Serenade to the Mitchell Report

I'd just like to give a shout-out to the following baseball players:

Barry Bonds Jason Grimsley David Segui Paul Lo Duca Mo Vaughn Denny Neagle Lenny Dykstra Jason Giambi Jeremy Giambi Roger Clemens Andy Pettite David Justice Miguel Tejada Rafael Palmiero Larry Bigbie

Matt Franco Rondell White Chuck Knoblauch Todd Pratt Mike Stanton Kevin Brown Eric Gagne Rick Ankiel Paul Byrd Brendan Donnelly Jose Canseco Troy Glaus Scott Schoenweis Matt Williams ... etc., ad nauseum

... You guys suck! Fuck you guys!

Time and Time Again

A group of renegade supernerds believe they may finally have discovered a way in which to develop the long-desired Holy Grail of theoretical physics and sci-fi TV show plot-holes---a time machine:

A new concept for a time machine could possibly enable distant future generations to travel into the past, research now suggests. Unlike past ideas for time machines, this new concept does not require exotic, theoretical forms of matter. Still, this new idea requires technology far more advanced than anything existing today, and major questions remain as to whether any time machine would ever prove stable enough to enable actual travel back in time.

Assuming the technical challenges can be overcome, the team's first priorities once the machine has been constructed include:

• Operation Buy Hitler's Paintings


• Operation Nail Marylin Monroe


• Operation Convince Lee Harvey Oswald to Attend a Short Presentation About the Benefits of Owning a Timeshare Resort


• Operation Barbara Bush Birth Control


• Operation Prevent Star Wars Episodes I-III... by Any Means Necessary


• Operation Beat Up Joey Schwartz, Take Suzy Benato to the 8th Grade Dance, Catch the Infamous Dropped Pass in the Championship Game, and Become So Popular and Successful That We Lose Interest in Science and Never Get Around to Inventing a Time Machine

[Note: originally posted at The Cleaver, but upon seeing it again, I believe you loyal WULADeers might appreciate it more.]

WULAD Web Wround-Up

Have you ever wondered, "What is the craziest shit I could ever possibly see?" Well, thanks to Boing Boing (which is the website of choice for people who resemble that condescending IT guy character from Saturday Night Live), here is a video which does in fact contain shit which I believe is the most crazy upon which you will ever lay eyes. It's like if you took your ordinary, everyday crazy shit and covered it in cocaine and plutonium and shot it into space and it fell into a black hole and exploded. Really, it's crazy:

... and in future news, these guys are dead.

Meanwhile, I have two posts this week over at Cracked for you to enjoy and/or ridicule: first, what do eight-legged girls, Kim Cattrall, and a giant Chinese Ferris Wheel have in common? Find out in Ian's Unnecessary News Roundup. And second, did you know that in the United Kingdom pregnant women are allowed to pee in policemen's hats (although presumably not while the policemen are wearing them), and that it's legal for John Cleese to kill one Spice Girl per year? These astounding legal facts and more can be found in Rule(s) Britannia.

Finally, when I read a headline like "Reporter Bernstein raps celebrity news," I really expect that it's going to be about Carl Bernstein actually rapping, with lyrics about Britney Spears and Brangelina and what-have-you (a la "Gr-Gr-Groin Injury"). Man, was I disappointed.

Are You Ready for Some Vote-Ball?!

Although I know that countless people have come to depend on this site to wade through the festering swamp of American political discourse and provide detailed instructions on what to believe, who to vote for, where to hide the bodies, and what-have-you, I confess that I've been a little bit out of the loop this year.

I guess I'm still suffering from the general politics-avoidance-syndrome I developed just about three years ago—I'm trying to remember what might have happened in November of 2004 to cause that... nope, can't think of anything—which means that I haven't seen any of the debates, and I don't watch political TV anymore, whether it be the Daily Show or Whoever/Lehrer or Frontline (which I believe could be renamed "Very Bad News Set to Oppressive Narration and Stressful Music").

I do follow the news online, of course, especially since it's part of my job to make fun of it—but on the web I have the advantage of being able to only read as much as I want, and ignore things that upset me (beyond my normal level of upset-ness, I mean). Which I guess is similar to the criticisms leveled at people who only frequent right-wing media, except that they are wrong about everything and I am only wrong about 60% of everything. (70%, tops.)

So due to my less-than-thorough (but still more thorough than 80% of the country) research into the candidates, I guess I've absorbed the standard narratives about the main Dems: that is, that Obama is inspiring and thoughtful but might not be "ready for prime-time" (and I wish his name was "Jack Strongman" or something), that Edwards is "electable" but smarmy and uninspiring, that Hillary could single-handedly unite the currently fragmented right-wing tribes into a powerful army of opposition, and that Kucinich believes in Space-Leprechauns. But I suppose it's still early.

Speaking of guys I wish were named "Man Powerstrong," I have a piece up at the CC InDecision blog today about Sen. Obama and suggestions for controversial, "Sister Souljah moment" messages he could take to crucial audiences like the NRA, the Sierra Club, WonderCon, NAMBLA, etc. So stroll on over and give it a read:

• Propaganza: No More Mr. Nice Speech

P.S. I've also got two other things up today: Brawlin' Baldwins at Cracked, and Dog is My Co-parent at The Cleaver. Check 'em out.

A New York Times Article on "Friends with Benefits," as Edited by My 13-Year-Old Nephew

TO SOME, it may seem like an ideal relationship, less stressful than an affair, longer lived than a fling or that elusive one-night stand. You can even sit around in your sweats and watch "Friends" reruns together, feeling vaguely horny.

Yet relationships in which close friends begin doin' it come with their own brand of awkwardness, according to the first study to explore the dynamics of such pairs, often called friends with benefits, or F.W.B..

Paradoxically, and perhaps predictably, the study suggests, these boot-knockin' friendships often occlude one of the emotional arteries of real friendship, openness. Friends who could once talk about anything now have an unstated taboo topic — the schtupping itself. In every conversation, there is innuendo; in every room, a boner.

One-tenth of these boinking relationships went on to become full-scale orgies, the study found. About a third stopped the bangin' and remained friends, and one in four eventually broke it off — the pipe-laying and the friendship. The rest continued gettin' it on.

Friends with benefits scored in the middle on a scale assessing sexcitement and low on passion and commitment, the study found. "When scores were compared to previous findings with romantic couples, scores on all three dimensions were lower, with the largest differences observed in commitment followed by humpty-hump," the authors wrote.

The relationships may be less common than reported. "Friends with benefits" appears to have become an umbrella term for a wide variety of ass-tappin' arrangements, some of which are quite awesome, Dr. Mongeau said.

In addition to budding booty-calls, he said, the "friends" may also be former ugly-bumpers who occasionally see each other or they may be people who hang out at the same places and now and then end up playing 'Hide the Salami,' even though they are not really friends.

Dr. Longschlong said the study seemed to have captured the dissonant, circular thinking that characterized what it felt like for a friendship to enter boning territory.

"There's clearly a strong desire to nail this other person, who fills important bras," he added. "But at the same time, it's as if I'm saying, 'O.K., I'm not going to get passionately involved — because then it's at risk of being a real hot beef injection.'"

[The original article can be found here.]

---

By the way, kudos to everyone who's contributed to the Batman, Mi Amor contest. I'll be doing a summation/appreciation in a few days. And welcome back, my friends, to the WULAD that never ends.

Nader Say Nader Again

Cross-posted at The Cleaver.

The website Babble, which is sort of like Offsprung's sister site—the sister who got a boob job, married a real estate tycoon, moved to the Hamptons, and thinks your dilapidated one-bedroom shack is "quaint," that is—pulled off a humdinger of a scoop today, scoring perhaps the most sought-after interview this side of the Jolie-Pitt family's dog's acupuncturist. A tireless crusader, a hero to the downtrodden, and a man who could have led our nation into a glorious new era: that's right, it's Al Gore: Ralph Nader:

Well, [my siblings and I] watched our parents operate in the community. They stood up to injustice and falsehoods and bigotry. They weren't aggressive in any way, they were very casual about it and we learned that just by watching.

Q: Is that how you can keep waging these monumental battles and not playing it safe?

Sure. And my parents raised children who had a sense of purpose, who had an ever-developing public philosophy and felt that their major purpose in life is to try to improve life.

What an inspirational message for America's youth---work hard and believe in yourselves, kids, and some day you might grow up to ruin the world.

Well, time-travelers, your mission is clear: fire up the DeLorean, go back in time, track down that hard-working and inspirational Lebanese immigrant couple, and destroy their sense of purpose by any means necessary.

Down the Rabbit Hole

I had to doublecheck, but this isn't a fake story like the one about the lion-fighting midgets. (Thanks to C. Monks for the tip.) We really are kicking ass, though--kicking the ass of our worldwide reputation. Consider its ass kicked to the curb in a right royal fashion. It's laying there on the curb with a big ol' footprint on its ass, weepin' and blubberin' and beggin' for its mama.

But you don't come here to be lectured about things you already know. No, you come here to read entertaining stories of how I'm slowly losing my mind, such as the following exchange, wherein I described to C-Baby how I helped my injured father get ready for a dinner party:

ME: So since his arm was in a cast, I had to help him get dressed--there was a lot of struggling with the... zip... up... thing.

HER: You mean the zipper?

There were some other funny ones, but guess what? I've forgotten them.

FOR YOUR FURTHER ENJOYMENT AND WULADIFICATION: Here's a story I wrote about Paris Hilton's desire to populate the Earth in today's Cleaver.

News You Can Confuse

I think these are the same journalists who were working on the Sinbad case.

By the way, if you enjoy things which are funny, check out this bit I wrote for The Cleaver:

Doc Cleaver Says: Your Kid Is a Raging Stressball

We Have Ways of Making You Go for the Gold

Vladimir Putin, whose winning smile you can't help but love, further cemented his diplomatic legacy when he managed to secure the rights to host the 2014 Winter Olympic Games in the Black Sea resort city of Sochi:

International Olympic Committee members credited Putin's personal lobbying for the 51-47 victory that put the 2014 games in Sochi, a Black Sea resort where the snow-capped Caucasus mountains rise from some of Russia's warmest beaches.

In related news, the members of the Olympic selection committee did not die of radioactive Polonium poisoning.

Bush: "I Am a Ginormous Prick"

"... and whatcha gonna do about it, punks?"

Friday Existentialism at Casa WULAD

So as I woke up this morning, I could hear the morning newspeople gabbing about the recently deceased James Kim, and how he was only a few miles from a lodge that could've saved his life but he took a wrong turn, and it's possible he only died a few hours before they found him, and so on, listing all the little ways that bad luck conspired to have this story end in tragedy: "And if he'd only turned here instead of here..." Duh, James Kim! seemed to be the gist, whether they were intending it or not.

(There was even the required misuse of the word "ironic," which reporters are so fond of—"It's ironic that Kim was probably no further than a mile away when his family was rescued" or something—no, you idiots, it would be ironic if the rescue helicopter had landed on him and killed him. Anyway...)

Like everybody else in the Bay Area, I had been sucked into the family's story, probably because their pictures were so damn cute, and because I had gone from thinking "Boy, it's sad that they're probably not going to make it," to "Boy, that's amazing they made it," to "Boy, that's sad he's probably not going to make it." I remember having an especially unpleasant feeling when I saw friends of the family toasting the Mom and kids' rescue with champagne, since the odds were already pretty bad for Mr. Kim at that point.

Anyway the newscasters went on to something else, and as C-baby got ready to leave and I got ready to get out of bed, I said, "This is just another example of how God is an asshole," and she replied, "God isn't an asshole. You know why?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because He doesn't exist," she said.

I love that chick.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's Aged Gay Escort

Is anybody else bothered by the fact that the former gay hooker with whom evangelical superhero Ted Haggard is accused of repeatedly gettin' busy is 59? Not only is Haggard a hypocrite, he's a hypocrite with a taste for wrinkly old dudes (or "DILFs" as they're known in the gay porn world.)* Really, with all the collection plate-funds at his disposal, he couldn't afford some young River Phoenix-lookalike to share in his pre-ex-gay activities? Or at least someone slightly less—dare I say—haggard?

*I made that up. I have no idea whether they're called DILFs.**

**They are.

UPDATE: Turns out he's 49. That's still pretty old.

Tribute in Spite

So everybody's been jumping on Keith Olbermann's dick lately for his bevy of anti-Bush diatribes, but I have to say I'm not that impressed. To me he just comes across as petulant, overly grave, and preachy. (Also, his use of the "hole the ground" as a symbol for Bush's wasted opportunity doesn't really translate, since the clusterfuck surrounding the re-development of Ground Zero and the memorial is classic New York politics and doesn't really have anything to do with Bush.)

It's not that Bush doesn't deserve to be verbally waterboarded at every opportunity; I just happen to think Olbermann is better at celebrating home runs than summoning the disembodied ghost of Edward R. Murrow. (Try to imagine Craig Kilborn delivering the same solemn condemnations.) (Did you like how I managed to use two words with the "mn" dipthong in a row? That's why I'm a rich literary celebrity and you're not.)

Which is not to say Olbemann has no right to get political because he used to be a sportscaster. But I can't help but feel like he's being appointed spokesman for the "silent majority," which bothers me because a) we're not all that silent, and b) nobody asked for my vote. I guess it's just that every other talking head out there is so pathetically horrible that Olbermann looks positively Cronkitian by comparison. I would say, however, that Stewart/Colbert, et al manage to be much more insightful and scathing, even though they've got a laugh track.

You know what? I just made the best argument against this post. Some little funny bit mocking Olbermann's weighty gravitas would've been more effective and entertaining. So here it is:

Phrases I Would Like to Hear Keith Olbermann Say with His Grave, Lecturing Delivery

• "Shame on you, Kevin Federline. Popo Zao? More like Popo Shame."
  
  
• "How dare you, Mr. McFeely? You come to our doorsteps, clad in that blue mockery of a uniform, with your disturbing adult bowl-cut, yammering about 'Speedy Delivery' as if that would decrease by one iota the misery that is life."
  
  
• "I am reminded of the wisdom of that great treasure trove of Americana, Perfect Strangers, specifically the time when Balki loses his hat. He was so sad. For shame."
  
  
• "The firemen came and broke through the chimney top——my mother and I were expecting them to pull out a dead cat or a bird, and instead they pulled out my father. He was dressed in a Santa Claus suit. He'’d been climbing down the chimney on Christmas Eve, his arms loaded with presents. He slipped and broke his neck; he died instantly. That'’s how I found out there was no Santa Claus."
  
  
• "Hey dol, merry dol. Ring a dong dillo. Ring a dong, hop along. Fal lal the willow. Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo. These are words Mr. Bush would be wise to reflect on."
  
  
• "Remember then, for a moment, these words from our national memory, which ring as true today as they did when first uttered: Dad is great; he gives us... chocolate cake. Good night and good luck."

Blame It On the Douche

Today we're going to talk about Milli Vanili. My thoughts on this topic are twofold: first, a brief description of how Milli Vanili obliterated my childish faith in the Grammy Awards; second, how a recent amazing Milli Vanili-related idea of mine demonstrated that truth is both faster and less interesting than fiction.

When the original M.V. scandal broke, I was in 8th or 9th grade, and was dimly aware of the group's existence because of school dances and such, where I no doubt spent most of my time in corners vowing future revenge on those who undervalued my considerable romantic charms. Like many others, I was neither shocked nor interested when it was revealed that the two dreadlocked dudes from the videos (who I assumed were named Milli and Vanili) were not, in fact, the actual vocalists on the recordings. However, I was surprised and disillusioned when the Recording Academy decided to revoke the group's Grammy Awards, which I had foolishly believed to be awarded to the music, rather than commercial packaging and haircuts. Yes, I know, I was an idealistic teenaged loser, but c'mon--they sold millions of albums, and launched countless unwanted pregnancies, with those songs. Surely that had to count for something. But no.

Years passed, Milli or Vanili died tragically, possibly while assisting the INXS guy in autoerotic asphyxiation, and the whole sordid affair passed into the mists of time. That is, until a recent chance reference to M.V. inspired my most brilliant idea ever: somebody recorded those songs that were so successful--let's go find them, get them back into the studio, and unleash the talents of the genuine Milli Vanili on the world stage!

Except they already did that. In 1991. And it tanked.

Also it's possible I've already posted about this. There is nothing new under the blog.*

*Ha!

Pop Quiz!

Please read the following article from The New York Times, then answer the questions that follow.

It was Fourth of July weekend in Montauk, N.Y., and Ben Watts, a D.J. and photographer, was serving as host of his annual beach blowout at Ditch Plains, a popular surfing area. Although there were plenty of people in hoodies huddled around a fire, this was no humble gathering. Mr. Watts was spinning 80'’s rock and hip-hop for a crowd that included Russell Simmons; Sean MacPherson, an owner of the Maritime Hotel and the Park restaurant in Manhattan; the Hollywood stylist Philip Bloch; and the actress Naomi Watts, Mr. Watts'’s sister.

At least a dozen revelers were chugging light pink wine from a bottle. It was Domaines Ott, a French rosé that retails for about $30. Thanks to Mr. MacPherson, who always packs several cases for the weekend, it has become the unofficial drink of the Ditch Plains scene, so common that attendees were referring to it as "D.O." and "the Ott." ...

Rosé wines ... have improved in quality in recent years and been embraced by food and wine connoisseurs. But a new collection of fans have emerged: club-hopping hipsters and tastemakers, who lay in a stash of rosé for parties and ask for it when out on the town. ... "I used to hate rosé," said Alex Kapranos, the lead singer of the rock band Franz Ferdinand and a food columnist for The Guardian in London. "It was a Blue Nun-style secretary'’s-night-out drink, and that put me off it. But a couple years ago I had a cold bottle on a hot night, and it was marvelous."

... [N]ow, among a certain group of global style setters ordering rosé is a sign of being in the know. Dropping the name of a Provençal rosé like Domaine Tempier can be code for having recently frolicked in St.-Tropez or Cap d'’Antibes, where rosé accompanies leisurely seaside lunches.... "The South of France holds a place in people'’s hearts and psyche as this cool jet-set place," said Jennifer Rubell, the author of "“Real Life Entertaining." "Ordering a bottle of rosé back in the U.S. is a subtle sign of belonging to that world."

1. In the article, who makes the statement, "I used to hate rosé"?

A. The lead singer of the rock band Franz Ferdinand
B. Someone who considers himself unbearably smart
C. A pitiable jerkoff who will be sodomized with rosé bottles in Hell for all eternity
D. Art Garfunkel

2. According to the article, Ditch Plains is

A. a popular surfing area.
B. where the U.S. Army plans to bury stockpiles of chemical weapons and remaindered copies of Franz Ferdinand's next album.
C. a good place for a N. Y. Times style writer to meet smelly boys who will put out in exchange for a mention in the paper.
D. Naomi Watts's pet name for her vagina.

3. The article refers to which wine brand as the "unofficial drink of the Ditch Plains scene"?

A. Domaines Ott
B. Night Train
C. Heroin Enema
D. Whichever brand can have two cases and a shemale hooker on my desk by 7

4. When author Jennifer Rubell says, "Ordering a bottle of rosé back in the U.S. is a subtle sign of belonging to that world," which world is she referring to?

A. The world of St.-Tropez or Cap d'Antibes, where rosé accompanies leisurely seaside lunches
B. The world of the Fashion Section of the Times, where meaningless tripe accompanies leisurely self-congratulation
C. The world of Iraq, where roadside bombs accompany leisurely civil war and ethnic cleansing
D. The world up Rubell's butt, where leisurely smugness accompanies her own head

5. The format of this article could be best described as

A. expository.
B. persuasive.
C. literary.
D. vomit-inducing.

6. When Alex Kapranos refers to rosé as "a Blue Nun-style secretary'’s-night-out drink," he means that

A. secretaries are unbelievably uncool, especially if they're also blue, and nuns.
B. he masturbates to images of Blue Nuns every night.
C. he likes to dress up as a Blue Nun and masturbate to the movie Secretary.
D. you will only ever be a complete failure in life unless you become a club-hopping hipster, get your ass to St.-Tropez, pop open a bottle of rosé, and give a Blue Nun a heroin enema while snorting a pound of coke off Naomi Watts's "Ditch Plains."

ANSWERS: 1) C, 2) D, 3) D, 4) D, 5) D, and 6) D. Give yourself one point for each correct answer; if you scored less than six, you are not invited to Art Garfunkel's party at Ditch Plains next weekend.

The Lurd Works in Mysterious Ways

According to this article, some dude in a camo T-shirt has an alligator with the word "GOD" divinely emblazoned on its scaly hide--which I would agree would be pretty cool, and possibly evidence that the Lord is still alive 'n' kickin' and puttin' out a beat-down Okeefenokee-style to all the haters like Nietszche and the Po-Mo Crew, except for one thing:



The gator's skin clearly says "GUD." So is it a genetically-engineered ad for a magazine or a manufacturing company? An attempt by Charles Darwin or some other deceased secular humanist to mock American Christians from beyond the grave? Or perhaps even a warning that everyone should Get Under Desks? We leave that determination to the reader, with a gentle remider that the fate of one's eternal soul may well rest on this decision.

In any case, you should all read your Bible II on a daily basis; for it is truly the Wurd of Gud.

News & Views & Jews & Gnus

I know what you're thinking. WULAD sucks is what you're thinking. And you're right. However, no criticism you could dish out could be worse than the tons of self-flagellation the intrepid WULAD staff dumps upon its own head on a daily basis. (I know, "dumps flagellation"? Pick a metaphor, right? This is exactly what I'm talking about, people.) So save your critiques for someone who'll really respond and adapt, like the president.

Meanwhile, another one bites the dust. Those of us who have been standing on the edge of the digital precipice really should've gotten organized, and we could've put together some sort of impressive group-blog-suicide, and you all would've been really sorry that you didn't treat us better when you had the chance. Instead, I'm left to soldier on ever more intermittently, whilst young whippersnappers who post ten times a day about hip indie bands like Foreigner and the contents of Bob Saget's stomach drown in easy money and women and snort lines off of Donal Logue's hairy chest. (Cocaine or chest-hair dandruff? You tell me.) Well that's not for me, suckers.

So on to new business. The Bible sequel. Well, I guess that's old business. Anyway, I've been putting it off, even though I got some outstanding submissions, because I was hoping to fill it out with some WULAD-spun brilliance. But the longer I wait, the better I feel it has to be, and before you know it we'll all be underwater, and you'll all be calling me on your brain-phones wondering where the Bible sequel and the dry land are. And I won't have any answers for you. Unless you're willing to barter with ammunition, beef jerky, life preservers, or rumors about the whereabouts of Paris Hilton's Ark, that is. (And don't think I'm afraid of your little floating armored Prius, either.)

In any case, what's really important is that the Mets took two of three from the Yankees this weekend, which tells me that God has finally stopped smiling down on the Bronx Bombers, and is instead preparing to unleash His wrath upon the tower of Babylonian hubris that is New York's American League franchise. And I will enjoy watching it fall, and the subsequent sight of Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera and Hideki Matsui trying to speak to each other in their now-incomprehensible languages. Wait--I think it's started already.

So that's all for now, but just remember: I never said that Karl Rove was going to be indicted.

Welcome Heathens

As if it weren't enough to be enduring my sixth straight day of expectorating a rainbow of snot flavors, I wake up this morning to discover that I am a member of the most hated minority in America. Surprising? S'pose not. Depressing? Ah, the American People can go suck it.

Those Were the Days, vol. mxcvii

Another site put up an accurate and depressing post today about how our country's driver's seat is occupied by a cadre of war-loving idiots who are quickly motoring us down Bankruptcy Blvd. to an inevitable dinner reservation at Chez Shit where we will be forced to nibble on the dry bones of our disemboweled democracy and listen to a non-stop Lee Greenwood floor show before being put to work cleaning the toilets of our Indian and Chinese masters with the dollar bills that are now more useful as handi-wipes than they are as currency. Maybe I elaborated a little, but that was the general gist.

As I read it in disgust and embarassment, I was suddenly filled with an unbearable nostalgia for a simpler time, when all America had to worry about was the imminent destruction of our way of life by malfuncioning computers. In hindsight, all the preparations seem unbelievably cute.

Man, we had it so damn good and we didn't even know it.

The Case for Atheism, vol. mcxdvii

I would't presume to fathom what's going on in the mind of the Almighty, but the fact that He would see fit to bump off people such as these:




... while people like these are still consuming valuable resources:



... doesn't speak well for the Big Guy's judgment. Take that, people of faith!