Colin Powell An Ass Man

.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell answered an M-TV audience's question on the show Be Heard: An M-TV Global Discussion With Colin Powell that, despite contradictory claims by friends and gossipers, he is indeed an ass man.

"Sure enough," Powell said, addressing a room full of inquisitive teen-agers and fine ladies, "I am, always have been, and always will be a connoisseur of sweet asses."

"Don't get me wrong," Powell continued, "I love every part of a tasty young lady—and I do mean every part. But if you nailed me down, oh, I don't know, say held a gun to my hand and demanded to know… it's true, folks. I'm a rear admiral."

Previous statements from sources close to the Secretary of State have suggested he loves big and bouncy titties, the bigger the better. One close friend, female, assured the press Powell was a legman, and couldn't resist a sweet mama with a long pair of "sex handles."

"Again, nothing wrong with a nice pair up there or down there," Powell said with a sly grin, running his hands sensuously against the podium, "but you all have me wrong. I'm into hip fox with a loose caboose."

As if proving his statement, as he exited the press room, Powell stopped and craned his neck trying to catch a glimpse of a female M-TV intern with a fully-loaded trunk on the way up the press aisle. "Mmm-mmm-MMM!" Powell grunted under his breath, shaking his head to escape the vision and exiting quietly.

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"Feed a cold, starve a fever—that also applies, respectively, to Gandhi and Orson Welles."

I feel like an asshole because I think I got that SARS stuff that's going around. Only nobody else I know has it. It's possible it's not the SARS stuff, since there's not been any reported cases where I live, and that Mexican Sushi place was pretty awful and I got diarrhea the last time I ate there, too, but I'm not taking any chances.

Neither is anybody I know. Taking chances, I mean. They all wear those goofy masks when I come around, but some of them have been doing that for months. They say they don't want to give me nothing, but the way they frown when I accidentally cut cheese says more than words can say. And it sounds like a duck. That's funny. I got to write that one down. I suppose I already did.

Those masks are funny. They remind me of bank robber masks, like in the old west. You know, Billy the Kid and stuff. I bet in Hong Kong where they have lots of SARS it would be easy to rob a bank, you could just walk in wearing a mask like all the SARS people, then pull out a gun and stick up the teller. Tell her you'll give her SARS if she doesn't give you all the money, but don't get a dye pack to go with that. Those dye packs aren't as fun as they look and that's how they catch bank robbers.

Doctors wear those masks all the time. I bet that's why they give you the knock-out gas before the doctor comes in the room. The doctor walks in and you're thinking, "Great, now I'm getting robbed when I came here for surgery!" But they said the doctor doesn't come in before I'm knocked out because every time he sees the bottle sticking out of my ass he cracks up laughing. I tried to tell them I didn't know how he was going to be able to get it out while he was laughing so much, but the gas knocked me out.

Another great bank robber was Jesse James. He had a brother named Frank, but nobody's heard of him. I wonder if Jesse did all the talking and that's why we know him and not Frank. I betcha Frank was probably thinking, "Goddammit, I wish he'd let me say something. He's afraid I'll freeze up and forget the routine, or I might get nervous and blurt out where our hideout is. But he's really just wanting to hog all the history to himself."

I bet Jesse James was pulling down "wanted dead or alive" money in the neighborhood of $30 or something ('cause it was all real cheap in the old west). Frank was stuck with "bring in the head of Frank James and get a free drink of grade-B whiskey." Wow, it really sucked to be Frank James.

That would be funny if Frank James lived forever because he had that SARS mask on all the time, on account of he never did the talking, but Jesse caught SARS because he foolishly pulled the mask down to tell them about the dye packs and stuff. That would suck to be Frank James and live all those years after your brother died and then just catch SARS yourself going to Hong Kong to rob a bank.

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On the evening of Saturday, November 10th, 1951, Sir Hugh Beaver of Zackary Farms shot a pigeon in the ass. At the time, he was out pot-shotting on The North Slob by the river Stanley, in the easterly westness of Southern Ireland. The shot traveled through the pigeon, and carried on to hit a dove sitting on a nearby fig tree, two butterflies on the wing, and the neck of his hunting partner, Sir Edmond Wistledick III. Later that evening at the hunting lodge, Sir Hugh marveled at his highly unusual shot while Wistledick gurgled along in agreement, holding a mottled kerchief to his punctured esophagus.

This quickly started an argument at the lodge over who held the record for the most things shot at one time. Sir Hugh thought he might have set a new record, while other drinkers weighed in with fantastical stories of shotgun mishaps at the rookery or the time Walter Cranabble shot an entire tank of lobsters during a melee at a seafood restaurant.

Dissatisfied with his inability to prove the greatness of his shot (in addition to the tiresome and endless debates with his wife over whether or not she was the fattest person in the world), Sir Hugh went to his friends at the local fact-checking agency, Crampit & Crammit, with his idea for compiling a book of world records for doing stupid things. Though they never doubted Sir Hugh's expertise on the subject, Crampit and Crammit thought his idea of publishing the book on the backs of a collectable series of beer cans was a bit tacky… even if he did work for Guinness. They agreed to participate, as long as the book was published on paper. Sir Hugh reluctantly agreed, even though paper doesn't hold much beer at all.

The first edition of the Guinness Book of World Records was published in 1954, and most of its 198 pages were devoted to records held by Sir Hugh Beaver himself. The rest was dedicated to records Sir Hugh wasn't competing for, but still followed closely (Biggest Tits, Most Times Falling Down the Same Well, Most Likely to Have Sex with Sir Hugh Beaver if He Asked, Class Clown, etc…). Realizing they had a goldmine on their hands, but for the huge jackass blocking the shaft, William Crampit and Arthur Crammit locked Sir Hugh in a pantry and told everyone he'd gone on safari. Over the next few years they refined and expanded the Guinness Book, developing it into a perennial bestseller that would eventually rank behind only The Pop-Up Bible and The Lose Weight Doing Nothing Diet on the all-time bestsellers list.

Crampit and Crammit proceeded to travel around the world, noting records where they found them and taking pictures of anyone they could find wearing weird extendo neck-rings and fat people riding motorcycles. When they got back to their offices they were greeted by a man who was, for no discernable reason, pulling four loaded buses with his teeth. They weren't sure what the buses were loaded with, and were understandably afraid to ask. The man was so frightening, in fact, that they put him in the book immediately just to get him off the premises. Little did they know they were opening some kind of freak-filled floodgate, and within the week their offices were stuffed to the rafters with every no-hair-cutting, long-fingernailed, lightbulb-eating mental patient in twelve counties.

Crampit and Crammit, no fans of having their spleens eaten or their eyeballs pulled like taffy, folded like a laminated map. Before they knew it, all of their precious "Fastest Bird" and "Tallest Post Office" records were pushed to the back of the book, buried under an avalanche of morbidly obese twins, turban-wearing weirdos who have sat in the same spot their entire lives, and insomniacs who stay up all night writing thousands of words on a grain of rice.

Every year since then the famed Guinness Book has grown like a weird tumor that started out interesting but is now placing its own orders for take-out. Determined and unbalanced individuals the world over have spawned new categories yearly in an effort to be remembered for anything at all, even if it's eating a shopping cart while wearing a beard of bees. As an interesting side note, Sir Hugh Beaver re-appeared around this time, claiming the record for most years spent living inside a pantry.

Eventually Guinness sold its rights for the book to the Robert Ripley Corporation of Believe it or Not! fame, a natural fit since they had more experience and expertise in freak-wrangling. Fans rejoiced as the long-standing bans on ant eating and penis size records were finally lifted, and Crampit and Crammit regained use of their hot tub at long last.

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