Here are some English words commonly used in Britain that Americans may not know:
* Knobblits: The tiny hairs on a woman’s third nipple.
* Scramp: An orphan used for fuel.
* Thatchering: Sucking the soul out of a dog through a straw.
* Gildenshire: A mythical land of milk and scrotums
* Tinklybins: Magical treats found hidden inside a fat man’s belly button.
Here are some English words commonly used in Britain that Americans may not know:
Republican leaders are up in arms over the impending onslaught of Hurricane Isaac, accusing the Category 1 storm of liberal bias.
“It’s obvious where the political loyalties of this hurricane lie,” said GOP spokesman Sean Spicer. “Isaac knows what he’s doing. He didn’t choose to blow through Occupy Wall Street, did he? What more proof do you need?”
The effect of the storm’s liberal bias has already been felt by supporters of the Republican National Convention, as organizers were forced to cancel the first day’s slate of speakers. “It’s going to be a challenge,” said South Carolina delegate Charlotte Higgins, “But I’m confident we’ll be able to cram four days worth of woman-hating and immigrant bashing into three.”
Conservative commentators and bloggers have critized Hurricane Isaac for the well-worn liberal tactic of allowing the government to be used to actually help Americans during a time of crisis. They also point to Isaac’s close relationship with his sister Katrina, who has a well-documented history of trying to make Republicans look incompetent.
Traditionally, religious conservatives like Pat Robertson have claimed hurricanes were God’s punishment for liberal transgressions. But Hurricane Isaac seems to have turned the tables. “I just don’t understand why God set His vengeance upon us, when no more than half of the Republican delegation are closeted gays,” said Robertson.
One Romney advisor said he feared Isaac’s far left-wing antics would ensure news coverage was about efforts to evacuate and rescue Americans instead of more pressing issues, like giving millionaires tax cuts. ”Some latte-sipping, socialist hurricane thinks it can come down here to Florida and kill a bunch of old retirees?,” said the advisor. “I don’t think so. That’s what Paul Ryan’s Medicare plan is for.”
In other weather news, New Jersey governor Chris Christie tried to body surf during his convention speech, causing a minor earthquake that measured 3.4 on the Richter scale.
Wednesdays at 9/8 C on TLC.
It’s the all-American family you love to hate! Our friends at the Westboro Baptist Church are having another tumultuous and exciting year full of intrigue, controversy, flag-burning and fag-hating. Tune in weekly to see your favorite family members fight, squabble, protest and hate themselves towards a prime seat next to the right hand of God in heaven. It’s an all new season of adventures of Fred Phelps and his righteous clan of Abominators! Watch every Wednesday at 9 p.m. eastern as these Christian soldiers put the Big in Bigot.
It’s the WBC, only on TLC!
Season 2 Synopses
Episode 1: “Spellcheck For the Lord.” Due to a scheduling snafu, Fred has to decide between protesting Representative Barney Frank’s dinner party the funeral for Marvin Hamlish. Back at home, Shirley scolds her grandchildren for several spelling mishaps during their poster party, and has to decide what to do with a bunch of signs that say “God Hates Nags.”
Episode 2: “Glory, Glory Hole-lelujah.” The Phelps crew heads to Arlington Cemetery to protest God’s hatred of America for its tolerance of the homosexual agenda. After the family stops at 7-11 for Super Big Gulps of Mountain Dew: Code Red, it’s a race to the finish line. Will the family be able to hold in their pee long enough to urinate on the graves of soldiers, or be forced to use the facilities at a rest stop notorious for gay hookups?
Episode 3: “Hail Mary, Full of Rape.” When Timothy chooses a player that went to Notre Dame for his fantasy football team, the family must decide whether celebrate his success in the league or condemn him for supporting pedophile rapists. Margie walks in on her husband Brent in the middle of a hot and heavy hate-session with her sister Shirley. Will Margie forgive her husband for hating fags with another woman?
Episode 4: “I’m Qaeda In Love With You.” Rachel brings home her new boyfriend and the family embarrasses her by condemning him to hell for having frosted tips. Betty gets into an online flame war with Al Qaeda leader Ayman al Zawahiri over who hates America the most, and their shared revulsion secretly blossoms into a torrid internet love affair. The family cat goes missing.
Episode 5: “Guess Who’s Hating to Dinner?” Jonathon and Paulette hold a dinner party that goes terribly awry when one of the surprise guests turns out to be Richard Simmons. Margie deals with the realities of menopause by blaming the Jews. The family gets surprising resistance from their float proposal for the local Gay Pride parade, and a family member gets excommunicated from the church after a Lady Gaga CD is found under his bed. Richard Simmons guest stars.
Episode 6: “Fire and the Brimstones.” With funds drying up, Fred Sr. hatches a scheme to fund more protests of soldier funerals by getting his grandkids to perform on America’s Got Talent. The band practices variations on Beatles songs including “All You Need is Hate”, “A Gay in the Life” and “Hey Jew”. Tensions mount and tempers flare as the competition nears. Shirley gets into a heated backstage argument with judge Howie Mandel, until they find common ground in their mutual love for Gotye. Special appearance by Burt Bacharach.
Episode 7: “God Hates Pugs.” Do all dogs go to heaven, or do some go to hell? Shirley brings home a new addition to the Phelps family, a cute little pug named Kikey. At first the family is enamored with the sweet pup, until they notice the gender of the legs Kikey likes to hump. A butt-sniffing mishap with Fred Jr. is the last straw, and a family meeting is convened to decide poor Kikey’s fate. Meanwhile, the kids hatch a scheme to retrieve a lost frisbee from their neighbor’s backyard.
Episode 8: “Letting Out the Bible Belt.” Time again for the annual Phelps Family Burn-In-Hell Barbecue, members reveling in the chance to place their meat in between some hot buns. But plans for the cookout get thrown into chaos when, in the middle of the festivities, one family member comes out as vegan. Betty’s increasingly desperate attempts to lose weight before next weekend’s WBC protest of the Holocaust Memorial ends in a re-creation of the pea soup scene from The Exorcist.
Episode 9: “Fifty Shades of Gay.” Shirley is concerned about the dedication of some of the WBC members to the cause, and holds a “hatervention” to confront Timothy and Rebekah’s alleged lack of passion at recent protests. Rachel becomes jealous of Elizabeth’s book deal, ending in a saucy cat fight in the church sanctuary. The grandkids raise funds for future protests by selling tasty beverages on the street corner at their “haterade” stand.
Episode 10: “Standoff at the O-KKK Corral.” Shirley and Margie have a Twitter flame war over whether a recent deadly tsunami that resulted in the deaths of thousands was God’s retribution for America’s acceptance of Mormonism or for the renewal of Glee for a 4th season. Fred Sr. gets beaten up by both the New Black Panther Party and the KKK at a protest of the Captain America movie. In the meantime, Rachel searches far and wide for the most flammable American flag.
Previous episodes available for streaming. Or but the DVD of Season 1, and burn a copy for your friends before they burn in hell!
This roast takes place in a special roast-dimension outside time and space just to the left of the event horizon of a blackhole, and previously unknown until the recent discovery of the Higgs Boson particle.
On the dais are Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Lindsay Lohan, Abe Lincoln, Andy Dick, JFK, Susan B. Anthony, Joan Rivers, and other assorted celebrities and figures from America’s illustrious history.
[Mark strides to the podium with all the cocky swagger of a successful reality star with a freshly released internet sex tape.]
“Good evening! I’m Mark Reiley, and it is an honor to serve as your roastmaster for tonight’s festivities! Tonight we’re here to roast a true legend of history. America. One of the greatest nations in the history of history. Nobody has dominated the world like this since Alexander the Great told Persia to bend over and take it like a Greek. And make no mistake, America has taken advantage of its fame and fortune. America has had its hand in more honeypots than Winnie the Pooh on ecstasy.
Everyone on this stage tonight has their work cut out for them. I mean, how can you roast America when everything in the country is already deep-fried? Forget an iron fist, America, you rule the world with an iron beer gut. You’re the land of the free, home of the depraved. U.S.A. stands for U Suck Ass.
You’re loud, obnoxious, abusive, and everyone hates you behind your back. But you make a lot of money so we kiss your ass. You’re the Michael Bay of sovereign nations.
Seriously, nobody likes you. Everyone inside your borders are full of themselves. You have more dicks in you than Sasha Grey at a gangbang. You put the ‘dumb’ in freedom. The Founding Fathers called: they want a paternity test.
[Mark indicates the dais]
And here they are, the Founding Phonies. Look at this dais. What a bunch of losers. This isn’t a who’s who of American History, it’s a who gives a shit?
I’ve seen more important figures on the bank statements of Occupy Wall Street protesters. I’d call all of you washed up, but that would be an insult to the washed up. Jesus Christ, if this roast was any whiter, it’d be transparent. There’s more white meat on this stage than at the kid’s table at Thanksgiving dinner. You guys are so white, it’s like a shootout at the O-KKK Corral. You’re a bunch of albinos in powdered wigs. You make Casper the Friendly Ghost look like Djimoun Hounsou for Fuck’s sake.
And look, there’s Honest Abe Lincoln. Hi Abe! Hey Abe: Slash called, he wants his hat back. Man, you need this roast like you need a hole in the head. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Kennedy had the same problem, didn’t you Jack-o? But Jack is a player. Whether it was ladies or trips to Dallas, you’re always getting into trouble on those “grassy knolls.”
At least you got to use the ol’ JFKY-jelly on Marilyn Monroe. Abe was never so lucky. But Marilyn’s not your type, is she Abe? Didn’t General Grant get his promotion after laying a few Lincoln Logs? More like four score and seven beards ago, right Mary Todd?
And why are you trying out for America’s Next Top Model, Abe? Eat something already. Are you about to give the Emaciation Proclamation? Taft thinks you’re an after dinner mint. Don’t worry, Taft’s not here, he couldn’t make it. He’s still stuck in the White House tub.
Speaking of fat fucks, there’s Ben Franklin. How are you, Big Ben? Did you think Patrick Henry said, “Give me liberty, or give me cake”? Ben’s actually a member of the Incontinental Congress. Ben has invented some wonderful things over the years: bifocals, the lightning rod, the pussy magnet. How else can you explain his popularity with the ladies? You may be a Founding Father, but all the ladies call you their ‘Founding Daddy’. You’ve gotten more booty than Jean Laffite, you bald, fat fuck.
I kid. We love you, Ben. We put your face on the hundred dollar bill so you can smile up at us every time we snort cocaine off a hooker’s ass. Speaking of asses, there’s Susan B. Anthony. From here Susan Be lookin’ like Anthony. Talk about women’s suffrage, what about my suffrage every time I have to look at your face? I kid, I love you, Susie!
Jefferson’s over there laughing like he agrees with me. My man with the original Jungle Fever. You leave Sally Hemmings at Monticello? That’s how it is with slaves. You whip them and they pussy whip you right back.
But enough about these has-beens and never were’s, let’s get back to the guest of dishonor.
Friends, Romans, countrymen…lend America a few trillion bucks because she’s fucking broke. You are so broke, starving African kids are sending you 30 cents a day. If you tried to buy the Louisiana Purchase today, you’d lose to some kid on eBay bidding with his parent’s Discover card. You’re so broke, you’d have to put one of Ben Franklin’s hookers on layaway.
What the hell happened to you?
Your spacious skies replaced with spacious thighs, amber waves of grain replaced with Amber Alerts, your purple mountains drooping down like grandma’s tits at the beach, your fruited plains more shriveled than Larry King’s testicles on a cold winter’s day.
God shit his grace on thee.
Reagan once called you the “Shining City on the Hill.” Now you’re more like the “Shitty bitch from The Hills.” Once upon a time we could come to you, work hard and build a comfortable, middle-class life for our families. But now our only choice is to eat Top Ramen every night and suck on Goldman’s Sack.
Immigrants once flocked here to share in the American Dream. Now, even Mexicans treat you like Lindsay Lohan: instantly full of regret the moment they come inside you.
Your manufacturing industry is decimated. The only thing you’re good at making is more terrorists. And Kardashians…You are good at making Kardashians. If those are the two choices, please focus on the terrorists.
Your infrastructure is crumbling. It could fall apart at any moment, like Joan Rivers’ face. You’ve fallen behind the rest of the world. You’re behind in education, behind in science, behind in technology, behind in industry, behind in life expectancy. Like Charlie Sheen, you’re always coming from behind.
And what’s up with that national anthem? Betsy Ross has queefed better melodies in her sleep. Isn’t that right, Betsy? Ben Franklin should know, he was the one spangling her stars and stripes at the time. Even your racism has gotten lame. You elect a black president and the best the racists can come up with is that he was born in Kenya? Please, that motherfucker hasn’t won a single marathon.
But…all hope is not lost. You’re still first in some very important categories. You’re first in obesity. In guns. YouTube video uploads. YouTube video uploads of the obese shooting guns.
You’ve given us football. But if I want to see 24 sweaty guys jump on top of each other, I’d have gone to Andy Dick’s dressing room before the show. America gave us jazz, apple pie and The Situation. And the Situation gave us chlamydia. Most importantly, if it hadn’t been for America’s heroic acts in World War II, right now everyone in Europe would be uploading shizer videos to YouPorn.
So it’s not all bad.
Sure, you were discovered by a drunk Italian looking for a quicker route to Bollywood. But he found his way here instead, and so every Thanksgiving, we give thanks…that the Native Americans accepted all those syphilis-infected blankets.
I love you, America. Every time I died of dysentery on the Oregon Trail in the school computer lab growing up, I cried a little patriotic tear in your honor. Despite all of your substantial, well-documented flaws, you mean the world to me. Even when you put ‘cunt’ in My Country Tis’ of Thee, I still keep a warm place in my ass just for you.
You may be a piece of shit. But you’re my piece of shit. From the White House to the Black Hills, from Mount Rushmore to Mr. Belvedere, from Lady Liberty to Lady Gaga, from the Grand Tetons to Pamela Anderson’s tits, from Walmart to the Washington Monument, from sea to shining oil-polluted sea, you’re the best.
You had me at hello. Or as it we’ll all be saying soon, “Usted me tenía en hola.” Long live Los Estados Unidos!
By the way, Rome called. It said, “Enjoy the ride while you can, motherfucker.” Thanks to the audience and everyone on the dais tonight. You’ve all been great sports. I love every last fat, bloated patriotic one of you.
And I love you the most, America. Thanks for being awesome.
[Mark blows a kiss to America and steps off the dais]
This ends the transmission of the Comedy Central Roast of America, brought to you live, via satellite, from the roast dimension as predicted by super string theory and corroborated by Higgs boson particle.
Quick little comedy exercise:
Took a topic at random from today’s news stories, and did my best to emulate the style of each of television’s late night hosts. I haven’t watched a couple of them in a few years, so they are approximations.
Jimmy Fallon: “Bristol Palin recently told InTouch magazine that she won’t be having any more sex until after she gets married. And Obama told the New York Times he sure hopes that by November Americans aren’t as tired of getting screwed as Bristol is.”
Stephen Colbert: “Fellow Patriot and Pig-in-Lipstick-in-Training Bristol Palin told InTouch Magazine that she wouldn’t have any more sex until she was also married again. And at the same moment, somewhere deep inside his Texas Ranch, George W. Bush told a pair of bunny slippers he wouldn’t invade any more countries until he was also president again. So proud of both of them.”
Conan: “Bristol Palin recently told InTouch Magazine that she wasn’t going to have any more sex until after she remarried. But she vowed that when she does decide to get it on again, she’ll continue to name her babies idiotic things like Krimpy and Pooter and Baron Von Tibbleywinkles.”
Jon Stewart: “Bristol Palin recently told InTouch Magazine that she was going to wait until marriage to have any more sex. Uh, bad news for you, Bristol. I hate to break it to you, but I got a sneak peak of last night’s ratings for your new reality show, and America just got done f**king you on national t.v.”
Bill Maher. “Bristol Palin told InTouch Magazine that she was going to wait until after marriage before having sex again. I, for one, give her the benefit of the doubt. I do. Because if there’s anything Bristol’s mom Sarah has taught her, it’s how to pretend like she’s not already getting screwed by every poll in America.”
Jay Leno: And what about this, have you heard this? In an interview, Bristol Palin told InTouch Magazine she wasn’t going to have any more sex until after she was married. Can you believe this? Yeah, well…uh…um…uhhhhh…HERE’S THE DANCING ITOS!”
(I told you, it’s been awhile for Leno).
There comes a time in a chronic web surfer’s life where amidst consuming the infinite swarm of YouTube videos, product sites, news stories, Facebook statuses, instagrams, Tumblr posts and blog updates being thrown at you like a barrage of rubber balls during an angry game of elementary school dodgeball, an itch starts to form.
The itch starts out small at first. It begins ever so slight, even subtle, like the tickle of a fresh mosquito bite in the crevice of your back, just out of reach. It could happen on any day of the week, like during a boring Tuesday lunch. You are web surfing, relaxing and enjoying yourself when you feel it. The itch. You can try to ignore it for a while. But soon or later the itch goes from minor annoyance to major problem.
During a relatively benign scroll through a Yahoo article about the pros and cons of bikini lines on tweens, the itch speaks to you.
“Post a comment,” it whispers into your ear.
You shake it off. Not a chance. Only losers spend time wallowing in the festering pig sty of comment section mud. That’s where 14 year old boys go to vent their sexual frustration, where homophobes go to throw verbal feces at perfect strangers, where dreams go to die. The itch, the voice: it’s annoying, but manageable. Obnoxious, but in the end relatively harmless. Like a Jehova’s Witness at your doorstep or Ashton Kutcher acting like an idiot in a PopChips commercial. You forget about it and click through to the next piece of mediocrity on the virtual conveyer belt of online pink slime.
A link to an article about chronic fatigue in the workplace. [click] Political blogs ripping your favorite candidate a new asshole. [click] A video of a teenage girl with purple hair dancing in her panties to a shitty Justin Bieber song.
“Leave your thoughts below.”
Just ignore it.
[click] A local comedy group remakes Jersey Shore with anatomically correct sock puppets. [click] Someone dubs audio of the political debates onto clips of South Park’s Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo.
“Post a comment. In the comment section!”
Shut it out.
[click] Bikini babes reenacting the Han/Greedo scene from Star Wars [click] A new study claims Sesame Street has a bias towards [click] “Is easy access to online porn causing our children to…” [click] Violence against women in Yemen increases…
“Post A COMMENT, DAMNIT!”
No, resist it. You must.
[click] Cute animal being tickled by [click] Big Celebrity got a handjob from [click] New outrage about the president’s [click] Funny autocorrects that [click] A monkey poops on [click] A new poll states [click]
“WILL YOU POST A MOTHERFUCKING COMMENT ALREADY?”
You can’t bear it any longer.
The urge wells up inside you. The dam bursts, you scratch that itch, succumb to it. You do a full on, belly flop into the La Brea Tar Pits, the kind of flop that makes your belly button lint explode out of your asshole from the power of the impact.
You post an online comment.
One is all it takes to start an avalanche. For the rest of the day, the comments flow out of you and onto websites like a transcription of perilous phantoms from a parallel dimension. Your life becomes a demented Field of Dreams, where instead of the voice being benevolent force in the universe trying to reunite you with your dead father, it’s a fire-breathing succubus born from an oozing, puss-infested polyp on the smoldering anus of the Lord of Darkness himself bringing dark rain clouds of pain and malevolence to you and your online victims.
“That’s stupid.” “I hate this.” “You suck.” “What a piece of garbage.” “LAME.”
Wait a second, this is actually fun. This feels good, in a laughing-at-the-ice-skater-for-falling-on-her-ass-during-the-triple-lutz kind of way. The internet provides you a chance to say literally anything to anyone. You can type out all the junk you hold back from saying in the real world, and nobody can call you on it. In fact, for some reason it seems to be accepted, even encouraged. This is the forbidden fruit of schadenfreude, and you lap it up like mother’s milk.
“What a waste of time.” “You don’t like it, move to Guam, loser.” “Kiss my ass, shithead.” “Shut up, fucker.”
Wow. What a rush! You realize that you can type the most despicable opinions, and nobody scolds you. You can write the kind of stuff that would make Sharpie-wielding Tourette’s patients scrawling dirty pictures on Texas truck stop bathroom stalls blush. Best of all, nobody will ever know it was you! You become an addict; anonymity is your heroin, the lack of consequences your high. So you up the ante. Up the dosage. Your attacks become more targeted, more personal, more profane.
“Tan Mom can suck my sweaty balls!”
“Megan McCain’s pussy smells like garbage truck full of baby diapers!”
“Obama likes to suck Biden’s stinky old-man cock!”
Now you’ve turned a corner. You’ve glimpsed behind the Wizard’s curtain. My GOD the freedom. How did you ever live before this? How did anyone live before they could post comments? Hate becomes your only sustenance. You scratch even deeper, start clicking on links you know you’ll despise, aiming your vicious barbs at everyday people, kids, neighbors, brothers, aunts and grandpas, non-celebrities taking a risk by putting themselves out there only to be devoured whole by the ravenous hate-beast growing inside you like a monolithic tapeworm from the desert landscape of Dune.
A video of a 12-year old autistic kid’s piano recital. “Awful. Talentless hack.”
A mother’s film review of The Vow. “What stupid bitch would think this bullshit is good?”
A blog devoted to political views you can’t stand. “Your minds have all been eaten away by syphilis if you believe this tripe!”
A video of a local production of Swan Lake. “What a bunch of homos! YOU’RE ALL HOMOS!”
It’s too easy now. You are the King of Captcha. Your fingers are miniature M2 Brownings rat-a-tat tatting armor-piercing turds to every nook and cranny of the world wide web. You seek mediocrity out just to hate it, set up fake accounts with fake usernames to shroud the filth you puke on everything, spellcheck like a Scripps champion, troll like your life was in the balance. It’s a hostile takeover of your soul. You are a marionette, controlled by a meth-addled Hitler performing a demented Punch & Judy show at a Renaissance festival sponsored by the KKK. Words you didn’t even know you had in you suddenly erupt from your eager fingertips, the most hurtful words imaginable. The words glow malevolently, blackened magma so hot your keyboard melts as you type them:
This is freedom! This is liberty!
You can’t stop it. It’s too easy, to simple. The Snowball Effect incarnate. You have become addicted to hate you don’t even believe in. It’s second nature now; you are a virtuoso of filth. You are a conduit for all the ugliness of humanity, assimilated into the Borg of Online Anathema. You are Mozart and animosity is your symphonic tour de force. You are a physical manifestation of rage, a prophet to the Gods of Hate, scream-preaching the Gospel of Revulsion into internet Winds of Fury!!!!!
A distant murmur. Muffled, indistinct.
You snap back into reality.
You hear the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Well, would you look at that?
Lunch break is over.
Time to get back to work.
Those TPS reports aren’t going to fill themselves out, you know.
You click the exit button on your glowing screen, look up from your phone and squint over at the other poor souls with you in the employee lounge. You wave to Tommy, the gay administrative assistant, Susanna the sweet, middle-aged latina lady from human resources, and make eye contact with Derrick, that nice African-American gentleman who works in accounts receivable. He smiles at you. You smile back. Derrick’s a nice enough guy, and you get along well with him. But he doesn’t know what you just typed. He’ll never know your secret identity. He’ll never know the power you now yield.
None of them will. You gently slurp on the Lemon Zinger in your mug. Oh sure, you’ll be nice to them in person. You’ll go through the motions, maintain the decorum in “real life”. But this world is not reality for you any longer. They’ll never understand, and you couldn’t explain it to them if you wanted to. And you don’t want to. The bland, antiseptic walls of your day job cannot hold you back from your destiny. You are a dark traveller now. Everything must be trivialized. Deconstructed. Everyone must be put in their place. And you are the one to do it. You’re the only one who can balance the humors. You are Gozer the Destructor and you wield your judgment mercilessly. Woe to those who dare to do or say anything, ever and dare to put it on the internet for all to see.
Because if people say or do anything, ever…
They’re asking for it.
No, Jessica Simpson! Stop! Don’t do that to your baby!
Homeless teens are lured into an abandoned warehouse with the promise of giving them gobs of free meth, but are instead given makeovers to look like Steve Buscemi in drag.
America’s Next Topless Model
Desperate women down on their luck answer a Craigslist ad for “model work”, and are offered three Twizzlers and a coupon for half-off at Pinkberry to take their shirts off for a Herman Cain impersonator.
The Amazing Racist
White supremacists and the KKK compete in a series of events including naked Twister and Candyland to decide once and for all who is the grandest wizard of the Aryan brotherhood.
Marry, Fuck, Kill a Kardashian
Contestants pick three random people from the Kardashian family and have to marry one of them, make love to the second, and murder the third on national television.
Extreme Makeover: Gnome Edition
Randomly selected midgets from St. Patrick’s Day car dealership commercial auditions are given leg, arm and penis lengthening surgeries so they’re no longer short little freaks.
My Big, Fat Gay Wedding
A group of overweight religious conservatives compete to lose weight, but whoever loses the least at the end of the season has to get married to an intoxicated Bruce Vilanch in full-on Edna drag from Hairspray.
Real Cellwives of San Quentin
A documentary-style journey chronicling the everyday squabbling and drama of “fresh fish” as the inmates decide who has the softest lips, curviest hips and who will squeal like a pig when “daddy comes home.”
Still Better Than the Star Wars Christmas Special
Star Wars fan boys compete in a jerk-off contest while wearing authentic storm trooper costumes and whoever shoots their jizz the furthest gets to lick Cherry Garcia ice cream off of George Lucas’s frog chin while he adds CGI scenes of Jar Jar Binks’ kids to The Empire Strikes Back.
So You Think You Have Herpes?
Contestants sleep with a babbling, drug-addled, mascara-smeared Lindsay Lohan and then compete in an Irish-stepdance-off to win a bottle of Valtrex.
The Snoop Dogg Whisperer
A group of middle-aged, midwestern soccer moms compete for the affections of a world famous rapper by slingin’ dope, taking part in gang-style shootings, and droppin’ it like it’s hot at da’ club.
Dancing With the SARS
D-List celebrities are forced to make out with a bunch of people with pneumonia from third world countries, then six week later perform the Cha-Cha with the cast of How I Met Your Mother.
Some pickup lines I’ve been tinkering with. Feel free to try them out at your local bodega/yacht club/PTA meeting and send me your results!
Are you wearing space pants? Because I want to have sex with you really badly in outer space and special pants are likely required to avoid suffocation.
Can I check your tag? I want to see if you were made in Taiwan as I only date asians.
You remind me of a girl I used to date. But don’t worry, she’s dead now.
There must be something wrong with my eyes, I can’t take them off you, specifically your tits.
Screw me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the capital of New Mexico Albuquerque?
Can I borrow a quarter? I told my mom I’d call her when I met the woman who would sleep with me to stop me from committing suicide.
Your feet must be tired, because you’ve been running through my mind all night, trying to avoid my swinging axe.
I must be asleep because when I look at you I get nocturnal emissions.
Your face looks familiar. Have you ever been on To Catch a Predator? I think I met you once before on that show years ago.
I may not be Fred Flinstone, but I can sure make your “Barney Rubble.”
Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only “Ten I See” that sounds like an uneducated, backwater hick.
Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I blind you with this acid before I tell you I’m Ryan Gosling?
Do you have a map? Because I got lost in your eyes and also I’m too lazy to use Google maps.
Excuse me, do you have any Irish in you? If not, would you like to have my penis, which is Irish, in you? Also, my fingers and tongue are Irish because I’m Irish.