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.

At Least One
Team in SuperBowl ‘Really Came to Play’

War on Terror Finally Focused on Real Threats

Who’s the Black Pit That Killed a Night Club Prick? Elevator Shaft — Damn Right

Apple iPhone to Contain Real Fruit Filling

Though it might surprise the ignorant, the holiday of Christmas was celebrated long before Christ came along and limp-wristed his way into the history books, or at least the history books that are available at most major motels. They didn't call it Christmas back then, since that would just be spooky, but regardless, the winter solstice was celebrated for eons before Christ laid the golden turd.

In northern lands, ancient peoples celebrated the passing of the midpoint of winter, looking ahead to longer days and the return of the light, which would remind them just how ugly their neighbors were. With the light came the melting of the snow, which rang in the springtime removal of the dead bodies of all the dumb assholes who had frozen to death over the winter. Hence the term "spring cleaning" was coined, though over time it's somehow come to mean some yuppie sponging out his microwave.

The Norse in Scandanavia celebrated Yule, a vague holiday that involved eating and went on for however damn long they wanted it to. Anyone who asked if the holiday was over yet was eaten, and as a result it often dragged on for months.

The ancient Germans didn't celebrate, since they were German, but they were scared shitless of the pagan God Oden, who they placated by never going outside. The exchange of goods in the winter months consisted of things being thrown from one house's window to the next. This usually worked fairly well but mishaps did occur, and most houses had at least a few frozen chickens stuck to their outside walls. The biggest problem was that if the town butcher threw his back out, the entire town would starve, since Germans don't believe in vegetables except for sauerkraut.

The Romans had their own insane version of Christmas, which basically involved everybody getting naked, fucking, and throwing up all morning. They had a few other traditions rolled in there, but mainly they were just thinly disguised excuses for fucking.

In the early days of Christianity, Easter was the only holiday, and it got so out of hand that they were afraid to add any more. The early Christians were known for having an extreme early version of Attention Deficit Disorder, and as a result the celebration of Christ's resurrection soon morphed into a mutant strain when somebody thought they said procreation and they started dressing up like rabbits, and then somebody brought a bunch of eggs because he didn't have a rabbit costume and didn't know what else to do, and then somebody else said "Fuck eggs, I like chocolate!" and the modern insane Easter was born.

In the fourth century, the church decided it was safe to make another go at it and they added a celebration for the birth of Christ. There was a slight problem in that nobody had any idea when Christ was born, and the Bible just said something about there was tallow in the Eastern bung and nobody knew what month that was supposed to mean. The problem was solved when Pope Julius I scratched his nose for a while and then declared that Christ was born on December 25th. When scholars argued that this ran counter to all available evidence, he pope-slapped them and told everyone that if they wanted to piss off Oden, that was their own prerogative. Everybody agreed it was December 25th after that.

Julius I's real motivation was a clever one. By throwing the celebration for the birth of Christ at the same time when all of the non-Christians were celebrating the winter solstice by balling their brains out, he could confuse people into thinking that they were celebrating Christianity by drinking a lot of beer and nailing everything in the house to a tree, a deception that still stands to this day.

Once the Puritans took over England, they outlawed Christmas, and anything else that people liked to do. This lasted for about ten seconds before the people rose up and kicked their gay asses out of the country. They washed up in North America, complaining constantly about being religiously persecuted, and then outlawed Christmas there, too. The problem was that the Native Americans didn't know what Christmas was, so the Puritans had to teach them how to decorate their teepees with popcorn and nuts and little ballerinas on the outside, and then tell them never to do it.

Living with the Puritans eventually drove the Native Americans to drinking, which the Puritans had taught them to do so they could tell them not to do that, either. Eventually the Puritans died out after they decided that opening their eyes was sinful and then were all eaten by bears at night. But because of them, generations of Americans grew up without traditional Christmas orgies.

Eventually Charles Dickens wrote The Christmas Carol, which he completely pulled out of his ass during a wild weeklong acid binge. Naïve American readers believed that he was talking about real holiday traditions, and were pissed that none of the immigrants had told them about the fun of Christmas. Several immigrant-bashing why-didn't-you-tell-us-about-Christmas riots followed, and America's new arrivals quickly learned to make up traditions on the spot to appease the custom-starved masses.

Soon the entire country was celebrating a bastard amalgam of made-up holiday customs, believing that the Dutch or Ubangi or some goddamned people had actually strung lights up in trees and drank fermented egg snot for hundreds of years. The church was quick to remind everyone that Christ was born on Christmas, too, and they skylarked a story about three traveling salesmen giving presents to baby Jesus to make it all sort of tie together.

You might wonder how Santa Claus came into all of this, but that was all just a Coke commercial that everyone assumed was referencing an ancient tradition. To this very day, the guys at Coca-Cola are still kicking themselves that they didn't name the guy Santa Coke. Scandinavians may argue that Santa was based on their ancient myth about an elf named Jultomten who delivers presents in a goat-drawn sled, but that's just stupid.

º Last Column: What the Hell Are Muppets?
º more columns

In 1923, a pilot named Skeech Mulroony set out from Miami on a course for Corpus Christi, Texas, by way of the Orient. Never accused of undue intelligence or even basic map-reading ability, Mulroony headed due east and steeled himself for what he expected to be a fifteen-minute flight. Soon after, however, excessive engine noise and lightheadedness forced Mulroony to close his cockpit window, and in doing so he fumbled and accidentally dropped his keys out the airplane's open window and into the sea.

He never saw them again.

Few place names elicit the kind of pants-shitting terror associated with the Bermuda Triangle. Even reasonable people who have never heard of it before reflexively clutch their scrotums with trembling fists at its mention, intuitively sensing their own impending doom. This is great fun at parties, especially if you want to make some cocksure blowhard look like a putz in front of all the mateable ladies present.

But what is the Bermuda Triangle, and how did it earn this frightful reputation? The short answer is that if you don't know by now, you'll never understand, and you're a dick for asking. The long answer is harder to sum up in a single sentence.

The "Bermuda or Devil's Food Triangle" is an imaginary area located off the southeastern Atlantic coast of the United States, which is noted for a high incidence of unexplained losses of ships, small boats, aircraft, passenger pigeons and kites. Over time, it has also gone by the names "Limbo of the Lost," "Hoodoo Sea," "The Twilight Zone," "Teddy Boy" and "Shitbird Alley." The apexes of the triangle are generally accepted to be Bermuda, Miami, Florida, and San Juan, Puerto Rico, though some claim that the junk drawer in Murray Baumenstein's garage in lower Queens is definitely a part of the triangle.

The area features a unique collection of geographical and weather phenomena that have vexed travelers for years, including an unusual magnetic field that causes a compass to point to "true north" rather than magnetic (or "bullshit") north, a powerful gulf stream, frequent tropical storms and also a gigantic floating devil head which gobbles up everything that wanders into its vicinity.

The lore of the Bermuda Triangle began with Columbus' observation of "great balls of fire" splashing into the sea near his ship as he sailed through this region, though some argue this was merely a reference to a member of his crew seeking relief from a bout of the clap. The lore grew over the years as people lost other things over this stretch of the Atlantic: keys, wallets, dentures, virginity, an especially rare Mickey Mantle baseball card, unmatched socks, several Siamese cats, etc. Eventually larger and larger things began turning up missing, including an entire squadron of the Navy's Avenger bombers, the tanker Sylvia L. Ossa, and president Truman's cherished Tuesday underwear.

Among the other incredible phenomena experienced in the triangle include flights gaining or losing time unexplainably, a mysterious fog appearing out of the blue sky and enveloping vessels, planes and expectant teenage fathers suddenly vanishing into thin air, and airline food tasting delicious. Numerous explanations have been offered for these experiences, including time warps, alien abduction, giant pissed-off squid and Red Bagel's assertion that McDonaldland headquarters are located deep beneath the sea in this region, where magnetically disruptive McRays are emitted to keep ships and planes from discovering its location.

The incident that points closest to the truth of the situation, however, is the story of licensed pilot Carolyn Casico, who was piloting a chartered flight to Turk island in 1964. When she arrived, grounds crews spotted her plane in the air circling the island and attempted to contact her by radio. They received no response, but instead overheard a conversation between Carolyn and her passenger.

"I can't understand it. This should be Grand Turk but there is nothing there. It's the right place on the map, the shape is right, but this island looks uninhabited - no buildings... roads... nothing". After a few more circles, she turned around and flew away. Carolyn and her passenger were never seen or heard from again, and her cat had to resort to eating dry cat food for nearly two weeks.

This story and many others point to an alarming trend of acid use among pilots, ship captains and the guy who wrote that Twilight Zone about the plane that goes back to dinosaur times. Acid has long been a major export for the island nation of Bermuda, ranking behind only surfing shorts and little statues of a monkey riding a unicycle. It's only natural that the sea surrounding Bermuda would be rife with pilots who believe their planes have a "submarine" button and ship captains who want to see if their oil tankers can do a barrel roll. After all, what's more likely: that these mishaps were the result of garden-variety drug-addled whimsy, or that a big purple dinosaur really burped them all to Narnia? Hmm.

º Last Column: Poop on Deck: The History of the Disposable Diaper
º more columns