Green Gin and Juice

By Snoop Doggta Sizzeuss

Check this, check this here, my nizzle
Bang da boots with any bizzle.
Guaranteed to get her loose -
80 Proof Green Gin and Juice.

On the rocks or as a shot,
You get cool and she get hot!
Word up from me, Sam I Be.
Step on up – first taste is free!

I ain’t yo’ nizzle, Motherfucker
You think I’m some kind of sucker?
That shit looks and smells like piss –
I do fine with blunts and Kris.

Hold up, G-Funk – at least try it.
Once it’s on, you won’t deny it.
I’ll have one with you – To Your Trues!
Toast them with Green Gin and Juice

I will not drink it for my bro’s
I will not drink it to lay ho’s
Get the fuck away from me
Step off, mark-ass Sam I Be!

I see, I see. Don’t get wack.
See that beeyotch with much back?
She was hoping you might drink
Then take her home to tap her pink.

A’ight, Sam - give me a shot.
We’ll see what your Gin has got.
All that dope shit better happen
Or your punk dome I be cappin’.

Tastes smooth even without ice
Gots to say I’m feelin’ nice
Booty Girl gave me The Wink!
What the fuck is in this drink?

Looks like you just called a truce
You down with Green Gin and Juice?
Why then don’t you buy a case
And take that girl back to your place?

Hell, yeah – get a case for me
You Da Mizzan, Sam I Be!
Some day we should smoke a ounce –
But not tonight. Yo, Bitch! Let’s bounce!

Who Is Teaching These Kids?

By Stan Saten, Landlord - Hell, Michigan

I weep for the children of America… or I would weep for them if they didn’t piss me off on a daily basis. I check my mailbox looking for rent checks, and all I get are poorly scrawled letters from 14-year-old suburban white boys offering me their souls.

From the volume of letters I receive which start off “Hale Lord Saten, Master of Hell, I sware my eternal illegence to thee!” it is painfully obvious we are plagued by twin crises of parenting and education. Every day I get about another dozen or so teenage cracker-boys offering me their eternal servitude in exchange for something lame like the chance to play bass for Pantera or a backstage pass to some high-school cheerleader’s panties.

Who is raising these children and what on earth are you idiots teaching them? Where do they get the idea that their immortal essences have some kind of material market value? I’m no agent of the Prince of Darkness - I am merely Stanislav Saten, a property manager in Hell, Michigan – but if I were, I tell you right now I wouldn’t take any of these dorks!

Billy Manchester of Effingham, Illinois, I’m looking at you when I say: If you can’t bother to spell my friggin’ five-letter name right, I wouldn’t give you half a thimbleful of gerbil jizz for your soul much less “a shot at Mallory’s sweet ladybiskit.” And Jerry Reynolds of Englewood, Colorado – I got your mix tape. I played your mix tape. You suck. You have the rhythm of a retarded wombat with an ear infection. You play so shitty that the real Satan wouldn’t have enough power to make you the “White Jimmy Hendricks” much less “All Mithee Stan” – with or without your pledge of eternal servitude. Sell your bass and buy some freakin' books, assclown!

Further, where did these semi-conscious shitstacks of stupid get the idea they could write a letter – ON PAPER! – mail it through the US Postal Service (with only one stamp), and have it reach the Eternal Lake of Fire in a readable, unscorched form? This smacks way too much of the “Letters to Santa” line of crap you parents fed them. Parents - either your “little white lies” are realizing their full fruition in your sons and daughters attempting to offer their eternal souls to The Dark One for temporary earthly gain… or you told the truth, and these dyslexic dipshits are also unwittingly asking The Master Of All Lies to bring them a PlayStation for Christmas.

Either way, you seriously screwed up. Stop having sex, you bastards.

Rules of the Bar – TGI Bennibee’s

By Jonathan Ray Keller

Hello, fellow tipplers! Those of you who know me are aware that I have made it my life’s mission to put the social back in social drinking. I often pursue this goal by posting up a spot at the bar for hours of pleasant martini consumption on the tavern side of those chain restaurant/bars during the dining crush. Doing so is a great way to make new friends, meet people from many different walks of life, and exhibit proper drinking techniques to the next generation of aspiring boozehounds. However, there are unwritten rules of proper conduct for this setting – unwritten until now.

(1) Don’t get blasted. Getting stumblingly hammered before the dessert menu makes its way around the dining area sends the wrong message – the message the Probies (neo-Prohibitionists) want everyone to receive – that any amount of alcohol instantly converts one from a respectable member of civil society to Otis from Mayberry.

Let’s face facts – the TGI Bennibee’s Happy Hour crew is the Champions Circuit of the Professional Souses Association – we are highly skilled artisans, but our drinking is more for exhibition than competition. If you can’t drink without getting loud, unbalanced or overamorous, find another bar – there are plenty out there for you. Little Jimmy doesn’t need to witness your drunk ass tripping over his little sister’s diaper bag and puking on his chicken fingers in an attempt to make a pass at his unsuspecting mother at 7:30 PM on a Thursday… and no I don’t care how MILFalicious she is.

(2) Any conversation begun within earshot of a tap is open to the public. We sit at the bar in order to get our drinks quicker, which means we’ve all got issues we’d like to air out. Thus, the more input the better. The Happy Hour crew is an inclusive, friendly, helpful, advice-laden society… and we’re drinking, so we WILL “help”. If you want to keep your conversation private, there is an entire section with booths on the other side of the wall.

(3) To militant non-smokers: If the bar is a smoking section and the dinner area is non-smoking, don’t complain about the smoke level of the bar area. If you adhere to this simple common-sense rule, I promise never to walk into your bathroom while you’re on the can and moan about the area smelling like a fetid-cheese-coated groundhog crawled up your ass before humping a rotten egg and dying.

(4) Only address staff when they’re behind the bar. Thus the origin of the term “bar-tender” – a person who *tends* to the *bar*. If you are at the bar, the bartender will tend to you. Leave the cocktailers and servers to take care of their tables and earn tips. Note: Once a uniformed staff member steps behind the bar, however, he or she is fair game regardless of his or her designated role. They’re literally standing between you and booze – if they don’t want to serve it to you, they are just asking for the consequences.

(5) The bar area is intended for adults. TGI Bennibee's is indeed a family restaurant. However, your 12-year-old has no business occupying a stool at a bar since it only legally serves product to (thus makes money from) those over the age of 21. Therefore it would behoove you as a parent to keep the young'uns out of what a rational, thinking person would consider an adults-only area. Keep in mind that if Little Billy were to overhear one of our less crowd-sensitive crew members calling the Yankees pitcher a goat-buggering chodesucker then ask us what those new words mean, we'll tell him. We're all about enlightenment. Knowledge requires no ID.

These are the five main universal rules – each TGI Bennibee’s bar area and bartender has unique curiosities to mind as well, I’m sure. Important note: After 10:30pm, these rules go right out the window - TGI Bennibee's is all bar at that point. If Suzie Soccermom waits that long to take the kids out for a Super Blazin’ Jack Sauce Cheesearito O’Flannery, it’s her own damned fault Junior and Sissy get their virgin eyes and ears defiled... and that goes double if Mommy’s MILFalicious!

Look At The Word, You Dinks!

by Chuck Norris

It's nuclear. Nu - CLEAR!

Whenever somebody pronounces it "noo-kyoo-lurr", I teabag a nun.

Take A Chance On Jesus!

By Pastor Dan, the Repo Reverend

Greetings, Brothers and Sisters. I bring great tidings. Tidings of eternal peace. Tidings of salvation. Tidings of life ever after in His glory. And tidings of deep, deep discounts!

I, Pastor Dan, The Repo Reverend, have secured no fewer than 15 automatic passes to Heaven that I wish to raffle to all of the Lord’s children at the almost blasphemous price of $5 per ticket. Some more Catholic priests worked the glory hole with underaged parishoners – naughty, naughty! – and forfeited their automatic passes to Heaven. As ordained by the Almighty, this lot of EterniPasses was auctioned to the highest bidder by Pope Benedict XVI, and yours truly, Pastor Dan the Repo Man, came away the winner.

Now you can be the winner – the winner of a seat at the right hand of Jesus Christ himself – for only $5. Come on down to Pastor Dan’s Discount Salvation Hut and enter the only raffle you’ll ever truly need to win. Local churches may offer salvation, but they require prayer, devotion, casserole-baking and tithing that can reach into the thousands of dollars. Televangelists claim they can show you the way to Heaven also, but only if you purchase their specialty merchandise ($250 for a Praying Hands Tote Bag? Come on, Pat!) Only Pastor Dan offers you the chance to spend eternity basking in the glory of the Lamb for the low, low price of $5 a ticket.

You can be chosen - at random, of course - to sit in the presence of the Lord throughout the afterlife for the price of an Extra Value Meal... but only if you “worship” at Pastor Dan’s Discount Salvation Hut. Why trust your chance at eternal peace to Pastor Dan and his Glory Raffle? Because Pastor Dan the Repo Reverend is the only nationally-broadcast man of the cloth honest enough to make “The more you buy, the better your chances of getting into Heaven.” his registered trademark.

God Bless You. No COD’s please.

Defend The Homefront

By Gen. George S. Patton (very retired)

Be seated.

I have returned from the Great Beyond to address the people of my beloved United States of America on the topic of the War On Terror. This is a war on two fronts – the physical battlefield, which I will not address out of respect for the Commander-in-Chief, and the battlefield of ideas. Since I am currently both an experienced battlefield general and an idea, I am a certified expert in the second war. I *will* address the battlefield of ideas, Maggots, and you *will* listen.

Attention! No bastard ever won an idea war by compromising his own ideology. He won it by making the *other* poor dumb bastard compromise *his* ideology! The American ideology, in case you thumb-sucking panty-wastes have forgotten, is to grab life by the nose and kick it in the ass! Americans eat fast food and drive fast cars. Americans smoke, drink, shoot craps, bungee jump and hang out in titty bars. Americans do NOT hide behind Mommy’s skirt and stay inside to hide from all the nasty germs and insects out there – we play mud football at the old landfill, then come home and shower before going to the bar to drink beer and watch some *other* crazy bastards play football in a rainstorm!

Terrorists, you bed-wetting nancy-boys, are insects. They live in caves and run scared from daylight – that’s a damned insect. The germ these particular grumbling goat-banging insects carry is fear. Apparently the pencil-necked desk-jockeys in Washington have been wading waist-deep in Terrorist shit, because they’re sick with fear. Further, those weasel-dicked politicians are trying to pass that fear onto you by asking you to give up the very goddamned rights our brave men an women have been fighting to protect for over 200 years. They’re rationale? “Trust us.”

To Hell with that! Politicians tell you that you can trust them with your freedom. Right, so they can “take care” of your freedom the way they “took care” of the Murrah Federal Building and the World Trade Center? Horseshit! Those bureaucratic bumblefucks couldn’t defend their own right to break wind at a chili cookoff.

Maggots - when you see an insect, do you run to the phone and call an exterminator? Hell no – you step on that son-of-a-bitch! You don’t worry about germs – just scrape off your shoe, wash your hands, and get back to whatever unsafe fun shit you were doing before. That’s because you’re a real American – a loud-mouthed, brash, crazy, fun-loving red-blooded American - you wouldn’t want it any other way. If those ninnies in Washington try to tell you otherwise, well, they can rot in Hell... starting this November.

That is all.

Open Letter to the Sisterhood of Batshit Insane Office Women

By Ron R. Clark

Last week, I accepted an offer from a group of coworkers to go for a drink after hours. Apparently I was the only male who did so, as I found myself sitting at a table with six Office Women. Ten minutes or so into the session, our conversation came around to one of our newer co-workers, a young female.

I work two departments removed from any of the conversants and their work teams, so my only contact with them is through e-mail or at these occasional tossbacks. Regardless, the ladies (who shall remain nameless) referred to the new person only by name and insisted I knew who she was. Eventually, one of them bailed me out and described her physically. I conveyed recognition by the following exact quote: “Oh, the new redhead by the filing cabinets. She’s pretty.”

The reaction at my table couldn’t have been more violent if I had called Chris Rock an uppity nigger during his show at the Apollo Theatre. The charges leveled against me in the next ninety seconds could not be adequately addressed in real time, however I will do so herein:

Crazy Woman 1: She’s half your age, you sick bastard!
Ron: True, but I’m not so old that my eyes don’t work. Thus, the woman is still pretty.

CW2: Is that all she is to you?
Ron: As it is, yes. On a personal/professional level, I don’t know her from the janitor. If the only data input I have on her is a physical image, then a physical image is all she is to me. It isn’t unlike when a driver cuts me off on the freeway without using a turn signal. To me, that person is a self-important asshat, whether he or she is a priest, nurse, or fireman. All I know of him or her is his / her driving acumen, and the jerkoff drives like a coked-up ferret with a fiery case of the runs. Thus said citizen is a scourge to humanity, and to Hell with said citizen.

CW3: Ugh! You men are all alike! Is that all you think about?
Ron: I may be reaching here, but such banter historically implies reference to sex as a primary motivating factor in male actions- but all I said was that the woman is pretty. I also think horses are pretty, as I do paintings, flowers and old European buildings. I consider the Rocky Mountains pretty as well, but I’ve never panted or perspired pondering the prospect of plunging my pulsing pecker into Pike’s Peak, so ease up on the throttle, Sister!

There were more comments, but they were similar in nature and in the interest of workplace harmony I’m trying to forget who said what. The fact remains that in a matter of ninety seconds, I went from a respectable co-worker and happy-hour confidant to a facile, filthy-minded, flower-fucking fossil – all because I made a remark sane people would consider benign at worst or complimentary at best.

My story is unfortunately not unique. Office women tend to think the worst of everyone - especially anyone with a penis – and the larger their society, the quicker they reach their ultimately damning conclusions. It is as if there is some sort of Borg–like collective hive-mind for the cubicle-bound female. Fueled by M&Ms and hazelnut non-dairy creamer, its processing speed increases exponentially with each woman who plugs in. Call me a whiner, but the fact is that the automatic assumption of co-worker malevolence manufactured by the engine that is this secret sisterhood of batshit insane office ladies primes the pump for a hostile work environment.

Oh, shit. I can already hear it:

CW1: “CW2 – did he say ‘prime the pump?’” [reaches for hive-plug] *Poink!*
CW2: “He sure did!” *Poink!* “You know what he’s REALLY saying, don’t you CW3?”
CW3: *Poink!* “He’s talking about masturbating himself! Right here in the office!"
CW4: *Poink!* “Typical male! It’s all they ever want to do!”
CWs 5-58; *Poink! Poink! Poink!* “And I’ll bet he’s thinking about that poor little red-haired girl while he’s doing it, too!” *Poink! Poink! Poink! Poinkity PoinkPoinkPoink!*

How Could They Have Known?

By Abdel bin Palwa al-Dallasi - Leader, al-Qaeda In Texas

Imam bin Laden, Master al-Zawahiri, I bear most unfortunate tidings. Somehow, investigators in league with The Great Satan have uncovered and quashed your most brilliant and impactful plan to date – to blow up Michigan’s Mackinac bridge with 1000 cell phones.

Although our operatives failed, the idea to choose Texan jihadis for a Michigan operation rather than any of the quarter million Muslims in the Dearborn – Detroit area must have been inspired by Allah himself. Although we did not succeed, I consider it an honor to be given this glorious opportunity to strike at the heart of the infidel.

Were the plan to have borne fruit and the Mackinac Bridge be destroyed by 1000 cell phones, the western dogs would have been shaken to the core of their beings by the lack of a bridge connecting the Michigan mitten to the Upper Peninsula! What target could be more devastating to the American psyche than the Mackinac Bridge? Los Angeles? The St. Louis Arch? Fenway Park? Culturally insignificant by comparison!

And the practicality – Praise Allah! Using 1000 cell phones individually set in place by only three martyrs, preprogrammed to simultaneously ring out the Crazy Frog ringtone with such intensity as to strike the structural resonance of the bridge and send it crumbling into the Great Lakes? Explosives indeed are for amateurs – these men are your truest disciples, Imam!

Such devotion to Allah alone should make the heathen devils kneel before us, but the aftereffects of the Mackinac Bridge plot would have indeed leave the spineless Americans cowering before our feet! Once Americans learn that in order to get from St. Ignace to Cheboygan, they would now have to drive through the entire Upper Peninsula, Wisconsin, Illinois, and – Mohammed give me strength – INDIANA, the groundswell of horror throughout the Evil Empire would force Infidel Bush himself to submit to our terms and sign in his own swinely blood!

Alas. this was not to be. Perhaps our Alabaman brethren will succeed with Operation: Mitchell Corn Palace – Allah grant them grace.

I Would Die 4 U

By Sperman

So close and yet so far away…

Superman has The Life, you know? All those neat powers, any chick he could ask for, the adulation of all the children of Metropolis… who could ask for more? From what I’ve seen of him at the Superhero Company Picnic, he’s a genuinely nice guy, too - as long as you can resist pulling the “pickle relish / kryptonite” gag on him. (Green Lantern *still* walks with a limp from that one!) To think, I’m just one letter 'u' from being him…

I don’t mean to complain – I’m still a superhero. Actually, I’ve done more films than Clark, and I have quite a few fans of my own… although I’m not sure I’d want to shake their hands without a napkin and some Purell nearby, if you know what I’m saying. I’ve got my share of unique superpowers too, but they’re all pretty… umm… industry-specific and none of them can be done with pants on. That pretty much quashes the children’s book market – Little Billy can marvel at pictures of Superman stopping bullets with chest, but he’s just not ready to witness the awesome might that is my Jizz Laser.

There are worse jobs out there than being Sperman – for a while in the 1980’s, before I harnessed the power of my Copious Crotch Cannon to be used for the Forces of Good, I did some office temping – so I would know. No complaints. If I only had that extra ‘u’ however, I could be the inspiration for all generations of children to fight for Truth, Justice, and the American Way instead of The Guy Ron Jeremy Calls ‘Obi-Wan’.

I’m Dead. Damned Dead!

By Elvis Aron Presley

Pretty soon a bunch of you fans are gonna do that annual gathering thing around Graceland marking the anniversary of my “reported” death. I appreciate that – I really do – even though the candlelight vigil looks more and more like a Tubby Polyester Zombie Take Back The Night march every year. With that in mind, I thought I’d take the opportunity now to say so, so all y’all figure out once and for all that I am dead.

Really. I’m wormshit. There was no Kalamazoo Burger King deal, I’m not hiding out with JFK in the secret corners of Hef’s grotto, I ain't singing naked Karaoke with the aliens – all the reports from August 1977 are the God’s honest truth.

Think about it – if I were gonna stage my own death, would I have set it up to look like I had a heart attack while straining too hard to pinch off a grogan? Would the King of Rock and Roll arrange an exit where his last earthy act puts his drawers down around his ankles and flashes Jesus his fruitbowl? C’mon now – I’d have come up with something more dignified than that. Trust me – if I wasn’t dead before, Colonel Tom Parker would have hunted my ass down and killed me anyway for such a stunt!

So yes, I am dead. Where am I now? I’m not so sure. I’ve spent the last 29 years “enjoying” my earthly legacy – watching hundreds of undertalented schmucks jump around in sequined jumpsuits and yodel my songs for money, seeing my daughter marry a noseless kid-head-licking mutant, witnessing a Japanese Prime Minister adoringly serenade the US President with his awful Japo-warbled version of “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” – all with no Jack Daniels or Quaaludes in sight. They keep telling me I’m in Heaven, but I haven’t seen any angels and this stone-sober freak show ain’t much of an eternal reward.

So Long And Thanks For All The Oats

By Barbaro, 2006 Kentucky Derby Winner

Hey, Humans! I wanted to make sure I could thank you one more time for all your support before… well… you know. My doctors are more somber these days, so I can’t ignore the worst possibilities. If I beat this, however, my future career as Mega-Star Stud is a lock, so I’m fighting like hell to get better. Were you to know the long-term reward would be getting paid fat coin to nail hot fillies left and right for the rest of your natural life, you’d try to ignore the short-term pain, too!

Thank you all so much for all the cards and letters and notes of hope and support – I feel like the luckiest horse in the world… except for the hoof thing, of course. I wish I could tell you I’ve read them all, but the truth is that I can’t read. (It is my secret shame, but one more common than we professional athletes would like to admit.) My handlers *do* read all of them to me, however, and their voices are always cheery and positive. I truly appreciate all these warm sentiments from the human community - in those times where I’m too medicated to conjure up my smoking studding fantasies, mail call is the ray of sunlight breaking up my cloudy days.

I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your well-wishing. With good luck and hard work, maybe I’ll get a chance to meet some of you on my stud farm and thank you in person… between my regularly scheduled, million-dollar three-ways with a leggy bay and apple-bottomed Appaloosa. Homina homina homina…

Home On The Range Revisited

by Tex "Tad" Ritter IV

Oh give me a large pre-planned home
Where the BW3's roam
Where the deer and the antelope play chicken with our SUV's (You lose, Bambi!)
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word - unless it comes from the adjacent golf course
And the trophy wives are cloudy all day (another vodka and Prozac, Muffykins?)

Home Home on the Driving Range
Where the doctors and ad execs play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word (Thank you, FOX News!)
And the wives are not pouty all day - unless the Gold Card is maxxed out.

Talking Economics - Federal Budget Deficit

by K. Russell Carlsson, Rogue Economist

It's me again. As a reminder, my name is Keith. Only my ferret-peckered, weasel-ass agent calls me K. Russell, and he pays a dear price for doing so. Let's just say that thanks to my fists, he can hit the high-F in Melanie's "Loving You" at will and leave it at that.

Today's topic: The Federal Budget Deficit. It's a big and important topic, but simple enough for anybody with a decent fifth-grade education to understand if they read this column. I'll go light on the technical stuff.

What is the Federal Budget Deficit? Quite simply, it is the amount that government spending exceeds government income. "Spending" is self-explanatory; "income" is almost entirely tax revenue from American workers and corporations.

There... definition period is over.

First important question: Are budget deficits bad? Answer: Yes, numbnuts! Spending more than you make is bad, whether it's Joe the autoworker trying to pick up a stripper or a federal government. It forces the over-spender to borrow money, which costs him interest (with Joe, on credit cards and/or mortgages; the Treasury on T-bills). This takes even more money out of the pockets later when all the bills come due - for Joe, next month; for the Treasury, our kids through taxes and our own older decrepit asses through cuts in Medicare and Social Security in the years to come.

Second important question: How do we stop budget deficits? Answer: By increasing income or decreasing spending, or ideally both. For instance, Joe can get a better paying job, work more hours at his current job, or get a night job to increase income. He can also give up on getting Tittsy L'Amour legs-up in the back seat of his Cavalier and go home and take care of himself in front of free internet porn to cut back on spending. For the federal government, the options are increase tax rates and/or tax more things to increase income and cut back on pet projects to reduce spending.

Third important question: Is Congress doing anything about reducing the deficit? Answer: No. Shit no. The idea of the party in power is that cutting taxes - especially to the rich and the corporate sector - and spending raging shitpiles of cash on dodgy and/or largely unnecessary projects (missile defense, Iraq invasion, the wretchedly botched Medicare Part D program) will somehow reverse our budget deficit.

Bunch of assholes! If Joe were to take a page out of Congress's deficit reduction playbook, he would quit his full-time union job at the plant to get a part-time job as a WalMart greeter, take out a third mortgage, and present Tittsy with a knee-high stack of tens and twenties and an invite to Las Vegas, where they would then place $100 bets on each and every white boxer on Earth to win all of their fights via first-round knockouts.

The differences? Joe made decisions that affect only him, he has to pay his own way out of the hole, plus he always has the option of suicide when he sobers up. Congress on the other hand is spending *your* money, mortgaging *your* house, nailing *your* stripper, sending *you* the bar tab, and getting paid by you to do so when they pass all these ridiculous policies. Sweet deal for them, actually - but it sucks to be you.

For that matter, it sucks to be me too. Those pilfering political pigfuckers! Great... now I'm pissed off. I'd better go before I throw something I don't want broken.

Land of Opportunity My Woolly Ass

by Tony the Wonder Llama

Hollywood... bunch of closed-minded bigots. That is the only reason somebody with my resume wouldn't be able to get a director's job - not even in porno.

I came in at the last minute after two entire production teams got sacked and single-hoovedly saved what has become arguably the most watched, quoted and globally loved film ever produced. Without my dedication, vision and ability to tow heavy film cameras up steep mountain slopes, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" would have circled the flushhole of history. Thanks to me, every single day people of all ages still giddily shout lines like "I'm not quite dead!" and "Look at the bones!" nearly thirty years later.

Every Hollywood mover and shaker knows my name - I had the credit backgrounds flash in four alternating colors, for crying out loud - but my phone never rings. I had a vision for 'Dune'. My version of 'Cutthroat Island' would have been a pirate epic rivalled only by the new Johnny Depp series. I could have saved 'Gigli', dammit - but no one returns my calls.

Every once in a while I'll get through to some studio lackey, but all they ever say is stuff like "I'm sorry, sir – I don’t understand you,” or “...and when you say ‘hrrnt hrrnt WHEEEK!’ you mean...” The Pythons didn’t have any trouble following my directions! Sure, you can say that an eccentric band of famously intoxicated Brits from the 1970’s may have been the only players in the entertainment biz who could ever commune with a llama, but you can’t make me believe you. It still reeks of anti-Andean-ruminant bigotry to me.

Right… Passport, Mate.

By Russell Crowe

Your Yank roots are showing, Mellie. Your little Malibu adventure was an insult to Australians everywhere. Jesus… where do I begin?

First off – why the fuck did you try to drive your own fucking car when you’re pissed to the tits? Christ, Gibson – any *right* Aussie bloke knows that’s the perfect set-up to get a winsome Sheila back to your mansion for a naughty! What doe-eyed Yank wanna-be actress would resist Mel Fucking Gibson saying “Oh, I hate to ask, Darling, but I’m so pissed that I shouldn’t drive. Would you please drive me back to my FUCKING MALIBU MANSION?” Blimey, mate – your game is slipping!

Second – even if you do drive WHY GO FUCKING 80 MPH? No proper Aussie is so out of drink-driving practice that he forgets to keep close to the speed limit so he don’t stand out like dog’s balls. That's begging to get nicked, bloke!

Third – you get nicked, and the best you can do is a few give them a gobful? A few curse words, some Jew-blaming, calling the policegirl “Sugartits” – the Yankness is into you deep, Mellie. Dinkum Aussie procedure when pissed and threatened: (1) Ask the whacker if he’s looking for a fight; (2) Repeat step one; (3) Repeat step two; (4) Whatever he says, punch him. Assaulting an officer at a roadside pull-off when full of piss is NOT a career-killer, (Hell, Down Under, the coppers are insulted if you *don’t* have a go) but anti-Semitic yabber is.

I’m pulling your Australian credentials, Mate. You have embarrassed The Lucky Land too greatly with this little caper to be considered one of us any longer. By order of the Australian Image Council, you are hereby and forth-fucking-with to be called Mel Gibson of Peekskill, New York, US-Bleedin’-A.

Me Brother's A Poof

by Crunchbeard the Pirate (retired)

Avast! I can barely stand to watch me cartoon shows these days. Come commercials, me mincin' brother be prancin' about the screen, wearin' that femmy cruise director uniform and yammerin' on about a good breakfast like Barney Bleedin' Fife on nitrous. Yarrr - pillaged kipper and grog is a strappin' morning meal for any real man!

Why do they let me poofy brother be around those children anyway? Cap'n Crunch me eyepatch - the last fairy I seen frolickin' about kids dressed in a uniform like that were Captain EO! Me brother knows as much about real sailin' as I do about Japanese napkin foldin'.

I took him on me ship once many long years ago 'cause he said he wanted to make a man of himself. By Day Three, it took a keel-haulin' to take that man out of himself... arrr, the ribbin' I took from me cap'n that day still makes me good eye wince. Every time some mangy cur squeals "Oooh! Crunchatize me, Cap'n!" in them commercials, me timbers shiver and I often find meself swabbin' the retirement home deck out o' habit.

"Bonnie Steven" Crunch they called him. For the life of me, I don't know what he thought piratin' was all about, 'cept for maybe those dancin' Penzance ankle-grabbers. All he ended up doin' was gettin a jolly rodgerin' and workin' the plank - and he even got the verbs wrong! Arrrrgh!

Nearly scuppered my career he did. He seems to be doin' OK for himself - long as he keeps his dandy hide on HIS side of the ocean. I've pillaged plenty o' booty in my day, but put Bonnie Steven in a disco with a daquiri or two and he'll make me look downright lubberly.

Open Letter To Al Gore

by Ron R. Clark

Thank you for all your myraid efforts at exposing global warming as a scientific reality being further exacerbated by human activity. Your research has been tireless, your scientific evidence unreproachable, and your film presentation compelling. On behalf of everyone in the Midwest, I salute you - but for the next few days, blow it out your ass because we're cranking the A/C.

Currently, I sit in Columbus, Ohio where the temperature is expected to reach 97 and thanks to the humidity the heat index will top 105. To put that in perspective, the heat index of Satan's fetid crotch after a 2-mile jog is 108. If I spend five minutes outside, I feel like the lettuce on a Big Mac and smell like Jacksonville's thongderpants. It is purely out of respect for my friends and their neighbors that I don't air out The Boys as I type. Our air conditioning will blast to make every room I plan to step in over the next week 75 degrees - pollution be damned!

Polar bears? Penguins? They can swim a for a few days - I looked it up - and from those specials I see on Animal Planet, they could use the exercise anyway. Screw them. Screw the cute fuzzy-wuzzy advertising icons that would sooner eat me than offer me a Coke if we were to meet face-to-face; my balls are sweating, and balls shouldn't sweat if you're sitting still - end of discussion. Too bad, Chilly Willy - put on your lifejacket and prepare to tread water - I'm sweating in places that don't have sweat glands!

I'll care about global warming on Friday when we're back in the 70's and 80's. I'll campaign for greener energy and clean, renewable fuel sources once I can take in a breath without my lungs whining that lame "Hey, we aren't gills!" refrain. The most Inconvenient Truth right now is that if I don't shower four or five times a day, I smell like an oil-and-vinegar-dressed turdhole salad, and that can only be addressed aptly by fossil-fueled air conditioners.