looking at some fabulous news here, folks; a popular myth is about to be dispelled, so strap yourselves in like a retarded toddler learning to go potty. Anne Harding over at the CNN reports:

Some women avoid drinking calorie-filled cocktails, wine, and beer because they’re worried about packing on the pounds. Now, a new study suggests that women who are moderate drinkers actually tend to gain less weight over time than teetotalers.

SCIENCE! What Mrs. Rutherford B. Hayes is trying to say is that booze is good for you, ladies, in copious amounts. You can trust it too, because a chick wrote it, albeit a time-traveling she-dictionary of prohibition-era colloquialisms. What she failed to mention is that a lot of leading doctors agree, but would caution that less, looser, or even no clothes at all ought to be worn during times of consumption, for the sake of unfettered breathing and continuous blood circulation…

IN MY PANTS!

The study also goes on to state that nobody likes a sober prude, and temperance is the leading cause of ugly friend, designated driver cock-blockery. Don’t be that girl. Get wasted and settle, for everyone’s sake. As if now is the time to start worrying about that pink camisole bulge of laziness you call feminism, you can be reassured that there are corroborating studies.

“Many other studies that are not nearly as well done or as large as this suggest that calories from alcohol are metabolized differently,” Ellison says. “The alcohol calories probably don’t count as much as calories from a Hershey’s bar.”

If that isn’t enough for your bulimic ass, wait until liquor comes out in pill form. The rest of you can stop pretending your vodka cranberry is good for you because the clear liquor offsets the horrifying amount of sugar and preservatives in the kind of cranberry “juice” that “tastes good.” That shit is nasty, and CNN just said you can move on to real actual liquor and still keep your lumpy girlish figure.

As a public service, Scumbag Style would like to remind you that the hooch can be a lubricant for one kind of weight gain: unwanted stomach parasites, affectionately known in the medical community as “babies.” An unassuming moniker for a hateful, body-shredding drain on resources and the reason everybody will hate you on Facebook. Seriously, we were responsible enough to not knock you up. Go tell the jizz donor; you’ll find him in the bedroom crying because you made him sell his Xbox.

Although recovering alcoholics and people with uncontrolled epilepsy shouldn’t drink [unless they are really dedicated to physical comedy], Ellison says, moderate alcohol consumption can have health benefits for people middle-aged and older, especially when it comes to heart health and stroke risk.

Also, a couple more drinks will benefit those that find improvised peeing just fucking adorable.

Hee hee. I have like a couple hundred of these on my hard drive. Kittens tottering around on gimpy legs with Cool Whip on their whiskers couldn’t be more adorable than a chick with no choice but to squat in places unintended for their urination needs.

Here’s one more bit of motivation from Johnnie Walker.

(The part of daily mass Father Palmieri dreaded most was the queue to kiss the Holy Cock Ring. It creeped him out how Benedict always took of his goofy hat and got all confortable. )

Last week, Scumbag Style instituted “Jugularity,” a columnal outlet for when the world seems to be coming up boobies. In the interest of balance, and in celebration that the names of naughty bits fit really well into spooneristic word replacement puns, here’s some dick jokes that prove real life has the sense of humor of a 12 year old, and so do we.

A patient claims the producers of CBS TV show “The Doctors” tricked him into appearing before a live studio audience to undergo laser surgery for “pearly penile papules,” then broadcast his penis operation without his consent. (Courthouse News)

Oh, Jesus Danza Slapping* Christ, save us from that entirely gratuitous, unholy alliteration. This guy wants to sue CBS for airing his lumpy lester on the TV, and I want to sue him for making his god-given anal bead condition a five second music video that will play over in my head all day. I’d call Will Smith down with his flashy cancer stick from MIB if I didn’t enjoy breakfast so hard. We’re going to pretend that story didn’t happen and move on to a couple of dudes who would eschew the lazer prescription for something resembling the treatment for a snake bite.

Like Senator Roy Ashburn from SoCal, who was nailed driving his Tahoe about 12 hours ago with a blood alcohol level of .14%. Growing up in Boston, the Irish cops used to call that level of intoxication “not fucking around.” We all make mistakes, though, right? The difference between a drunk driver and a passable one often comes down to how big your lunch was, and the margin for error there is pretty high. Don the orange vest for a hundred hours, and we’ll forget about this one – -

[Ashburn] was arrested for allegedly driving drunk after leaving Faces, a gay nightclub in midtown Sacramento… A male passenger, who was not identified as a lawmaker, was also in the car…  Ashburn, a father of four, is a Republican Senator… with a history of opposing gay rights. (CBS, who just cannot seem to stay away from the cock)

Sometimes it seems people are born to gauge how far milk can shoot out of my nose. My  disappointment that a gay club pilfered the name of my favorite Rod Stewart vehicle notwithstanding (you bastards make him the next Liza, and I swear…), this poor bastard could make a documentary series on TLC about the next couple of years of his being his own punchline. This thing is going to play out in long, grueling stages, like AA where nobody believes in you. Divorce, disbarment, Roy’s Runty Rod: All The Dirty Details, promo spots for Preparation H, the whole nine.

Ashburn has particularly yummy timing when you consider that, at the time of his arrest, the news outlets of America were preparing a piece about a dude in Rome who will have it way easier:

The Vatican was today rocked by a sex scandal reaching into Pope Benedict’s household after a chorister was sacked for allegedly procuring male prostitutes for a papal gentleman-in-waiting… Angelo Balducci, a Gentleman of His Holiness, was caught by police on a wiretap allegedly negotiating with Thomas Chinedu Ehiem, a 29-year-old Vatican chorister, over the specific physical details of men he wanted brought to him… “I saw your call when I was in the Vatican, because I was doing rehearsals … in the choir … in St Peter’s.” He then suggests Balducci meet a man who he describes is “two metres tall … 97 kilos … aged 33, completely active.”

If ever there was secret code for “not above a blumpkin,” that’s it. For those of you who didn’t grow up Catholic (bullet on steroids dodged), words like “Vatican Chorister” and “Gentlemen of His Holiness” and “metres” aren’t just bandied about in Rome like so much altar boy. A Gentleman of His Holiness is like a made man in the Mafia; he’s earned the right to be an usher at masses performed by the Pope, goes to all the fancy dinners, can put a hit out, and is technically part of the surrogate Papal family that could never be with the Holy Nutsack in mothballs…. or, apparently, other dude’s mouths. In their strange, metric system babble, you might call him a Royale with Splooge. Similarly, there are but 2 choirs at St. Peter’s, this Ehiem being in the Pope’s preferred, and just like a job in a tollbooth, you have to know somebody. To do a job you’d get a wedgie for in grade school. Just sayin’.

The thing is, these guys are off the hook, because the Vatican unwittingly provided the perfect out in their own despicable policies. As early as the 1970s, so far as can be proved now, they started shuffling among dioceses  those priests accused of diddling little boys. Alls they have to do is trade the priests that have moved on to the cougars of the male gender (give ‘em some kudos for waiting for their balls to drop, by the way) to those parishes tired of kiddie-pucker sacrifice, and the pedophiles to Rome, which most reasonable parents view as a sanctified Neverland Ranch. We’ll lob softballs at them like we always do until the scandal is over, and crucify GOP Senator Ashburn because we still need a whipping boy, but have the rod of PC so far up our asses we don’t want to criticize religious people for their own hypocrisy.  It’s such a primal instinct, to make a sacrifice of one for the sins of the community, like Joey Fatone doing Rent so the rest of Nsync could have real careers.

What is curious is why these guys shove themselves so deep in the closet they’re trading makeup tips with Mr. Tumnus, going out of their way to make oppressive laws and religious edicts concerning the very thing they enjoy doing. Chalk it up to masochism if you want, but it seems to me they could just move to P-town and free their manwhore budgets up for antiquing, and be much happier for it. Is there really such a leap in imagination from “Glory of God” to “Glory Hole of Rainbow Road Bookstore”? If you have to look at it from the Christian perspective, what if you get to Heaven and God asks you how you liked that free will he gave you, and you’ve treated it like Aunt Mildred’s itchy reindeer sweater? Ashburn already womaned up and apologized between mouthfuls of man gravy, but it isn’t too late for the rest of you Narnians to give a press conference saying, “Dick is great. Preferably several at a time. Have you tried this shit? Cuz it’s the cat’s pajamas. If your queer little club doesn’t want me in it, then peace the hell out, and I’m taking my Judy Garland records with me.”

Scumbag Concordance: “The Danza Slap,” noun -  A dick slap used as a finishing move during ejaculation, during which the slapper demands of the slappee “Who’s The Boss.” The term is mistakenly attributed to Tony “Nadz” Danza himself, who was rumored to have starred in pornography himself before Taxi. This rumor was refuted later when people got off the coke and realized the anachronistic replacement of a “z” for an “s,” and that the cast-member with adult entertainment on his resume was actually Judd Hirsch, who patented the now famous “Hershey Hirsch.” (Urban Dictionary’s myriad definitions)

(”And thus did the tanks of Seaworld run red with the lifeblood of the Orca, and the Israelites were blessed by God for putting the Killer Whale to death with a season and a half of great harvest, until a Rapist Chinchilla in San Diego had its way with a toddler.” Book of Eatme 12:31)

The controversy over killer whales doing their eponymous job has gone Old Testament, and this connoisseur of the overblown is grinning like suicide bomber heaven’s millionth customer. Let’s start with how Huffington Post presented the story, then go on to the site that called the following cetacean jihad.

The American Family Association, a religious right group, is urging that Tillikum (Tilly), the killer whale that killed a trainer at SeaWorld Orlando, be put down, preferably by stoning.

Do they even make bongs big enough to give that monster an overdose? Please say yes… Oh, you mean like the deadly community circle jerk and lentil festival. Fair enough. Nothing better than a brutally slow, torturous death if one is called for. If only old Tilly had the forethought to yell “God wills it!” before mangling his bipedal friend, they might have granted him a subaqueous fiefdom. No seriously, I’m in. Haven’t been to a good stoning since I was in Haiti teaching a village what “poetic justice” meant, and out of nowhere Pat Robertson decided to visit. Remind me real quick, AFA, why are we dusting off the oldest form of execution by committee for a marine mammal, and not William Wallacing it?

“When an ox gores a man or woman to death, the ox shall be stoned, and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner shall not be liable.” (Exodus 21:28)

As a creative person, I get a little disappointed when a god tells me how I should kill something, when I have all these ideas floating around in my head. The god of the Hebrew Scriptures is like a grade school math teacher; it’s long division, not competitive ice carving, I’ll show your mom my “work.” No, this time I’m all about the literalistic scripture interpretation (though where whales fit into a story specifically about oxen I’ll leave the convenience scholars to decide), if only for sheer entertainment value. Sea World should sell tickets to this thing, fill those uncomfortable bleachers with sticky human spawn. Get a couple hundred devotees  of this group, and let them go to towns. They might kill the thing, but not before those pebbles bounce off the whale’s rubbery hide and piss it off enough to take at least half of them out. For all we know, old Tilly will just wait under water until they’re out of ammo, learning to spit them back at the bastards. Those plastic ponchos will sell for at least a hunsky  in those conditions.

Exodus is so helpful it even goes on to say what happens if further incidents occur: if your ox kills a second time, “the ox shall be stoned, and its owner also shall be put to death,” (Exodus 21:29) because this time he should have known his ox was a slasher film villain. But how to smite, God? You can’t hold my hand up to this point and then leave me to my own murderous devices. Take me to murder school!And how does one go about killing “Seaworld.” Does that include the guests? What about the harmless rays and fish in the naughty touch tank? Screw it, kill ‘em all, just to be sure. Not the penguins though. They’re nature’s retards, and Seaworld isn’t in Texas.

It doesn’t matter anyway because:

Chalk another death up to animal rights insanity and to the ongoing failure of the West to take counsel on practical matters from the Scripture. The Sentinel recounts that Tilly had killed a trainer back in 1991 in front of spectators…  Then in 1999 he killed a man who sneaked into SeaWorld to swim with the whales and was found the next morning draped dead across Tilly’s back. His body had been bit and the killer whale had torn off his swimming trunks [actually, it was underwear, but i know that's a dirty word in Christendom] after he had died. [How do you know that?]

Can you imagine what would have happened if those animal rights psychos had their own way from the beginning and these murderous sunzabitches were allowed to live in the wild? Then who would we stone, fags? Because that’s illegal still, right? All the fun ones are.

I see your point on the first one, though: according to Exodus the whale should have been pelted with prehistoric hand-grenades in 1991. But the dude who sneaked into Seaworld in the middle of the night to swim with a killer whale in his tighty whiteys? Tilly only removed the dude’s “trunks” to get at his genitals so the world, should he survive an Orca attack, could be free of his dumbfuck genes. Give the whale a pass, guys, it was doing us a favor.

Huffington post helpfully chimes in: “SeaWorld has no plans to execute Tilly.” Because, as the seriously misinterpreted Jesus said about stoning, “Let he who is without sin pack the first bong.” Man, is Aramaic ever hard.

(Sean Duffy: Leave him alone, Liberal Media, because he will lumberjack your ass then celebrate by banging his hot wife. She’s had 5 kids, and the rest of you ladies are straight slackers. Also, if you look like retards for questioning his past, it gets a lot harder to slam his iffy politics.)

What qualifies a man to run for higher elected office in this country? Might as well ask what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting Real. That’s right, it’s happened:

Eighteen years later, “The Real World” now holds the distinction of being MTV’s longest-running program. It may soon hold another claim to fame If Republican Sean Duffy has his way: It would be the first reality television show to launch the career of a future member of the United States Congress. (Politics Daily)

What about The Sarah Palin Show? That one’s fun because you never know what time and channel the next episode will be on, but something ridonk is guaranteed to happen. She’s never had to run for Congress, but to be fair, why bother when you can just be President, doncha know?

So what you’re saying, Politics Daily, is that the country has officially moved to TardCon 1 and is ready to elect it’s first Congressman from the industry that brought it mobster worship, homicidal British chefs, the Paris Hilton Pooper-Scooper Hour, and ugly girls getting punched? That’s what 80% of your article implies, with more than half of the paragraphs mentioning the Real World connection. Can’t be that much worse than those that gave us Junior* and Bedtime For Bonzo though, right?

The show deals with hot-button issues… abortion, race… (”Let’s not get ghetto”)… AIDS, and, of course, sex. It also forces young people to confront people with opposing views, all the while doing so while walking the high wire of public scrutiny.

It’s worse than we thought! He got laid on the grainy green night-vision of cable television, and now he wants to be a lawmaker? Somebody hide Nancy Pelosi before he gives her an abortion! Nobody touch his Axe Body Spray, man, because he’s going to start yelling and breaking shit in the Capitol, all stabbing people with the big pointy thing on the top. And what will we do when he decides to turn the marble bathtubs into jacuzzis for his many, big haired floozies?

Duffy is the district attorney for Ashland County, where he has been elected four times. He’s also a lumberjack and a three-time 90-foot speed climb champion, an accomplished log-roller and ESPN commentator. He’s also the telegenic father of five with a pregnant wife at home. Duffy and his wife, Rachel Campos-Duffy, are both “Real World” alums.

And don’t get me started on those people’s proclivity to wear viking helmets – - wait. So you kind of buried the part about him being Captain America** between mentions of The Real World. Still married to a chick he met on a show he was on 12 years ago, with 5 1/2 kids, a successful political career, and three very disparate, respectable jobs in the private sector outside of that? A motherfucking lumberjack? Holy shit, can any president since Jefferson even begin to boast that kind of legitimacy? You’re right, he should have thought harder about becoming a C-list celebrity before mutating into the ultimate American. He should have had the forethought to see what idolizing, pandering, scandal-mongers the American public would grow into after 12 years, and how media outlets would play into it to further their own political agendas. His bad. I mean, what viable candidate has ever distorted the concept of “reality” in order to achieve political gains? – -

In a posting on her Facebook page, Sarah Palin [oh, forget I fucking said anything] promoted a fundraiser for Duffy, writing: “On this first anniversary of the stimulus, let’s send a message to the big-spenders in Washington by helping Sean Duffy unseat the author of the stimulus. Let’s put government back on our side and get to work revitalizing America!”

Calm your tits, honey, the cameras are off. Little tip, Duffy, because you have a good Irish name and you seem like a reasonable guy, despite your party affiliation: distance yourself from Palin like MTV from its namesake, because when I get rich, I am going to buy Sarah Palin. I am going to buy her, put her in a clown suit, and build her a podium, with a plaque that says, “Projectile Produce Preferred.” Next to the podium will be a refrigerator with magnetic words like “revitalize” and “Washington” and “our side” and “moose,” and no matter how the magnets are arranged she’ll have to read them in that Hitler-got-kicked-in-the-nuts idiom of hers as dinner entertainment before sleeping in the barn with the dogs. Do you really want that kind of base humanity attached to your burgeoning political career?

Duffy is running for office in Wisconsin’s 7th Congressional District, which stretches from the central to the northern counties of the Badger state.

Why are we even talking about this? He’ll shake some hooves, kiss some calves, and maybe he’ll get elected to represent Farmer Joe and his three beautiful daughters. First order of business, change the mascot from “badger” to “guido.” Demographic: everyone.

*Junior is among my favorite films, a paragon of deliciously absurd comedy, and I do not mention it to slight it, but to offer context. When Aliens land on the scorched, smelly terrain that used to be our home planet, they will find a copy, and know that we were good.

**That link is to the truly astute Worlds As Myth and it’s article on the casting of Captain America for the new film. It ignored my suggestion of Mark Valley, which is the correct answer, but it gets the link anyway. My objection is on record, and that’s enough for me.