The War on Fake Drugs Doesn’t Claim Another Victim

Before we get started let me just say I am not mocking the death of a thirteen year old boy here. I would just like to make that perfectly clear right away. I don’t know how many times just this week I’ve been wrongfully accused of celebrating teen deaths and I’m sick of it. It is irresponsible and hurtful to my loyal fan base of thirteen year old boys. I would never wish ill on any of their cherubic little faces. Now, with that little bit of house keeping out of the way.

A thirteen year old Pittsburgh boy was murdered by his own stupidity and his parents’ neglect.

The headline reads: “Teen dies after smoking synthetic pot”. At first glance, that’s horrible. The death of a teen is rarely hysterical and that he was killed by some sort of Franken-dope created in a lab specifically to murder thirteen year olds with no parental supervision just makes it all the more tragic. The only problem with this headline is that it’s entirely false.

The subhead sheds slightly more light on the what might be slightly closer to the truth: “13-year-old boy sustained chemical burns to his lungs after smoking from plastic candy dispenser”. Ah, well, okay, now we’re getting somewhere slightly less sensational aren’t we?

Then as we get into the poorly written body of the “story” we discover: “The boy smoked the fake marijuana out of a plastic candy dispenser and suffered chemical burns to both lungs. He was put on a respirator in June and had a double lung transplant in September. The boy’s mother says anti-rejection drugs he’s taken since the transplants weakened his immune system and made him unable to fight off a recent infection.”

So, now we have slightly more information here. Still not much in the way of reporting, but at the very least it is more information. With these new tid bits, we can slightly modify the sensational headline to read “Teen who inhaled burning plastic dies of infection following double lung transplant”.

This fake drug has killed more teens than polio and sadness combined! True? It must be, I just reported it!

I actually did some research on this one, something I often, plainly refuse to do, and found another article about this kid. The second article goes into a little more detail, saying that the boy “injured his lungs in August after smoking a substance known as K2.” mentioning no where in THIS story that he smoked it through the thin flimsy plastic neck slot of Batman villain Two Face (allegedly) and that “Shortly after smoking the drug, the teen developed nausea, a full body rash, headaches and high fever. His father said the substance caused a chemical burn in his son’s lungs.”

All of this forced me to do further research, which only served to anger up my blood some more. In looking up the side effects or potential risks of “synthetic marijuana” I found that the products, “often sold as “herbal incense” and smoked like traditional marijuana, can produce seizures, hallucinations, tremors, paranoia, convulsions, high blood pressure and rapid heart rate.” And while very few of these are good side effects, exactly none of them are what dad said happened to his boy.

Then, after this parentally neglected 13 year old got sick from inhaling a PEZ dispenser, Pennsylvania Governor Tom Corbett signed a bill outlawing synthetic marijuanas.

All of this leaves me with a lot of “Why?”s. Why does everyone believe that baby-juana did something specifically to this kid that it’s never done to anyone else ever. Why, when this child’s actual cause of death was hospital infectionitis brought on by the total removal and replacement of his entire respiratory system in a building literally slopping over with infectiousness, is every news source saying that bullshit fake weed put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he’s dead? Why are “news” people just allowed to assign blame to a substance with no actual proof and get away with it. Saying “Teen dies after smoking synthetic pot” in relation to this story is only slightly more crazy than if, say, I were to put on a pair of my favorite asbestos gloves, massage the mucusy orifice of your choice, and several months later you were to die of mecca pneumonia due to your body rejecting your new radio controlled bionic sphincter valve and the headline reading “Blog reader dies after loving, tender, attentive butt hole fingering”.

"Riddle me this! When is a throat chute like a water pipe?" "Oh please shut up."

Now, don’t get me wrong, none of this is meant to be in defense of synthetic marijuana or a condemnation of robotic poopers. I personally think these “K-2″ and “Spice” and what have you are cute and dumb and mostly harmless as long as you ask your parent’s permission before sucking it through a fiery Lego. What bothers me is the lazy, irresponsible nature of this reporting and how nobody will call these people out on their bullshit. And please know, if it does in fact turn out that this kid’s death was caused specifically and solely by the proper, appropriate implementation of this legal product, then I’m just a bigger asshole than most give me credit for and I’m sorry for ever questioning the validity of this third hand hearsay being passed off as investigative journalism. But if I’m not: if I’m right… Well, we’ll never hear about it. Because first people would have to admit that they’re wrong, which they won’t. And death not being the result of evil future drugs sent back through time to kill our children just doesn’t fit the narrative being built by those that don’t like this product for what ever reason. But just because something’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s good for you either, I mean, take cigarettes or having children that you have no intention of properly raising, but just because you don’t like a thing, doesn’t mean it murdered somebody.

God damn, this has been a week. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go take a nap, because in my dreams I’m an 8 time gold medal Olympic vampire puncher with the uncanny psychic ability to sense when and where lesbian sex is transpiring and a magical doorway that can take me there. Then I’m gonna wake up Monday hoping that most of the sharp objects in the apartment are still up too high for me to reach them…

See you then, if any of us make it there without being killed by something whose fault it isn’t.

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (Stupidity On Parade)

Stupid people come in all shapes and sizes. In fact, stupid people are just like you and me…

Alright, who’m I kidding, they’re nothing like me, and for me to even suggest that they could be is just stupid. And of course, since you had the head full of smarty brains to come here and read our funny type ha-ha scribbles, you’re clearly nothing like them either. Also you’re a sexy minx whose beauty and charm is only rivaled by your comedy website decision making abilities. So then, if it’s not us and it’s not you, then who are these stupid people on which I’d just words ago based my entire argument, and the remaining 1100 words or so, on bitching about? I’m glad you asked, though you didn’t have to be so ill tempered about it. Stupid.

Like I said, stupid comes in all shapes and sizes, whether it be too large to safely fit into something not designed for them but too stupid to realize their own personal dimensions or too drunk with power and moronic to know that you shouldn’t tell someone that you rubbed your balls on something of theirs while “lawfully” rifling through their shit.

Have you ever been bet to do something you knew was not only stupid, but would no doubt result in certain pelvic harm? And no, we don’t mean a rollicking, good natured, “turkey basters full of HPV” fight. Most of us have a general working knowledge of our basic physical displacement volume, so no matter how much we’re egged on by our worst friends, no matter how many hundred of dollars you’re offered to wedge yourself into a space not designed for your mass, we understand that that way lay only pain and humiliation. That long after that Benjamin is spent on cast cutter rental, the psychological scars will remain. Fortunately for those of us who enjoy the suffering of the stupid, not everyone puts quite so much thought into their hip safety as we do.

The Widowmaker.

A 21 year old, living adult male, was dared by his friends to wedge himself into a baby swing at a local park with the promise of a TEN THOUSAND COPPER LINCOLNS reward! What he received instead was an embarrassing 6am rescue by a groundskeeper who heard him screaming for help from deep within his swingy tomb.

Let’s examine this now shall we? No matter how drunk you are, and let us make no mistake, this individual was at very least drunk at the outset of this adventure, when the amount of the stakes involved in your stupid wager reaches the entirely unrealistic level of “$100″, you have to realize that you are being completely fucked with by people who simply know your price to do anything, no matter how moronic. No $100 bet in the history of idiots has EVER been paid in full. But even beyond the inherent flaw in this scenario of this ever actually being an honest challenge, this dufus is twenty-one years old and is hanging out in a public park at nine in the evening drunk enough to be convinced that this was a good idea. Twenty-one is too old to be duped into something so YouTubely idiotic, and nine is too early to be drunk enough to be coaxed into it. So I’m not going to blame my good friend booze on this one and will simply lay the fault at the dangling feet of this simpleton who I now can’t help but imagine waddling painfully toward the EMT van still in the baby swing harness freshly cut down by the firefighters.

Meanwhile a New Jersey TSA baggage screener thought it would be hilarious to anonymously harass a woman who discretely stowed her joy buzzer in her checked luggage, expecting, apparently wrongly, that some pervert wouldn’t go rooting through her shit like a creep with a license to do so.

Hey, at least the slip seems stain free. The sign of a true professional.

Now, many of us have opened our bags after getting off a flight to find a slip inside thanking us for the good times that the Transportation Security Administration just had with all of our personal belongings. And while I generally don’t carry my varied assortment of tender bit tantalizers when I travel that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to some day (I miss them when I’m gone). But I feel raped enough when I find that strangers have been fingering nothing more intimate than the tooth brush I use to keep the inside of my butthole spotless. So when Jill Filipovic found that not only had the TSA notice of legal privacy invasion had been crammed in her belongings, but that it also came emblazoned with a hand written love letter reading “GET YOUR FREAK ON GIRL” by the “baggage handler” who apparently discovered her bullet vibe packed therein, she was surprisingly not as thrilled by the message of masturbation encouragement as the writer had surely expected she should be.

Now, I understand how the TSA agent might have been excited seeing a sex toy in a piece of luggage. That’s not where they usually live, so that’s titillating as shit! Plus, it’s a lady toy, so it’s probably been all up against lady parts. And while it must be like pervert Christmas to find this magical device when rifling through stranger clothes looking for things small enough that they won’t be missed long enough when they disappear that the victim has enough time to forget it was in their searched bag, you still have to have enough wits about you to only THINK these things, rather than writing them down and placing them in with your victim’s befouled belongings. As witty and cute as you think cheering on future diddling is, and while in your pervy imagination you’re sure that the owner of this device is going to do all the leg work necessary to track you down and pleasure herself in front of you with this device that you have found and instructed her to partake in its pleasure giving settings, the odds of that happening versus you having to inform every new neighbor you have for the rest of your life that you’re a registered sex offender just don’t make it a worthwhile gamble.

“It was a $15 bullet vibe from Babeland,” Jill said. “About the most basic sex toy you can imagine. It has now been officially retired, since I have no idea if the TSA agents manhandled it.”

A very wise move on her part, because no matter how long you boil that one, you’re never going to completely remove the cocktail of saliva and testicle smear left by the screener as he hurriedly molested himself with shaky hands.

Those who know me are aware that I have long said “We’re only still alive because an idiot hasn’t killed us yet.” but it’s also equally safe to say that we only still have playgrounds or un-secretly desecrated sex toys because an idiot hasn’t been able to jam themselves into it for an imaginary c-note or found it innocently tucked away in our own airborne personal belongings… Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, but the sentiment is certainly the same.

Lesbians Take Down Plane With Heat Seeking Kissle

“Get these monkey fightin’ lesbians off this Monday through Friday plane!”

The greatest threat to American air travel, right now, as I am typing this very important piece of internet fluffery, is not exploding shoes, or slightly larger than tiny bottles of shampoo, or the stinky guy. No, commercial air travel enemy number one, is lady kisses!

And somewhere, an airport exploded.

Now, you and I, being people of a reasonable nature who exist in a world where things happen, have likely seen a lesbian before, whether we like it or REALLY like it. We, being human animals with the ability to move our heads a not unreasonable degree (I mean, not like, owl levels or anything, that’s crazy and unreasonable, let’s not get all fantastical now gentle reader) and have a fair working knowledge of what it is that we prefer to bear witness too and what it is that we simply will not linger upon, no matter how pant tighteningly hot it is. And while the majority of us do not own aero-planes, dirigibles or any other manner of flying machine, we do own something, be it a mode of transportation or posession otherwise, that we likely would not clutch fearfully to our chest sobbing uncontrollably simply because a lesbian happened to be lesbianing in, on or near to it.

But then, I guess that’s what makes us different from Southwest Airlines.

It seems a lady (to call her a “celebrity” would be KIND of stretching it. She’s known, more than I am, sure, but “celebrity”? meh) kissed another lady while in mid air and that caused quite a stir, and not just the trousery kind that that sort of exchange usually engenders. It seems as little as one flight attendant and as many as one flight attendant and “several” passengers were unable or unwilling to employ their neck muscles to avoid the horrible, ghastly sight of two sets of soft, warm lips, coming together in a loving face embrace IN FRONT OF GOD AND EVERYONE!

Oh for the days when a flight attendant recognized a playful pat on the ass for the compliment it was...

This interaction prompted a talking to by Southwest staff and resulted in these filthy consenting adults being thrown from the plane upon its landing. Which is a confusing part of the story to me, perhaps because I don’t do a lot of plane flighting, what what with my uncanny power of unaided human flight (a direct result of my prolonged exposure to your planet’s yellow sun) but I always thought that once a plane had landed, it wasn’t strictly necessary to escort someone from it, as, unless they planned on paying rent, that was the entire purpose of a plane’s landing, so that one could then disembark and continue on toward the destination that the plane flight had aided in expediting. So it just seems that escorting someone from a plane after it lands is just kind of a dick move. Is there a fear that, without the forceful prodding of Southwest employees these two lady pervs would continue to face slam one another willy nilly, further endangering all of those around them to varying levels of arousal depending upon their personal proclivity?

I get that people have personal tastes and beliefs and dislikes and prejudices. I understand. I myself can’t stand to see people. But when I see one or more of these “people” doing anything ever I don’t immediately tell them to stop doing it because I don’t like that I’m able to see them doing it. I don’t ask the nearest other person that I don’t like to stop the activity of two people who have absolutely nothing to do with me simply because what they’re doing is visible. So why should anyone, in this dazzling age of spinal rotation, be so offended by something that they have to actively look at, when the other 340 degrees of potential visible landscape would likely offer unto them something that even their hateful little minds would find inoffensive?

I guess just the fact that they would KNOW that someone was in some way happy near them would just be too much. And the only thing that gets THEM hard, is interfering in the happiness of others. So thanks for ruining it for the rest of the passengers, haters of sexy things. Now I’m going to have to jerk off to the over priced electronics gadgets and lemon bar recipes in the in flight publications… again…

One Million Moms Hate Balls

During the winter break of my Sophomore year at the University of Nevada, Reno (go fighting Soft Sixteens!) I took a backpacking excursion through the inhospitable wilderness of the South American rainforest. I hiked for nine days with my trusty guide Tuo Uu-nu Eepchak. I was but a fool child, ill prepared for the conditions I would face in these endangered woods. Tuo became more than a guide to me, through our perilous journey he became mentor, teacher, father, lover, and the night that he boiled his freshly severed foot to provide us the nourishment we would need to see us home, I knew not to refuse the plate, and ate every last bite without once breaking eye contact.

I could have chosen Amsterdam, instead I will die here.

As Tuo carried me, in an uncomfortable one footed hobble, back to civilization we collapsed, unable to journey any further. I was certain this was the end, so as to not let any of my brave friend go to waste, I began chewing on his left hand. As I drifted off into unconsciousness, suckling upon the sweet, caramel colored digit I was prepared to welcome death’s clammy embrace. But to my surprise I awoke again, laying on a straw thatch that a pungent combination of my profuse perspiration and seeping diarrhea had bedamped. Beside my bed of natural fibers sat a woman of indeterminate age and coffee complection. Her heavy, naked breast swayed gently as she reached into a loosely woven basket that sat in her lap, retrieved a single nut and carefully fed it through my cracked, blistered lips.

Over the next week I was nursed back to health by this plump, wizened woman and adopted by her tribe. I received a native name, “Kuh Naya”, which I chose to believe translated to “Brave Explorer” but which I knew was more likely to have meant “Oozer of Liquids”. My strength returned almost immediately as my diet of native legumes replenished my vitality. When I was finally well enough to resume my journey home I asked the elders for their permission to take a supply of their restorative food back to the states to offer the civilized world a chance at the restorative effect of these native people’s hidden miracle bounty. The elders refused, but I could not take no for an answer. As the tribe slept I filled my back pack and slipped off into the night.

Upon returning to Reno I packaged my ill gotten prize for presentation to a friend in the grocery business. I told him about my adventures in the jungle and my encounter with the natives and offered him a taste. The flavor assaulted his dulled western taste buds and the burst of vim and vigor shot through his body with one bite. He grasped at my collar, begging me for my secret, offering me anything in the world for this wonderful prize.

“What do you call these?” he pleaded, tears welling in his eyes.

With no small swell of pride I straightened up and smugly replied.

“These are the native nuts of the ancient and wise Haree tribe of South America.” I beamed. ”What you have in your mouth, are my Haree Nuts.”

…

A group calling themselves One Million Moms is leading a boycott against Ben & Jerry’s over their new limited edition ice cream flavor based on a Saturday Night Live sketch; “Schweddy Balls”.

“The vulgar new flavor has turned something as innocent as ice cream into something repulsive,” the group of humorless hags said. “Not exactly what you want a child asking for at the supermarket.”

One Million Moms, a “division of the Mississippi-based American Family Association” also hates Ben & Jerry’s commemorative flavor “Hubby Hubby”, a special edition of “Chubby Hubby” celebrating gay marriage.

“It seems that offending customers has become an annual tradition for Ben & Jerry’s.

This ice cream embarrasses me. NO ONE MUST HAVE IT!

One Million Moms (which I am almost certain, does not consist of one million actual mothers) hate fun or gay ice creams.

People actually live their lives hating jokes, being offended by tasty frozen treats that don’t hate gays and threatening people that sell things that others rightfully don’t think are insulting them, that they’re not going to buy something that they likely weren’t buying in the first place. This is important to these people. It makes me want to punch everything, ever.

I do not know what my parents expected me to learn from the people of your planet when they launched my escape rocket only moments before my birth home exploded millions of miles from here. But what I have learned so far I do not like.

It’s Never Too Early to Learn That You’re Not Good Enough

Hey you, portly meat child, put down that bacon glazed ham turkey and mash your thick, meaty fingers into the keyboard over here, I’ve got something to tell you: You’re not okay!

Did you know that people hate fats. They do. Especially fat children. Nobody hates anything in this world more than they hate rotund rotoddlers. It’s uncomfortable for everyone involved when you have to tell a friend who is the parent of an oval kid how “handsome” of “beautiful” or “not sweating profusely from merely existing” their baby is. Your non-tinyness isn’t just hurting your young circulatory system, but our ability to see your parents as anything but grossly neglectful.

"No, silly Maggie, that dress isn't cake. No! Maggie! SOMEBODY HOLD HER DOWN!"

Fortunately, one intrepid author is using the fat kid’s second biggest weakness (behind marshmallow covered chocolate stuffed with marshmallows), to trick them into pulling their shit together: books. Books are to fat kids what friends are to regular, popular, healthy and well adjusted “normal” kids. Fat kids trust books because they take them to places that they might otherwise have to use their over burdened legs to discover. And since most overweight youth can’t get to the outside world to be told how they can never be loved as they are, the wonderful world of self loathing and poor body image are brought home to their cake plates, in the form of “Maggie Goes on a Diet” by Paul Kramer.

See Maggie is a fat little red headed 14 year old girl who:

“has so much potential that has been hiding under her extra weight.”

Because as everyone knows, you can never reach your full potential if your gut keeps getting in the way. It’s so far, and your arms are so heavy with internally stored ice cream! You see, your personal and professional successes are directly associated to your Body Mass Index. Think of it as your ranking as a human being. The lower, the less disgusting.

“This inspiring story is about a 14-year old who goes on a diet and is transformed from being overweight and insecure to a normal sized teen…”

Now, to be fair, Maggie almost IS a normal sized teen, and more than likely in the next hand full of years, WILL be. One in three American kids is overweight or obese, so the Largeican Americans are going to stop being the minority soon and then the thins are going to have to watch their tender, bony asses.

“Through time, exercise and hard work, Maggie becomes more and more confident and develops a positive self-image”

Everyone knows that fatties hate themselves, so they eat. Then they hate themselves for eating, and they eat some more, which makes them fatter and more eatie. Books like these, telling fat people that they’re fat and will never be happy until they stop being fat are exactly what is going to save our children. No amount of responsible parenting or thoughtful food choices for your children can do as much to benefit your child as a picture book with “normal” sized kids calling a little cartoon girl “fatty” and “chubby”.

Another of Mr. Kramer's books, apparently featuring sinister drops of piss...

So while this book isn’t due out until October it’s already gotten people (fat people) up in arms (fat arms). People who say that targeting the insecurities of young girls and enforcing negative body image stigmas is somehow “wrong” and “evil” and “yum, butter!” But those people are clearly just trying to invent a problem where there is none. Of course, author Paul Kramer knows that a 14 year old shouldn’t be dieting, in fact, he told Fox News that very thing.

“I’m not advocating, never did, that any child should go on a diet.” said Mr. Kramer while apparently not promoting his book about a dieting teen.

So there, you’re all getting it wrong fatty lovers. When Mr. Kramer said ”Maggie Goes on a Diet”, what he CLEARLY meant was “Maggie Makes Sound Personal Dietary Choices, Resulting in a Better Over All Lifestyle, Which Coupled With Exercise Can and Often Will Result in a Healthier Maggie For Years to Come, Rather Than the Potential Weight Loss Roller Coaster of Dieting”… But everyone knows that the most expensive part of self publishing a book is paying for extra cover words. Which is why my autobiography is going to be titled “Book”. And don’t worry fatty, it’ll be your best friend and take you on the magical journey of the most awesome humorist to ever ride the internets.

Dr. Keith Ablow is Really Angry By How Turned On He Is By Little Girls

While browsing the e-www’s this afternoon in search of the ridiculous and wrong to scream at, I stopped, as I often do by FOXnews.com. I stumbled upon an article written by a “Dr.” Keith Ablow with the headline “Dr. Keith: Is Vogue Magazine Creating Pedophiles?”

Am I missing the sexy part?

I could do a thousand words on the headline alone; the sensationalizing of fear and absurd reactionism being used to draw people in to his asinine argument by shouting “Pedophile” in a crowded internet. But that would be too easy. To really get into the pure unbridled directionless anger of this Keith Ablow, I have to really examine the heat of his meat… Which upon review, is probably not the best way to preface the thing, but there you go, because my delete key doesn’t work.

The entire article is written with the same self righteous chest beating and finger pointing that most crazy reactionaries fling around in a way that if you even dare to question a word of it, you might as well be doing so from atop your naked child throne. But it’s dipped in the kind of anger that makes it sound like Mr. Dr. feels like Vogue is trying to tempt him into breaking a promise that he swore he would never break again. I’m almost certain that Vogue isn’t specifically testing Ablow’s personal resolve, but by the way he viciously digs into everyone even remotely involved in this photo spread’s existence it sounds like it was written during the angriest fit of masturbation in the history of the penis.

The French edition of Vogue is rightly under fire for publishing a series of photos of Thylane Lena-Rose Loubry-Blondeau, a 10-year-old who appears in heavy makeup and a plunging neckline exposing her nonexistent cleavage and stiletto heels.

Immediately Dr. Keith begins his article by forfeiting any objectivity, journalistic integrity or grammatical competency with his opening salvo. The battle is effectively over before it has begun. By saying that Vogue is “rightly under fire” Dr. Keith makes his feelings perfectly clear while telling us about a “plunging neckline exposing her nonexistent cleavage and stiletto heels”  it’s also safe to assume that his doctorate is not in medicine, or he’s been jerking it so hard and for so long that his eyes are crossed. 

Blondeau’s beauty has been compared to that of film icon Brigitte Bardot. She is, however, most likely years away from puberty and more years away from being able to have a consensual sexual relationship with an adult.

I could make a couple arguments, which admittedly sort of contradict one another’s point. For one, it’s been shown that with the hormones in much of our food children have been encountering puberty at younger and younger ages in recent years. The other that in France the age of consent is 15 and in much of Europe generally hovers around 14, while in Spain, it is only 13… Neither of which actually matter much to either of our arguments, just saying. Also one could argue the difference between ”being able” to have a consensual sexual relationship and being legal allowed to, but then I’d kinda sound icky…

The images of Blondeau prove beyond any doubt that children are now being portrayed as erotic by mainstream media and industry. I’ve been warning about this trend for a long time, noting, for instance, that clothing companies like Abercrombie and Fitch were selling padded bikini bras for 8-year-olds (without any boycott of their stores), that Spanish toymaker Berjuan is selling a doll to little girls that encourages them to breastfeed (while wearing a vest that has flowers instead of erect nipples) and that fashion house Juicy Couture has no problem finding parents who’ll buy their little girls tight velour sweat suits with the word Juicy emblazoned across their bottoms.

It’s worse than I thought! Apparently the brave Dr. Keith has been trying to warn us for years that the mainstream media wants to fuck your children! I had no idea! The worst part about it though, is how they haven’t been doing that! Those tricky bastards! The Abercrombie toddler bra stuffing I can’t speak to, didn’t really see it. The Juicy pants are certainly ridiculous and while they simply make me groan at their stupidity, they seem to be iliciting an entirely different gutteral utterence from Mr. Dr.. But calling the breastfeeding doll an example of children being portrayed as erotic is a fairly clear example of one of Keith’s own personal fetishes. It almost sounds like he’s more disappointed that the vest DOESN’T depict hard little girl nipples, instead taking a little bit of the sexy out of it for him by replacing them with flowers. Feeding a baby naturally as mammals have since they were invented is of course lewd and pornographic, and teaching children that it’s okay is just turning them into deviants and objects for vague medical professionals to lust after.

In one Vogue photo Blondeau is pictured lying on her stomach atop a tiger pelt. She is wearing diamond earrings, lipstick, eye makeup and a red dress. In another, she looks about 20, with her mouth open and her finger gliding along her scarlet lips. The clear message is that it is A-OK to feel sexually stimulated by her (since that is the obvious intention of the photos), that little girls are inherently sexually desirable and that they desire men, in turn. Why else, the unconscious part of a man asks himself, would she dress that way?

Here we see plainly the conflict that this photo spread conjures in the loins of Dr. Keith. The entire thought was clearly transcribed from the “Doctor” justifying his own actions on himself, to himself, as he briefly lost track of the fact that he was composing an article.

The answer is, of course, because her reprehensible parents (no better than pimps) got paid to dress her that way by Vogue, and Vogue gets paid to dress her that way by selling magazines. But that doesn’t do away with the impact of the images themselves. Men don’t dismiss what they are made to feel sexually about little girls simply because they are looking at a staged photo shoot, any more than they dismiss their sexual feelings about female movie stars simply because they know the glib and erotic things they are saying and doing are scripted.

 

Oh yeah, and any girl who's ever played dress up is a dirty whore.

Now the full extent of the blame is being distributed. It’s the pimp like parents fault that Dr. Ablow has a funny feeling in his Doctor parts. It’s Vogue magazine’s fault for knowing just how to get Dr. Ablow’s juices running down his leg! And by simply changing a few pronouns “I don’t dismiss what I am made to feel sexually about little girls simply because I am looking at a staged photo shoot, any more than I dismiss my sexual feelings about female movie stars simply because I know the glib and erotic things they are saying and doing are scripted” sharpens the focus of the accusations the “good” “Doctor” is making a little more. For one, the photos aren’t that god damned sexy, I would go so far as to say they aren’t sexy at all, but that’s mostly because I don’t think that the ten year old girl on the other side of the page wants me inside of her any more than I want to be. The effect that you perceive the photos eliciting are equal to the effect you wish them to elicit. The question on Dr. Keith’s mind doesn’t really seem to be ”Is Vogue Magazine Creating Pedophiles?” so much as “How does Vogue Magazine Know I’m a Pedophile?”

It may be that something about social media and the Internet and technology is contributing to this trend. The fact that little girls have assimilated glib, flirtatious turns of phrase harvested from the Web (without even intending to be glib or flirtatious) and that they own the props of adulthood—like cell phones—prompts damaged men to think of them as little adults.

And as if it weren’t bad enough that parents and magazines want you to finger bang a fifth grader, so do the facebooks and the Googlepluses! AND CELL PHONES! Dr. Keith Ablow thinks that cell phones make little girls doable. Let’s stop for just a half a god damned second to examine that little throw away nugget, shall we? In the pictures that I saw in reference to this photo spread, there was nary a one cell phone. So this isn’t even something he’s taking from the subject matter, this is just a kink that he’s admitting to on his own. That cell phones, one of the “props of adulthood” make children look bangtastic. Cell phones. Fucking CELL PHONES!

Not only do I believe Vogue is stimulating pedophiles to act on their desires, but I believe Vogue and Abercrombie and Juicy are creating pedophiles by coaxing dark, illegal desires out of men who would never have otherwise consciously felt them, let alone acted upon them.

Any time a child is abducted or assaulted by anyone ever from here until the end of time, it’s on Vogue and Abercrombie and Juicy’s hands. They are pushing men who would otherwise have ABSOLUTELY NO SEXUAL INTEREST IN CHILDREN, into wanting to violate them with their man penises, because of non-racy pictures, swim suits and sweat pants… That’s what this man, who presumably went to school to be able to type “Dr.” in front of his name, essentially just said. You have probably never thought your entire life about touching a child, but a pair of stupid pants has the power to make you want nothing more than that thing now. That is what this imbecile is saying…

Any adult woman who buys a Vogue magazine, or sets foot in an Abercrombie and Fitch store or buys a stitch of Juicy clothing (just to name a small number of examples) is on the side of those who would deprive our children of childhood and turn them into the targets of predators.

And in the end, this rant against a magazine, becomes an attack on women specifically. Any woman who buys this magazine, or those pants, or that bikini supports pedophilia. Supports, promotes, defends, and produces pedophiles. Apparently there are innumerous “examples” of how pedophiles can be created, but “Dr.” Keith would like to simply point out the specific examples how it’s women’s fault that little girls are raped. If it weren’t for moms “pimping” out their little girls, these poor, defenseless men wouldn’t be tempted into forcibly penetrating them. WHAT ELSE COULD THEY DO!? It’s not their fault, they didn’t even want to before things like tight sweat pants existed.

Dr. Keith Ablow, I know this isn’t the first time you’ve been told this, and it won’t be the last time you ignore it:

You’re a fucking idiot. If I believed you were capable of it, I would say that you should be ashamed. Now go ahead, if you ever see this, go ahead and ignore everything I’ve said here and just dismiss me as defending pedophiles too, rather than pointing out the ridiculous, knee jerk, reactionary rantings of a lunatic feeding red meat to the frightened idiots who listen to you, instead of trying to contribute to a rational, thoughtful discussion about something.

Happy weekend everybody!

It’s Raining Baseball Fans

Soon helmet giveaways at the ballpark won’t just be novelty promotions, but mandatory equipment given out before every game to protect lunatics from accidentally murdering themselves diving from rafters for collectible garbage.

I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but there’s a hot new trend at the nation’s basedballing sport complexes: face diving onto cement from heights unsurvivable!

Last week at a Texas Rangers game, nearly seventy-five percent of the fans in attendance fell to its death from the upper deck. I’m sorry, I read that wrong, one man at a Texas Rangers game last week fell from the upper deck to his death. I apologize, that’s closer to 50%. Then, yesterday, during the Homed Running Derby of Hitting Competitions in someplace called “Phoenix” another idiot tried to hurl himself at a $5 souvenir laughably out of his reach and was only saved by the mistaken instinctive actions of those around him trying to protect him from his own unbridled stupidity as if his life were worth preserving.

This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?

Sports memorabilia is a very big, very dumb obsession, I know; I still have the bandana full of bottle openers that Charlie Hough hit me with at a Scottsdale Rite Aid back in ’98, and I cherish it as if it shattered my very own ocular bone: which it did. But these aren’t a home run ball that Mark McGwire kept his used steroid needles in after he’d already filled up the cat litter bucket he used to dispose of them in but before he had a new empty to fill, or the ball that Babe Ruth choked to death on when he mistook it for a heroin caked cheeseburger. The guy at the Rangers game was diving for a foul ball that Rangers outfieldman Josh Hamilton was throwing into the crowd and the idiot that tried to kill himself yesterday was at least ten rows away from a meaningless homerun derby dinger. Both of which, on the open market would fetch just about as much as any slightly used baseball listed on craigslist right now: “free, you pick up”.

Naturally, people hurtling themselves over railings, thirty or more feet above anything at all, is causing Major League baseball to look into the safety and security of their ball parks. Rather than simply, say, holding up these cases of the dip shitity of launching yourself from your insanely priced seats and understanding that the ball that the player that time will never remember just leisurely lobbed in your direction is the exact same one as those in the souvenir stand and probably isn’t worth a shattered face and traumatic, nationally televised orphanism.

And think of the players; won’t you? A quote from an actual article reporting the Rangers fan’s death:

There is also concern for Josh Hamilton, the player who tossed the ball. He’s battled his way back from addiction, and now has to deal with potential feelings of guilt over what happened.

Now please, don’t get me wrong, I understand that a professional atheletist must naturally feel some level of personal guilt that comes from shorting a throw, but I think the main thrust of the story is that a man just threw himself to his death in front of his six year old son in pursuit of a sports sphere of zero importance. Yes, it’s sad that the man DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE for this otherwise perfectly dexterous and well reasoned bat bases swing ball enthusiast’s untimely spine compression might want to have a drink after witnessing, someone so willing to put their life at risk, trusting completely in his ability to competently do what he is paid millions of dollars to do just a single time in a way that the recipient would not have to put himself in mortal danger, be so terribly wrong; but the story is about this suddenly shorter ex-father and his inability to see the ball into his glove like a four year old t-ball player. Focus up news story. If anything, this experience should certainly make Mr. Hamilton an infinitely better fielder as from now until he exhales his final dying breath he will envision every recipient of his throw as potentially falling to their untimely, comical death directly in front of their barely comprehending toddler as a direct result of his precision or lack thereof. That’s gonna make him throw all the way through from here on out I think.

Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.

I don’t blame Josh Hamilton for one Texas man’s lack of a self preservation instinct, that’s dumb. I also don’t blame baseball stadiums. I, as usual, blame idiots. They come in all shapes and sizes and they’ll accidentally assassinate themselves no matter how impossible the world tries to make it. Admittedly, a thigh high railing over a 30 foot fall is not the BEST tool to fight tools, but what WILL keep the stupid from jumping after the pretty approaching orb? As we have continued to moron proof the world, I don’t doubt at all that in the near future all baseball stadiums will be built with chain link enclosed bleachers, locking the crowd in like the animals they are for their own good. And of course, it still won’t be enough, because as any Giants fan at Dodger Stadium will tell you once they’ve regained the ability to speak, not all of the danger is on the field.

So over react as quickly as you can baseball. Encase the stands in memory foam and packing peanuts double time, because before you can say “problem solved” some forehead is going to choke to death on a hunk of NASA technology that his buddies bet him a beer he couldn’t snort.