The Grand Old Perverts


Tim: "I rented this movie called Slow Burn. Haven't watched it yet."
For months, I've been begging my old college roommate, Bill Maher, to get bloggy wit it for the gibblers. Finally, after my private investigator got some incriminating picks of Maher doing blow off a donkey's ass, he suddenly realized how fun it can be to blog! Take it away, Billy-boy...
If you were surprised that the Chinese don't care about toy safety, then the child who needs protecting is you. Over the last couple of months, American consumers have been learning a shocking lesson about supply and demand: if you demand products that don't cost anything, people will make them out of poison, mud and shit. Now, since April, approximately 17 million toys in the United States, all of them made in China, have been recalled. Which is amazing considering that no one in the Department of Justice can recall a thing. I was devastated when Mattel recalled almost everything in my Barbie Dream Closet. Although I had suspected something when Ken discovered a lump on his testicle. Until recently, I never even worried about being harmed by the Chinese. Unless they were in the left-hand turn lane. I kid. But then we found out that their dog food was deadly and that they were making toothpaste out of antifreeze, and that the Number 62A at the Szechuan Palace is Beef with Bronchitis. They're the Chinese. They don't care if your precious little Britney sucks a little lead. Because in China, their kids aren't playing with the toys. They're the ones in the factory all day making them.
    
    "Y'all are exactly one cunt hair away
So Fredo has been whacked. And once again we get indignant Brush: "He wuz a good man, crushed by evildoery Democrats who jest hate wetbacks" or somesuch bullshit. This is the same fuckface who put on his Befuddled Brush mask a couple of weeks before, saying, "What, fire 'Berto? Why whud I wanna fire 'Berto? Everyone in the world sez he is doing a heckuva job for a gay Mexican A.G., and no one's ever said one bad thing about him!" Right, right...it's all us, the political hatchet men looking to take down decent, honorable, not-at-all-toolish public servants. It's just so pathetically funny to me how Brush thinks he's doing his cronies a favor by keeping them on the job even though they've curdled and exploded in the refrigerator of politics after staying months or years past their expiration dates. It may very well be that, in the end, these assholes have to finally insist that Brush accept their resignations--not at all to help him save face, but because they realize at long last that they have been stapled and duct taped to a rotting corpse for the last three years. So when, one wonders, will Brush get over his fake indignation and realize what a shithell he iz and how his fuckupedness is soiling the Brush name like so much underwear worn by people who have been tortured on his watch? Perhaps it's a bit much to axe for Brush to resign just so Daddy won't sob himself to sleep anymore, or so his dumbass daughters won't have to be so embarrassed all the time. But some fools out there think Jeb Brush might be a decent politician again some day if the walking dicksore that is his brother could just go off and crawl under a porch somewhere and die. Or, y'know, play golf like a fuckhead forever. Brush really is just one of those rich assholes who should only ever play golf, so that the worst he can do is shank balls that hit rich old fucks in the head and knock them in a coma. The world could do with a few less rich old fucks, so Brush would finally be doing some good. But perhaps it's best this way...that Brush goes on to taint the Brush name so completely that no one named Brush will ever again be considered for any important job in America. And the whole useless Brush clan can move to Saudi Arabia and just play golf.
    
    

 The album of the year is being declared early by me and anyone who has listened to the Fratellis' Costello Music, which just totally blows the doors off of anything else that even could be conceived of as the album of the year for 2007. In fact, CM puts to shame nearly every album of the year there has ever been throughout the history of albums and years. Every godamn song on this cd spanks yer ass until you are begging for it to please lay off yer ass for a while. But it won't. So yer ass is basically a bloody mess by the time track 13 ends, and now you have to see an ass plastic surgeon or something. Also, this is the only album that I can recall that suggests the possibility that gangbangs can just be fun rather than savage or sinful. Luckily, though, for family friendly listeners, the word "gangbangs" is never mentioned. In fact, I believe there's only one bad word on the whole disc. It comes early in the first song ("Henrietta"--maybe also the best song), when the Fratlellis refer to themselves jovially as "these three miserable cunts." Apparently, the boyz wanna get with some chick named Henrietta, so they make a few direct and helpful suggestions as to how the relationship might progress:This will be a new feature on the blog. Instead of axing ourselves, "Is it just me?" we can now address the much more profound and relevant question, "Is it just TXB?" So here's the first installment: Is it just TXB, or have shoelaces gotten longer over the years? I now have to triple knot my shoelaces to keep from tripping over them. What up wit that? Also, is it just TXB, or is Brush just a total asshat?
The thing that clinches any TV show for me is the opening credits, particularly the music. When I was just a little boy, I used to stand in front of a three way mirror so I could pretend I was a member of the cast of my all time favorite show.

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