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Supreme Court Rules on Gay MarriageJuly 7, 2003 |
Washington, DC Dan Fathead An impressive-looking building where if you shook it, judges might fall out ollowing last week's landmark sodomy decision that opened the door for Americans everywhere not to be white Christian fundamentalists, onlookers have waited with baited breath for the other shoe to drop as the Supreme Court passes judgment on the controversial topic of gay marriage. That shoe came sooner than expected yesterday, when the high court handed down a ruling that many anticipated but few wanted to admit: "Yes, marriage is really gay."
"Marriage is like, something chicks invented to make sure guys don't have any fun," explained Justice Anthony Kennedy in his majority opinion.
"So you're saying I've got to support you financially, pay for a bunch of foofy-ass furniture I don't want, raise some snot-monster kids who live to piss me off, and I don't get to ...
ollowing last week's landmark sodomy decision that opened the door for Americans everywhere not to be white Christian fundamentalists, onlookers have waited with baited breath for the other shoe to drop as the Supreme Court passes judgment on the controversial topic of gay marriage. That shoe came sooner than expected yesterday, when the high court handed down a ruling that many anticipated but few wanted to admit: "Yes, marriage is really gay."
"Marriage is like, something chicks invented to make sure guys don't have any fun," explained Justice Anthony Kennedy in his majority opinion.
"So you're saying I've got to support you financially, pay for a bunch of foofy-ass furniture I don't want, raise some snot-monster kids who live to piss me off, and I don't get to have sex with anybody else no matter how fat you get? Oh yeah, that sounds like a great deal. Sign me up and point me toward the polo shirts," sneered Justice David Souter while miming the jerk-off motion with his hand.
"I was going to get married once, but then I decided to just slam my balls in a car door and call it even. Best call I ever made," boasted Justice Breyer, sitting down gingerly.
Justice John Paul Stevens nodded in agreement. "Friend of mine got married once. They said it was Vietnam that screwed him up, but I for one know better. His wife was into collecting those little beanbag animals," Stevens shook his head solemnly.
The lone dissenting opinion was voiced by Justice Antonin Scalia, who spoke meekly from the bench.
"Hey, I like being married. It's fun to talk to my wife about what kind of sink we're going to put in the downstairs bathroom, again and again, for hours until you don't care if you live or die. And to hang out with my wife's asinine friends from college, that's a blast," asserted Justice Scalia, starting to cry. "Anyway, when I was younger I found single life to be overrated, I really did. Always getting to do whatever I wanted, staying out all night, having my own ideas…" Scalia trailed off as he got a far-away look in his eyes.
"Plus I think there's something in the bible about getting boils on your ass if you're not married by the time you're 30. Ugly stuff. It's in there somewhere, I swear. Enjoy life at your own peril, single sinners."
Uptight religious groups everywhere spoke out against the decision before it was even handed down, not wanting to miss an opportunity to start some shit.
"We will not stand for this attack on the sanctity of marriage," threatened Rev. Lee Harden-Stroker, president of the one-man To Heck with Gays Coalition of some godawful place called Hucknuckle, Texas. "Next thing you know them liberal judges gonna rule that church is boring or that closed-minded fundamentalist dogma drives a wedge between people while failing to address the spiritual needs of its followers in any meaningful fashion. And them's fightin' words."
"Sure, being married isn't much fun, but nobody said life was supposed to be fun," explained Tyner Allaboy of the Concerned Christian Men's Club. "Show me where the word 'fun' appears in the bible. Ain't there. It's God's plan for men and women to grow emotionally distant from each other, raise ungrateful children and spend our weekends fixing the damned rain gutters again and again."
"Just think about it," concluded Allaboy in a flourish of inspiration. "If God really wanted us to be happy, would he have put our mouths so far away from our privates? Try and argue with that." the commune news agrees that marriage is gay, but the alternative does get a little lonely some Saturday nights. Thank God for legalized prostitution! Wait, what? Boner Cunningham is the recent recipient of the prestigious Golden Doorknob Award for the least relevant journalist of the year. Way to go, Boner.
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Media Plugs CIA Leak ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby’s indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories. Libby, called “Scooter” by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson’s wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived. French Protestors Politely Riot urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food. “Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!” said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French. The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!” and their disorderly milling-about. Stealers Wheel Win Super Bowl, Says Heavily Accented Man Colin Farrell Claims Responsibility for Groin Injury That Sidelined Kwan |
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 July 18, 2005
Tom Cruise Loves That Woman!Excerpts from the blog of movie enthusiast/Spineless Magazine reviewer Joel Dickman
Who doesn't love Tom Cruise? The Chinese, maybe, and while I wouldn't put it past them, I can't see how anyone doesn't love ol' Tom! Except Brooke Shields. And psychiatrists. And have you seen how Rosie turned on him?!? MEE-OWWW!
But the rest of the world still loves him. Including yours truly—the queen! I've heard it through an unnamed internet website that Tom got to meet with the queen personally the last time he was in England! She's got so much drag over there, they call her the "drag queen." Betcha didn't know that! It was a secret meeting, but my source swears it happened!
After all these years, Tom is still on top! His movie War of the Worlds made millions of dollars—maybe billions! But Tom couldn't have done it alone. Who couldn't use a little help from billion-dollar director Steven Spielberg?!? That's right, the man who made E.T. and Oskar Schindler household names!
But what everybody wants to...
º Last Column: I Think This New Stacked Show's Gonna Be a Giant Tit! º more columns
Excerpts from the blog of movie enthusiast/Spineless Magazine reviewer Joel DickmanWho doesn't love Tom Cruise? The Chinese, maybe, and while I wouldn't put it past them, I can't see how anyone doesn't love ol' Tom! Except Brooke Shields. And psychiatrists. And have you seen how Rosie turned on him?!? MEE-OWWW! But the rest of the world still loves him. Including yours truly—the queen! I've heard it through an unnamed internet website that Tom got to meet with the queen personally the last time he was in England! She's got so much drag over there, they call her the "drag queen." Betcha didn't know that! It was a secret meeting, but my source swears it happened! After all these years, Tom is still on top! His movie War of the Worlds made millions of dollars—maybe billions! But Tom couldn't have done it alone. Who couldn't use a little help from billion-dollar director Steven Spielberg?!? That's right, the man who made E.T. and Oskar Schindler household names! But what everybody wants to know is: Is Tom really, truly in love with hotactress Katie Holmes? Turns out he is!!! Tom told Oprah Winfrey himself that he, and I quote, " loves this woman!" The woman he was referring to was Katie Holmes! Let the cynics think the worst, but you heard it from Tom's mouth itself—it's for real! Katie Holmes: What a hottie!!! Sure, she may have a kinda weird face, but she's got a body to die for!! Remember when she talked about her breasts on that Dawson's Creek show?!? TSSSSSSSSS! (Sizzle sound). I couldn't be happier she's found true love at last with a star worthy of her hottitude! She used to be with big zero Chris Klein, the Keanu Reeves lookalike from America Pie; but instead of making the natural jump to Tom Cruise lookalike Peter Facinelli, she went for the big Cruise himself! Not only a hot body, but business smart, too! Matt Lauer: What is with that guy? His star is on the drop these days, you can bet, after getting all mouthy with Tom-Tom on his daytime fad Today show about Ritalin. Hey, Matt, are you a doctor? I didn't think so. Leave the medical advice to celebrities who are more prepared to talk about such stuff. Tom's read the lit(erature). You haven't! Brooke Shields: Someone needs to get off the anti-depressants!!! Take advice from one celebrity to another—your career's gone nowhere! It used to be you could get your baby pictures in Playboy or get a clever sitcom on NBC—now the best you can do is write a book. Or put your name on it, sometimes you can't tell with some celebrities. Give up on the psychiatry and get with the Scientology! Ritalin's shitalin! Ditch the pseudoscience mumbo jumbo and find yourself a not new religion. You'll be back in the spotlight in no time! The Future: What's next for Tom Cruise? Nobody knows! Except Hollywood! But is it possible there's a Mission: Impossible III on the horizon? Sounds… possible! º Last Column: I Think This New Stacked Show's Gonna Be a Giant Tit!º more columns
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|  December 22, 2003
Come on, I Told Them, Ba-Rump Ba Bump BumIt's the holiday time here at Child Star headquarters, and that always means one thing: I'm fucked.
Yep, our annual tradition of me being fucked is steady and true on this end. It turns out they lost the house, mom and dad. I kept telling them you have to pay for a house even when you're not living in it, you can't just come back there and live in it any time you want. On the plus side, it's the first argument I've ever won.
Regardless of how it happened, Christmas is being held in my apartment this year, by default. Who needed that headache? As if seeing these people one time every year wasn't enough psychological damage.
I tried to get into the spirit, I honestly did. I even started drinking bourbon the day after Thanksgiving, like dad always does, only I didn't do it right up until Thanksgiving like he does. It was a nice relaxer, I almost didn't even freak out when they dragged in the top of that Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree in here. I don't care if it's so big they'll never notice the top is gone, dad, it doesn't make it right. The thing won't even fit through the door.
I made him take it back and got that plastic tree. Dad went all "real tree" on us a few years back, so fortunately I had the plastic one from when we were growing up. I didn't even notice it was made out of recycled army men he burned together until I was about 9 or 10, and by then I was so cynical I didn't even believe in Santa. But besides the...
º Last Column: Enter the Shopper º more columns
It's the holiday time here at Child Star headquarters, and that always means one thing: I'm fucked.
Yep, our annual tradition of me being fucked is steady and true on this end. It turns out they lost the house, mom and dad. I kept telling them you have to pay for a house even when you're not living in it, you can't just come back there and live in it any time you want. On the plus side, it's the first argument I've ever won.
Regardless of how it happened, Christmas is being held in my apartment this year, by default. Who needed that headache? As if seeing these people one time every year wasn't enough psychological damage.
I tried to get into the spirit, I honestly did. I even started drinking bourbon the day after Thanksgiving, like dad always does, only I didn't do it right up until Thanksgiving like he does. It was a nice relaxer, I almost didn't even freak out when they dragged in the top of that Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree in here. I don't care if it's so big they'll never notice the top is gone, dad, it doesn't make it right. The thing won't even fit through the door.
I made him take it back and got that plastic tree. Dad went all "real tree" on us a few years back, so fortunately I had the plastic one from when we were growing up. I didn't even notice it was made out of recycled army men he burned together until I was about 9 or 10, and by then I was so cynical I didn't even believe in Santa. But besides the sharp points and the horrid misery of war we're constantly reminded of when we look at it, it's a charming little tree.
Then I saw this after school special where this kid made his own Christmas presents for everyone and they all said they liked them more than if he had bought them—suckers! Wow, that shit is rich. Some dildo totally stiffs you on presents and hands you some shit he made at a county fair table and you bawl all over it and even give him a little pity. I said I got to try that. My only problem was I don't make anything too good, a few pounds of crystal meth and fine-cut heroin, maybe, but that's hard to wrap. Plus, dad's on probation, and he may be a pain in the ass, but he's still my dad and I don't want him getting fucked by some "3 strikes" rule.
So I decided to make everybody hatracks. But I kind of came out the loser in the end, since we only had one broom and that's what I make hatracks out of. I had to steal the commune's broom (the mop was some foreign guy who made a lousy hatrack) and still that left me having to buy extra brooms just to make a hatrack. I could have just given brooms as a gift, I didn't come out ahead at all. Oh, shit! I just now thought I could have stolen the commune hatrack. That would have been sweet. What was that guy's name anyway? Paulo?
The big news, what may make all this hooplah worth it, my sister and her butch friend Steve said they were coming over for Christmas dinner. My sister might bluff her way out of dinner with my parents, but she never lies, so I have a good feeling about it. They've never met Steve before either (she insists her name is "Stephan," but you look at her sometime and call it) so I guess they'll be getting a big serving of "your daughter's a lesbian" for Christmas. Then again, Steve isn't the most feminine of broads, so maybe the whole thing will go undetected.
Of course, there could be a major free-for-all between my sister and Steve and my parents. What do you know, I'm getting in the Christmas mood already. º Last Column: Enter the Shopperº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you're near? Bitch, you stink like birdseed.”
-DJ Qwik BitzFortune 500 CookieThis is really going to be your week: You will be held personally responsible for everything that happens on the world stage this week. Try bathing with Comet instead of soap for a change, trust us, it's just as good. Your lucky haircuts: Duck's Ass, Ant Hill, Elephant's Crotch, Bill the Cat, Baker's Dozen, Louisville Doosey, Bung Wipe.
Try again later.Worst-Selling Children's Books| 1. | Green Eggs and Bad Fish | | 2. | The Little Engine That Could But Just Plain Wouldn't | | 3. | Bi-Curious George and His Carribean Cruise | | 4. | Tales of an Armed Four Grade Nothing | | 5. | Where the Wild Things are Edited for Television | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Turner Volst 11/11/2002 Season of the BitchSpencer Chowheim had read every gun magazine ever and was intimately acquainted with the tensile strength of vulcanized Black Forrest steel. He was likewise an expert on the failure rate of Zlotsinger 9mm rounds and the temperature at which gunpowder combusts, which, as he knew, was 7500 degrees Fahrenheit. He knew the relevant facts as well as anyone, possibly even better. But still, it sat funny on his rectum. He should have brought the Mannlicher.
No doubt, this was a job for the Steyr Mannlicher. Why had he brought the Rosenbold 9mm? He'd be lucky if he got out of this alive.
Make no mistake of it; the Rosenbold is a fine gun. The cool glow of its carbon-shanked blue steel barrel is enough to set any rogue double agent's nerves at ease. This had been...
Spencer Chowheim had read every gun magazine ever and was intimately acquainted with the tensile strength of vulcanized Black Forrest steel. He was likewise an expert on the failure rate of Zlotsinger 9mm rounds and the temperature at which gunpowder combusts, which, as he knew, was 7500 degrees Fahrenheit. He knew the relevant facts as well as anyone, possibly even better. But still, it sat funny on his rectum. He should have brought the Mannlicher.
No doubt, this was a job for the Steyr Mannlicher. Why had he brought the Rosenbold 9mm? He'd be lucky if he got out of this alive.
Make no mistake of it; the Rosenbold is a fine gun. The cool glow of its carbon-shanked blue steel barrel is enough to set any rogue double agent's nerves at ease. This had been paramount in Chowheim's reasoning during his weeks of deliberation over what gun to bring on this mission. But now, actually in the field, it was clear that he'd brought the wrong gun.
Maybe it was the unprecedented danger of the mission that had Chowheim feeling uncertain, or the fact that he had leftovers from dinner still sitting in the trunk, possibly going spoiled. It was a cold night out, but still… what if the Audi's triple-lacquered sheet metal skin trapped too much of his body heat from the ride over inside the cabin of the car, and that heat had transferred through the back seats and into the trunk? It was quite possible that the meal-retaining leg of this mission was already in jeopardy, a veritable code blue. It was clear that mayo was the key. How much mayo do they put on those sandwiches, anyway? Chowheim smiled, as his months of preparation were finally paying off. Two ounces of mayo. A half-ounce over the national average. He would have to cut his losses with the sandwich and press forward with the remainder of the mission. That bird had flown.
Chowheim wiped the condensed moisture off the face of his watch, a reminder of the city's foggy streets or possibly a remnant from when he dropped the Rosenbold in a urinal at the restaurant. A quarter to one. It could be any minute now. He folded up his coat collar, made from an expensive blend of microfiber and elk snout, and crouched down further in the entryway. The sidewalk glistened in the strange glow of a streetlight; moist from the fog that dragged its way through the city, or possibly urine. Chowheim ran through a year's worth of police reports and evaporation tables in his head.
It was urine.
A cold drop of water dripped on Chowheim's hat, ran down the back of his neck, ducked inside his collar, shot down his spine and made a beeline straight for his asscrack. Nerves of steel or no nerves of steel, that was really starting to piss him off, and he hoped the bitch would come soon.
Chowheim began scouting out angles of approach from his perch in the entryway and calculating the probability of each, given the moon's orbit in Pisces. He had it figured down to the third decimal place when a voice interrupted his figuring.
"Excuse me, can I get by?" The voice came from a woman of the female persuasion.
Chowheim stepped to the side reflexively and uttered an apology before he realized. As the door shut and locked behind her, he deftly de-pantsed the Rosenbold. It was her! CIA mole Nikki Santana! He fired the gun into the air several times in hopes that curiosity would lure her back. Silence crept in like a fog as the sound of the echoing gunshots faded away. He waited.   |