My Cousin Antonin is a Prude

Every family has a black sheep. Mine is Cousin Antonin.



Honestly, he's such an embarrassment.

Yesterday he penned the majority opinion for the Supreme Court's decision to uphold the FCC ban on "fleeting" expletives on broadcast television...which he referred to as the 's-word' and the 'f-word.'

I called him, said "SHIT" and hung up. Then I called back around 2 AM and yelled "FUCK!"

He knew it was me.

Irony is truly lost on Antonin. As his collegue Justice Stevens pointed out, broadcast television is replete with advertisements for feminine hygiene and urinary incontinence products, not to mention wink-wink-nod-nod ads for erectile dysfunction treatment.

But Cousin Antonin clearly prefers erectile dysfunction to the "f-word."

Explains a lot about him, doesn't it?

Such an embarrassment.

ZOMG! Pandemic Panic!

Damn you, Porky.



Based on the purported genetic make-up of Swine Flu, I am picturing its origins thusly:

1. Mate a pig and a bird to one another
2. Engage in deep kissing with the offspring
3. Go to Mexico and spend the next six months licking doorknobs with sadistic abandon

Which is why inter-species love is never a good idea. Sure, the sex is mind-blowing. But there are always repercussions.

Jiggy swears he had nothing to do with this.

Yo ho ho

So you've been wondering where I've been, yeah?

As alert readers may recall, Dick Cheney appeared during the waning hours of my birthday Fear and Loathing Tour. He whisked me and the Entourage off to an undisclosed location. After plying us with caviar and champagne on mismatched pieces of White House china, he revealed a fervent desire to bring those Somali pirates who kidnapped an American ship captain to justice. Yeah, well, we all remember what a good shot Dick Cheney is, right? Right. That's why he needed me, what with my superior weaponry stash and skills. I'm not going to broadcast this fact beyond my blog because if word leaks out, I'll be in high demand, but yeah, after a quick call to the Obama administration? Well, that was me leading that Navy Seal sharpshooter squad what took down the Somali pirates.



Now I have to say that I had a wee bit of sympathy for the Somalis, since that $8 mil ransom was ostensibly in reparation for the toxic waste that Europeans have been dumping off the coast of Somalia since 1991. Not only that, but Europeans trawlers have been illegally fishing off Somalia's unprotected seas. WTF, Europeans, stop that shit! Eat llama like the rest of us, leave the Somali fish alone, and bury your toxic waste in your own damned backyards. I'm not saying that any of this justifies hostage-taking, and I'll do what needs to be done every time. But we all know I have a natural affinity for pirates and understand what can turn a man or doll to illegal activity on the high seas.

So, yeah.

I'm not much for Dick Cheney, but it occurred to me that he and I could reach an agreement that might help this country. He needs to be kept busy, that one does. As it turned out, I still needed a manservant. You see, Manservant #1 Kevin Federline didn't work out last fall; he kept dashing off to Vegas to party, plus Britney called at all hours. No, no thanks. Replacement Manservant Roddy Blagojevich was too busy fussing with his hair to attend to my needs, plus he requested so much time off for interviews and impeachment proceedings and such that I had to fire his ass. After that I received tons of applications from out-of-work Wall Street hedge fund operators. But hell noes, like I'd trust them? Levi Johnston also called about the position but he needs to get his GED first; I have my standards. But Dick Cheney? Highly educated, Machiavellian in temperament, out of work and totally manageable so long as I lay in an extra supply of raw meat (not hard to do with a Godzilla in the house).

So, meet my new manservant:

Just for the record, Dick's position is all about housekeeping and not at all about sex. Please. Don't make me gag. But a uniform is necessary, and we might as well go with leather.

So it's back to business as usual with my expanded Entourage of Jiggy, David, Adam, Johnny, The Rock, and Dick Cheney to keep the place tidy.

Life is good.

Mock me, will you?

Fear and Loathing on my birthday.

8:00 AM
Right. Send Marines and set up roadblocks, plus hoard liquor on my birthday? No, I don't think so. You Playthings people may never see The Rock and Johnny Depp again if you keep it up.

9:15 AM
Someone on Playthings has altered a photo of a not!Jess. Whatever. The cat eyes are a nice touch. They're all on my List. They're beside themselves with the sabotage I wreaked on the forum. Yeah.

10:21 AM
That lazy ass Johnny Depp slept in while The Rock and I spent the morning annoying Cadie by harrassing some pandas. I taped the photo of not!Jess the Purple Witch by Depp's bedside, and he woke up screaming like a girl. We're off to Target now to lay in supplies for the seige and buy a lizard.

11:30 AM
Lunch. The Rock can put away a lot of llama burgers.

12:02 PM
Not telling what we're going to do next. No photos, either. But we were somewhere around Barstow when the drugs kicked in.

3:45 PM
Boo yah.

5:03 PM
Rawwwr, I see a Marine blockade up ahead. They will be no match for my charms. I suspect they will try to manhandle me. Good.

7:03 PM
We've reached an understanding, the Marines and I. Don't ask; I won't tell.

8:04 PM
Marines can drink! But so can I.

9:17 PM
Warren Zevon sing-a-long. Marines, not so good at harmonizing with Zevon.

To paraphrase my dear friend, the late great Hunter S. Thomspon, there is a huge body of evidence to support the notion that the Marines and I were put on this earth to do extremely different things and never to mingle professionally with each other, except at official functions, when we all wear camo and drink heavily and whoop it up like the wild children that that we know in our hearts that we are. These occasions are rare, but they happen — despite the forked tongue of fate that has put us forever on different paths... Today is such a day. Happy birthday to me.

9:40 PM
Teaching Marines to knit red, white, and blue thongs.

10:08 PM
Wait, we're in Vegas. How'd that happen?

10:34 PM
I just had a brief but torrid affair with a traveling doll who was passing through by the name of JD. We had nothing in common but a shared initial and facemold, so yeah, we knew it was doomed from the start. Ah life. It's Vegas, it's my birthday, what can I say? Not like I need to explain myself to you.

11:42 PM
There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place...wait, what?

It was all a dream?

Jiggy was Johnny Depp, David Duchovny was The Rock, and Adam Carpatina was the Marine Corps? They're telling me that I drank too much at that Playthings mod wedding and imagined it all.

But if it was all a dream, why is everyone wearing red, white and blue knit thongs?

Something isn't right here.

Where am I?

Is that Dick Cheney?

Shit.

How'd I Get This Wedding Toast Gig, Anyway?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, congrats to Playthings Mod SarahL(FKA SarahS) and all that stuff. Can we go back to drinking now? Or at least have some cake?

No?

The mods tell me I need to give the newlyweds some advice first, seeing as how I have the most successful love life of all of them put together, pathetic losers that they are.

So, fine. Here are five pieces of wisdom for you to read and heed:

1. Communicate. If your husband is being a dickhead, you need to let him know about it in no uncertain terms. Terms like, say, dickwad, ball-less wonder and jerk-off. Right, none of these is politically correct or even remotely respectful. Keep that in mind, because he has the right of rebuttal and is also fully entitled to tell you the same, using the language of his choice. Dissing is a two-way street, so don't go down it if you can't take it.

2. Every marriage has its rough spots. Just remember what Henry Kissinger said: "Nobody will ever win the battle of the sexes. There’s too much fraternizing with the enemy." Errr, whatever; Henry was a dickwad and it's a shame his wife never told him that.

3. Remind your husband often of his position in your life: manservant.

4. The three things couples fight most about are money, sex, and kids. Bo-o-o-ring. Be cutting edge: try to fight about interesting things like sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. For example, go to town about which is better, Excitable Boy or Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner. I go back and forth on this myself, personally.

5. Don't let him wash your bras. Men never get this right, never.

Now give me my damned cake.

Off with their heads.

Do you know what this is?



Right, it's a guillotine scaled to fit 16 inch fashion dolls. Someone is selling it on eBay.

Damn it. Why do the fashion dolls always get the cool accessories?

We're Too Sexy for Your Daughter

WTF is the matter with people? Mothers of preschoolers everywhere are losing bladder control over Tween Dora. Because OMG, she's too sexy! She's a bad influence!

Look at Dora. Go on, look at her. You won't go blind.



THAT is sexy? Mothers of preschoolers, you so need to get glasses. Dora's cute and she's got good hair but damn, Tween Dora is NOT sexy. Seriously, if that's your standard of oozing sexuality, stay away from my lingerie collection because you'd have a stroke on first sight. For that matter, stay away from Jiggy's lingerie collection (although frankly I'd recommend doing that on principle because it oozes something else entirely).

Tween Dora is welcome to party with me any time. I'll show her some sexy.

And while we're on the topic of scary, creepy, and inappropriate:



Know who that is? That's Delegate Jeff Eldridge of Lincoln County, W. Va. He wants to ban Barbies from West Virginia stores to protect the children. Apparently he thinks Helen Lovejoy was talking to him personally:



Eldridge says that Barbie influences girls to place too much importance on physical beauty, at the expense of their intellectual and emotional development. I'm going to resist the temptation to haul out the tired, offensive West Virginia jokes here and address my man Jeff straight: Jeff, you are a dickwad. Never mind your MA in counseling. I have a Bill of Rights here that confirms my right to buy as many Barbies as I want and decorate your bedroom with their disembodied heads. Well, okay, I can't legally decorate your bedroom with their disembodied heads, but I daresay you've already done that. Because you are scary, creepy, and inappropriately obsessed with Barbies, my friend. And I know scary, creepy, and inappropriate.

Dude, listen; if you are so concerned about little girls placing too much importance on physical beauty (and I'm with you on that, but still), shouldn't you be campaigning against every damned television show, film and magazine in the country? Because I don't think little girls are learning these life lessons from Barbie, I really don't. Barbie's a bitch and she has her Issues, but corrupting America's girlhood is not one of her agendas.

Go away, Jeffrey, and quit wasting your constituents' money with your bogus Toy Police bills. You want to rally for a vinyl cause? Then campaign to get some goddamn gonads for Ken. That's a cause to get behind.