PHCSF Pledge Drive '05—fin.
Well, it’s May, which means that the whirlwind marathon of charitable porn-hunting known as the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation Pledge Drive ’05 is officially over. And frankly, I’m freaking glad. Words cannot express how sick I am of counting crotch hits twice a day, even if it is for a good cause. But this is a time for celebration, not bitter recrimination or suicidal depression.

And why, my dear WULAD, is that, you ask? Because this year’s pledge drive resulted in six hundred fifty-one hits over three weeks. And when our five generous donors make good on their pledges, which I know they will—the UNICEF Tsunami Fund will be receiving a grand total of... crotch roll, please...

One hundred thirty-four dollars and sixty-three cents! Woo hoo!

Really, though, that’s pretty good. It should be able to make somebody’s misery a little less miserable, all through the magic of Ms. Hilton’s famous crotch, and the legions of dedicated seekers who trolled the internet tirelessly in search of said crotch, twenty-four hours a day—these are the real heroes.

(Touchingly, these same seekers are still accessing this site as we speak, even though the pledge drive is over and they don’t stand to raise any more money for charity; for these hearty souls, it is truly a labor of love.)

If you’re one of the pledgers, the PHCSF Paperwork Patrol will sending your invoice soon—but that’s such an ugly word for a beautiful thing. Let’s call it a Winvoice® instead. Because, see, you Win, and also you give a Voice to the voiceless. I should really be getting paid for this shit.

And what if you meant to pledge, but just didn’t get around to it? Lucky for you, I’ve got the web address right here, so you can get out your virtual checkbook and start atoning for the sins of your youth. Just a few dollars to avoid eternal hellfire—you’ll be glad you did.

And now, for the closing remarks, it’s time to turn the final proceeds over to someone without whose crotch the PHCSF Pledge Drive ’05 would never have been possible... a woman whose crotch needs no introduction... Ladies and gentlemen—Ms. Paris Hilton.

“Zank you, dahlings.

"In Washington's day the task of the people was to create and weld together a nation. In Lincoln's day the task of the people was to preserve that Nation from disruption from within. In my crotch’s day the task of the people is to save that crotch and its institutions from disruption from without. To us there has come a time, in the midst of swift happenings and my new movie House of Wax™, to pause for a moment and take stock—to recall what my crotch’s place in history has been, and to rediscover what it is and what it may be. If we do not, my crotch risks the real peril of isolation, the real peril of inaction.

"But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this crotch. The brave web surfers, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what I say here, but it can never forget what my crotch did here.

"Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that if my crotch and Wrapped Up Like A Douche last for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.'

"Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break my crotch got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest millionaire heiress on the face of the earth.

"And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what my crotch can do for you—ask what you can do for my crotch.

"Good night St. Louis!!" [Vomits into audience.]

The Return of the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation : Pledge Drive '05!
Imagine, if you will, a time not so long ago... a time when thousands starved in the smoldering remains of their U.S. military-destroyed homes, while thousands more trolled the recesses of the internet in search of the nether regions of a certain celebrity heiress. This, my friends, was fall 2003, when your friendly webnorhood WULAD had the vision to unite these seemingly disparate elements to make the world a better place; I'm speaking, of course, of the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation.

The inaugural edition of the PHCSF Pledge Drive managed to bring in 462 hits, raising a total of $35.03 from a dozen or so generous pledgers to help the people of Afghanistan, whose country our government had recently blown to hell. Not bad, but I believe that this year we could really do something special. That's where you come in.

Here's how it works: you, the loyal reader who cares about the suffering of others, will make a pledge of a certain monetary amount for each hit that WULAD gets from someone searching for anything related to Ms. Hilton's famous crotch between now (right now!) and April 30. (Let's say a penny minimum, folks. Crotchmas only comes once a year.)

(And in the interest of equality of the sexes, we've added a second option for this year's drive: pledgers may choose to have donations based on "Joe Rogan Shirtless" rather than Ms. Hilton's crotch. Or you could even go philanthropogasmic and pledge for both!)

At the end of that time, I'll tally up the visits and the money will go to the UNICEF South Asian Tsunami Relief Fund. In fact, I'm going to start the ball rolling by pledging five damn cents per hit. So, in the words of our beloved founder and the proprietor of said crotch, "Let's turn that masturbation into a mass donation!"

To pledge: Email me at wulad AT aol.com, or proclaim your generosity in the comments and nudge fence-sitters into doing the same. This is the real deal, folks, so make with the humanitarianism.

UPDATE: Feeling skittish? You can even hedge your bets by including a maximum amount with your pledge so you won't be in the poorhouse if I get picked up by Fark.com or something.

Tids, Bits
My nominee for best review of the year to date: SF Weekly takes on Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat:

...the producers may as well have skipped the hassle of securing licensing rights and simply called this mess Mike Myers: Asshole in Fur. ... Between getting kicked in his supposedly snipped cat-balls (an unfunny incident that admittedly prompts surprising use of the Commodores' "I'm Easy") and beating the hell out of the narcoleptic babysitter, you can see him visibly struggling to ride out the shitstorm. And you can see him failing.

PHCSF Update
In the midst of a dream about a completely platonic encounter with Jessica Alba, I was awakened this morning by the ringing telephone; the clock read 3:26 a.m. It was Paris Hilton, and after rambling on for fifteen minutes about the virtues of Stoli Raspberry and Zoloft, she told me that she's absolutely in love with the idea that amidst all the money-grubbing surrounding her burgeoning adult film career, at least someone is trying to turn all that ravenous greed and horniness into something positive. In fact, she was so moved that she began shoving her cell phone into her crotch in happiness, and I cursed myself for not splurging on the videophone that the WULAD technical staff recommended. Regardless, we're still at six pledges, people. Just think: every porn-obsessed click could either be wasted, or it could make a difference in the world. As our conversation came to a close, Paris asked—nay, insisted—that my readers see beyond the lo-fi fornication and pornarazzi and think about the things in life that really matter. And then she threw up.

Chock Full O' Chocobaby, vol. xcdvi
Me: "I'm getting my haircut today. I was thinking of getting a buzz-cut."
Her: "I'll see you when it grows back."

À la recherche du WULAD perdu, vol. whatever
Finally, we present yet another blast from the distant past, carbon dated to approximately 1986 (or year 12 of the WULAD era). If these preteen pearls are becoming tiresome, feel free to call our Customer Feedback line at 1-800-INSERT-DERISIVE-JOKE.

THE STORY OF IBIK:
OR, THE IBIK STORY.

by ian ______, esq.

utter mongolia, 1874.

Deep in Bungoland, lives Ibik. Ibik has devoted his entire life to killing the evil thing, Stupid Man. He has never felt so strongly about killing someone as much as now this very moment right this very second. Boy, Stupid Man is stupid...

Ibik went shopping. There he met his rival from the heart of Gnma, Mr. Big Fat Man, who is not fat at all. He is stupid, too but not as stupid as Stupid Man. "Num," says Ibik. "Num," says Big Fat Man. "Num num," says Ibik. "Num num," says Big Fat Man. "Num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num," says Ibik. "Num num!" says Big Fat Man defiantly and walks away.

In our language, Ibik said, "You keep away from Gnma! She hates you! She likes me! She hates your guts! She wishes that you would go turn into three fat British superheroes who work in a labor office! She wishes that you would go and slip on a banana peel and break your @$%¢*# neck! She wishes that you would step on a rat and he would bite off your &#¢%$*! She wi—" and then Big Fat Man would interrupt and say, "So what, you stupid ¢%&@*#@*! I think she likes me better!" and he walks away.

____________ _________ ____ ___________ ____________________ ___ _____________ ________________ ___________ ________ _______ ___________ _ ________ __ __________________ _ ________ ++ ++ ++ +++++ +++ + ++ ++++ ++ ++ ++ ++ ++++ + + +++ +++ ++ ++++++___ ________ __________ ____________ _______________ _______ ______________ ___________ _____________ ___________ ____ ___________ ________ ___________ ______ _________________ ___________ _________ __________.

Fill in the blanks

THE END

PHCSF Update
Well, we’re several days into the inaugural Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation pledge drive, and while I was encouraged to learn that we have accumulated five pledges, I would really like to see some more, especially since all those phone operators get paid by the hour. Think about the implications of this project—the money generated by all that covert porn-searching could feed, clothe or educate somebody whose country was recently bombed further into the stone age. So cowboy up.

Incidentally, WULAD Wregular Clare-bear was adamant in his belief that linking to the actual video would help the cause and perhaps increase the pledges; well, since you put it that way, here it is (via Zulkey, via D. Holmes).

Lastly, while we're on the subject of social justice, I would like all of you to copy the following into an e-mail and send it to your congressperson, senator, president, or supreme pontiff:

Dear [Person of Importance]:

As a concerned citizen, I feel it is imperative that you do everything in your power, including suspending the rule of law and/or restricting the cherished freedoms that are the foundation of our democracy, to ensure that the New York Mets trade All-Star catcher Mike Piazza to the Texas Rangers for recently crowned American League MVP shortstop Alex Rodriguez. If you are able to accomplish this through influence, intimidation, coercion, bribery, or any other means, I promise you my firstborn child and my vote.

Sincerely,

[Insert Name and Provocative Photo.]

In Search of...
The story becomes old news, and still they come. I joke endlessly at their expense, and still they come. Time passes, the leaves fall, my hair turns grey and still they come. Twenty, thirty, forty times a day—still they come. They come in search of—well, I’ve already said what they come in search of. I don’t want to make this site any more attractive to the search engines than it already is. But suffice it to say that, as much as it may pain some of you to hear—you will not find that certain shot of a certain bodily region of a certain millionaire heiress here. Nor a certain motion picture of said heiress doing the nasty. It ain’t here. And while it gives me a sense of wonderment (as it should for our friend the amateur adult film star as well) that at least once every five minutes for the past five days someone somewhere has gone looking for the things mentioned above (that are of course not here!), I wish all that energy could be channeled into something more beneficial to society as a whole.

Therefore, I would like to announce the formation of the—ok, I can say it now because it’s for a good cause—the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation.

Here’s how it will work: you, my loyal readers, will pledge a certain amount of money to the Foundation for every “hit” I receive from a search for the aforementioned picture and video between now and December 10th; at the end of that time, I will tabulate the results and all money raised will go to the Afghanistan Relief Organization, which is providing humanitarian and educational aid to a population which sorely needs it. (I would recommend a pledge of a cent or two per hit, since we're averaging about 30 P.H.C.S. hits per day.) I shit you not, people, and I will get things rolling by pledging two cents per hit myself. Let’s turn that masturbation into a mass donation. E-mail me (Wulad@aol.com) with your pledge today!

For the Jazzbos
On to the Limited-Appeal Dept.: WULAD managed to get a ticket last weekend to see Keith Jarrett, Jack DeJohnette, and Gary Peacock (the “Trio at 20”) as the closing headliners of the SF JazzFest; I’ve never seen the group live before, so I don’t know what the standard etiquette is, but I was surprised when His Keithness began speaking after the band had been introduced (since he has a reputation as something of a “difficult” performer). “Twenty years,” he said, “is not really enough.” He spoke haltingly, in choppy phrases that suggested this wasn’t something he’d prepared; he closed his remarks by saying (and this is only my best recollection), “I feel like we should thank… I don’t know, whoever we need to thank, certainly not us. We sometimes sit backstage and think, ‘What is it exactly, that we do?’ People come to hear us, I guess, and we show up on the stage, and… something happens.”

Something then proceeded to happen for the next few hours—based on the large swaths of time I’ve devoted to listening to the Trio’s recordings over the years, I would say they had a hell of a night. The second set was especially good, opening with the rarely-played “Golden Earring” (not the rock band), a fast and rollicking version of “All the Things…” (with a long sheets-of-sound-y solo intro from Keith), and a re-creation of the funky rendition of “God Bless the Child” as heard on their very first studio recording twenty years ago. The crowd was relentlessly appreciative, and wouldn’t leave until they were placated with two encores (a muted “When I Fall in Love” and a wild, quick version of “When Will the Blues Leave?”, complete with frightening fills from Jack played on those little bowls attached to his cymbals). It made me think, “Oh yeah… this was why I got into this business.”

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Lastly, some baseball news… Newsday is reporting that New York baseball’s biggest J.S. Bach fan Mike Piazza, unhappy with the prospect of learning first base on a rebuilding team, will request a trade from the Mets in the next few weeks. This is sad for me, since he’s been my favorite player on my favorite team since I really began to get serious about baseball, and some of my best Mets memories are tied up with the guy. (Such as watching him lift NY1’s Bud Mishkin into the air following the Mets’ win over the Cardinals to send them to the 2000 World Series.) But... he’s got a point. It would be wonderful to see his Non-Gayness retire as a Met, but he may be worth more to the team in trade value, and could conceivably revive his career on an American League team as a part-time catcher and DH. Hey—how about trading him for A-Rod? I’ll chip in on the salary. Maybe Paris Hilton will, too.

Addendum: I'm serious about the Foundation. Make with the pledges, WULADers of Conscience.