Legislators Mull National "Do Not Rape" List

.S. lawmakers, called on to help clear the murky waters of consent in sexual situations between adults, responded today with a plan to create the national “Do Not Rape� registry, a centralized list of American women who are officially not asking for it.

Inspired by the sensationalized rape charges brought against NBA superstar Kobe Bryant by an unnamed Colorado woman, the registry would provide a way for U.S. women to proactively opt-out of unwanted sexual encounters with any of the growing legion of clueless sexual predators populating America’s bars and dark alleys.

The proposed list would mirror the recently created “Do Not Call� registry and the impending “Do Not Spam� list, and would mandate that all men intending to have rough sex with strangers would be required to check the list of names every three months or risk up to a $1,500 fine, jail time, or neither.

“If a woman says no, but only fights you off half-heartedly, that’s the most encouragement many of these guys will ever receive,� explained defense attorney Richard Spackle. “It can be very confusing.�

“Like what if she’s saying ‘No, no, no!’ but the guy’s Hawaiian or something and his name is Nono? That could happen. You gonna send Nono to jail just because he thought she was cheering him on? That’s discrimination, plain and simple.�

Legal experts and sports fans applaud the proposal, hailing the list as a step forward into an enlightened new age when the public will no longer have to guess which of the two people involved in a rape trial is the total piece of shit.

“This legislation could bring relief to many who desperately need it,� commented legal expert and student taxidermist Rutherford Wank. “Women who speak up with allegations of rape will be spared the muckraking and character assassination all too common in the modern rape trial. And even more importantly, American males will be free to fuck crazy bitches again.�

Other proposed lists reportedly being discussed in Washington include a national “Do Not Kick My Dog� registry, a “Do Not Masturbate to My Image� registry, and the controversial “Do Not Exploit My Unskilled Labor� registry, which has already drawn harsh criticism from several U.S. corporations. As of press time, no exploitive, dog-kicking masturbators could be reached for comment.

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There's nothing I love more than entertaining—and there's nothing more entertaining than rap music. Not that modern nonsense with the f-word used over and over again, and calling ladies female dogs. I'm talking about true rap.

Old school rap.

So let's break it down now, shall we? Get this place all funky.

The important thing to remember is that rap is all about confidence and style. And I've got truckloads of style, folks. And confidence? Nobody's got more! I'm glad to be here and to break it down, old school! I can do it all—adaption of much-loved rhymes you're all familiar with, some of my own self-penned raps to beats pumped out by my rap collaborator DJ John Waterhouse, or even some freestyling. Just give me a subject matter, say, my friends in high school, and I will bust a rap so grand you all will have to pick up your jaws off the floor. That's how amazed you'll be.

Like all rappers, I truly slay. Everybody has certain subjects where they mine rap gold, and mine is my shoes and my superior rap abilities. Check out these fly shoes—real old school Addidas, and they rock. There was a time when shoes weren't about extra flaps, lights, and Velcro straps. That's my shoes, just there for keeping my feet comfortable—and, of course, styling. My shoes are more than shoes. They're friends. And I have a number of raps dedicated to my friends.

It's not easy being a dope rhyme-ologist. Despite having lyrical superiority over everyone I meet, and putting down the wanna-bes, it doesn't mean I'm always successful with the ladies. That's right: I've been played. And I'm not ashamed to rap about it.

One time there was a honey that strung me, drew me in like a master of gravity, acting all shy when I tried to kiss her, then said I was making time with her sister. I denied it, decried it, but it was no use fightin'; she was treating me like a tool, played me for a straight-up fool. Peace out.

That's just one of my rhymes. They sound better than they read, trust that. When I submitted my proposal for a rap act at the Taj Mahal Casino in Vegas they were doubtful as well, but once I broke it all out they were convinced I was not a perpetrator. As I said, some of the Vegas audiences don't want a tired old Lawrence Welk or Andy Williams or anything. They need something a little spicier, and I have it with my classic old school rap.

Some people say when you rap you have to "dress down," but I say that's hooey. I dress the way I feel—and I feel good! People like to see a show where the entertainer's dressed up a little bit for them, and I give the people what they want. All I ask is to cut loose and have a little fun, and maybe wave their hands in the air.

Nobody is a one man band in the world of rap, unless you do it acapella. But I'm afraid I have a lot of help to make my beats, and I would like to take a moment to thank my number one beatmaster, my scientist of bass, the one and only DJ John Waterhouse. Much love to you, old chum.

This is not only my declaration of my love for rap, of course; it's an invitation to a night out on the town for some of the best old school rap your ears have ever been blessed with. If you're going to be in the beautiful city of Las Vegas anytime all during the month of January, please come out and treat yourself at the Taj Mahal Casino. Three shows a night and all-you-can eat shrimp, and that's the personal MC Vic Daniels guarantee. Thanks, I love every one of you!

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Hey, Shorty, you got you another one o' them Moon Pies? No? Well, how 'bout you break me off a piece o' that one, then, huh? That looks like a good 'un... you can tell 'cause the chocolate's kinda turned color, like it's been in the wrapper for a couple months. That's when Moon Pies is best. Just like them marshmallow chicks and bunnies you get for Easter. I like to eat them about July or August or so. That's when they's best.

You know what they oughta make, Shorty? Marshmallow frogs and crawdads, is what. I betcha them'd sell real good. You could buy 'em to eat, or you could use 'em for bait. Yessir, I bet them'd be real popular.

You know, speakin' o' bait, d'I ever tell you about that time Jimmy Wayne and Everett was out fishin', and Jimmy Wayne won the Catfish Contest? That was the damnedest thing I ever did hear, and I heard some pretty weird stuff in my time, Shorty, you know I'm tellin' the truth about that. Ask anybody. Like how just the other night, Jimmy Wayne and Everett was out giggin' frogs, and Everett mistook ol' Jimmy Wayne's bare foot in the water for a frog, and he stabbed his gigger clean through it? You hear about that? Everett says it was a pure-dee accident, and that he ain't to blame anyway, on account o' him only havin' one eye and all. 'Course that don't mean much to ol' Jimmy Wayne at the time, 'cause there he is standin' in three feet o' water with a frog gigger stuck through his foot and blood gushin' out of it and all. Jiminy Christmas, he was mad. He was so mad he was vivid. I guess once they got that gigger out o' his foot, he was hoppin' mad.

But it ain't like he can say much to ol' Everett, after what happened in the Catfish Contest a few years back. You never heard about that, huh? Oh yeah. That's why ol' Everett wears that eyepatch, the one that makes him look like Blackboard the pirate.

See, they was fishin' in Jimmy Wayne's secret spot, but they wasn't havin' much luck. It was the last day o' the contest, and neither one o' them had anything worth throwin' on a scale. They was tryin' every kind o' bait they was; stink bait, chicken livers that sat in the sun too long, mackerel, nightcrawlers, doughballs and corn, everything, and they wasn't havin' much success. Ol' Jimmy Wayne was gettin' pretty frustrated, it bein' his lucky secret spot and all, and he was just about to give it all up and throw his whole rig in the water and go home. He figured he'd give it one more shot, though, and he loaded up his hook with a big ol' chicken liver. Only thing was, that chicken liver had sat too long, and had got kinda runny, so when he flipped his line back, it just went sailin' off his hook. He didn't even notice that, he just whipped his line around and cast it out as far as he could. Well, ol' Everett was sittin' right there, and that hook caught him square in the eyeball. Just ripped his whole eyeball right outta his head, clean as you could pull it out with a pair o' pliers.

Jimmy Wayne still didn't notice what had happened, so he just let that line fly, with ol' Everett's eyeball hangin' off his hook and everything. The line hit the water, and just as fast as a ol' jackrabbit humps his second cousin, the biggest catfish in the river swallows up ol' Everett's eyeball and is hooked but good. Everett stars screamin', on account o' all of a sudden he ain't got but one eye, and there's blood all over his face, and Jimmy Wayne starts screamin' 'cause he's just hooked into the biggest catfish this side o' the one that swallowed Jonah, and so there they was, both standin' there screamin' their fool heads off, with Jimmy Wayne thinkin' that Everett's screamin' about the fish and Everett thinkin' Jimmy Wayne's screamin' about his lost eyeball.

Well, it was a mess, but Jimmy Wayne was able to bring that fish in, and that's how he won the Catfish Contest. He used some o' the money he won to buy Everett that eyepatch, and he threw in a case o' Dixie beer on top of it, just 'cause he felt so bad. They was able to get ol' Everett's eyeball outta the catfish once Jimmy Wayne brought it down to the bait shop and weighed it, but by then it wasn't much good to Everett. Hell, it wasn't much good to the catfish by then, neither. Ol' Jimmy Wayne wanted to take it and use it for bait again, but Everett didn't much appreciate that idea.

That's why we always tell ol' Everett to keep a eye out for a nice catfish. You heard me say that to him before, right Shorty?

You know what they oughta make, Shorty? Marshmallow eyeballs. I bet them'd sell real good down at the bait shop. I betcha Jimmy Wayne'd buy 'em by the dozen.

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