Breaking News: The Break Up Of Roy And Silo

Move over Angelina, there's a new homewrecker in town.

After just six years of what many would describe as a passionate and public love affair, a bond which both science and nature could not divide, Central Park's most infamous duo, Roy and Silo, the gay penguins, call it quits...

And let me just tell you, Silo wasted no time moving on.

Perhaps the saddest part of the story isn't the split itself, which has left Roy reportedly "alone in a corner, staring at a wall." You see, instead of chasing after a younger, buffer, blonder boytoy, Silo's eyes quickly found themselves transfixed upon the abstract allure of Scrappy, a new female penguin just in from the coast of California.

Slut.

Already sides are forming, as the public begins to weigh in on the recent relationship demise. My sympathies fall to Roy of course -- who much like Jen would have been -- is now left mateless and dateless to care for and raise Tango, the female child hatched and adopted early on by the couple during happier, gayer times.

I guess Captain and Tenille missed the mark entirely on this one. Maybe love just isn't enough to keep us together after all.

Well, like I told Brad when he asked for my advice on a similar subject early last year, sometimes you have to lose love on purpose to know how great it feels to find love unexpectedly.

So I say to Silo, just remember: when a sweet talkin' girl comes a splashing along, chirping that song, No no, don't mess around, you've got to be strong. Just stop, 'cause Roy really loves you. Silo stop! He'll be thinking about you. Look in your heart and let love, just let love keep you together...

Whatever.

Salvation In The City

As I stumble humbly home, alone, back from the beaten bar whose welcome I severely overstayed, in this, the city that never sleeps in the same bed twice, I recount the myriad of rational reasons I shouldn't place this call.

Number 1: He may just answer.
Number 2: He may just say no.
Number 2.5: He may just say yes.

Yes, come over. Yes, lose your shirt. Yes, I think we're ready. Yes, I feel the same way. Yes, I'll love you for the rest of my life.

No. No no, that's not what he'll say. How could he? We are but barely strangers, a tour guide and a tourist, whose site-seeing journey ended, instead, at the foot of his bed, yet in my head, so much history it's unreal, but in real time, an hour, maybe two.

Despite these shivers, these quivers of qualms I have with actually following through, my drunken digits dialed to reach out, if only just to touch you.

You've reached the voicemail box of The Guy You Want To Kiss.

Leave a message.

As I recognized I was, if only for the night, spared, I stared at my flip flopped feet, filthy now, blackened by the borough of this town, the unpaved streets, the dust and debris kicked up from some unfinished government project.

But what will the morning bring?

Another search? Another stumble? Another chance for some other form of soul salvation?

My soul's salvation.

In the city.

i kNoW wHAt yOu DiD laSt sEAsOn...

...Nothing -- which is exactly how the universe intended it.

The undeniably beautiful and seemingly always perky Jennifer Love Hewitt is absolutely determined to make a return to television, though apparently, one flop at a time.

Her latest attempt, sadly sans the breasts, can be seen in the soon to be cancelled CBS drama, Ghost Whisperer, where she stars as a young woman cursed with the ability to communicate with dead people in order to help them cross over to the other side.

Think a way hotter John Edward. Like, WAY hotter.

Now, those who know me well can vouch for it when I proclaim I love Love, always have and always will...I'm perhaps the only guy in America who actually appreciates and defends her acting ability. I hereby submit into evidence my copy of Confessions Of A Sociopathic Social Climber. Um, hellllo? "I barely have enough time to keep a journal let alone breast feed an orphan!"

But after an entire hour of watching her unsuccessfully struggle with the poorly written dialogue, and a flawed and fated for failure concept we've seen many times over, it doesn't take a guy with six senses to figure out this show won't materialize into anything of value, other than a development mistake that'll haunt the network's Friday night time-slot for the rest of the season.

Sucks for me, too. I finally just apologized to everyone I made sit through Time Of Your Life.

Boyfriend Or Blemish? That Is The Question...

I stare at him, his swollen, enlarged head thrust out before me, practically oozing, begging for release. Wet lips pursed ever so slightly, my hands fumble for just the right position. Neck craned, cheeks puffed out. My breathing slows, I swallow hard and pray, pray there won't be too much of a mess to clean up.

I haven't done this in a while...But this zit must be destroyed.

"Everyone does it," she says, eying her own imperfections in my mirror, despite my devout declaration there are none to be found. "It's just a matter of when you let him see you doing it."

Like porn, I offer up for example.

She turns on flamboyant heel, a frustrated professor schooled in but one subject: Men. "No, showing him your dirty porn collection can only bring you closer together," she instructs. "But pimples...there's no way to make a creamy pustule sexy."

And that got me thinking. Surely there comes a time in every relationship when the delicate matter of "personal bodily functions" rises to the surface. Discussing, or rather, experiencing these moments together -- the first belch, the first fart, the first time you catch him wearing girl's panties -- somehow, couples manage to survive. Made stronger even, I hear, when both of you can be in the bathroom at the same time and only one is going number two.

But when is it a good time to discuss bad skin?

Do you cancel a first date because your forehead looks like the coat rack at Nobu, or should you confront the issue blackhead-on and inform him you'll be coming to bed donning a crusty peroxide face mask from now until you're both 40?

The issue at hand is not nearly as superficial as just wanting clear skin, for you or your mate. Our problem lies far more deep-rooted than that. Obviously, it would be ideal to live in Nicole Kidman's porcelain exterior morning, noon and night.

But for those of us not biblically blessed with such seemingly natural beauty, there exists a system of regimented behavior patterns, habitual rituals of cleansing, detoxing and purifying the face, the exposure of which could send our newly established relationships from "too hot" to "so not" in a matter of seconds.

The question then, is it possible to have a blemish AND a boyfriend?

You see, recently I was making out with this guy whose flawless skin made my heart ache, literally. And when our sweaty saliva swapping session ceased, I told him I had to kick him out, not because it was our first date, not because I didn't like him, and certainly not because I wanted to avoid waking up the next morning wrapped in my sheets, in his arms. Far from it.

He had to exit because I had to exfoliate.

I chose not to explain that evening, though it quickly became apparent something was amiss. I was hiding a secret, and he was determined to uncover it.

"Do you snore, like, horrible train-wrecked kind of snoring?"

I looked at him, unsure how to respond. The truth is yes, I do snore, but that's not why these had remained sleepovers for one.

"Leg Thrasher?"

"Sleepwalker?"

"Have you killed your boyfriends while they slept at your side?"

He ran through the possible excuses, each one sounding more reasonable than the next. All, surprisingly, less embarrassing than the truth.

"Do you fart in your sleep? Is that why I can't stay over?"

It was the fifth date, the fifth night we spent together. And as I watched him roll over and reach for his shoes, as if his line of questioning was merely a rehearsed routine to carry us to the good byes, I realized he had given up on expecting an answer.

And that's when it hit me. This guy would risk getting kicked in the groin, stabbed through the neck and suffocate on my flatulence, all just to lie next to me until morning. I pulled him back onto the bed, and told him to wait there while I disappeared from the room.

Standing in front of the vanity mirror I took a moment to eye my products. Face wash, too normal. Tea Tree Oil, invisible to sight, yes, but overbearing to smell. Oxy, Clearasil, Noxzema. Globs of white goo plastered across my face, mountains forming in sporadic areas, a crazed connect-the-dots puzzle only a dermatologist would appreciate.

Then examining my masterpiece, I wondered if this suicide mission was worth it. I mean, would it really be so bad to just have him think I fart wildly in my sleep?

I must have stood there contemplating this for a while, long enough for the peroxide to begin to dry, when I heard a knock on the bathroom door.

"I'm taking off. I'll call you tomorrow."

It was now or never, to be or not to be alone for the rest of my life. And so I stretched for a moment, took one final look at my creation and kicked open the door, stepping out into the light, my cracked white face exposed for his final judgment.

"I'm here. I'm queer. And I have pimples!"

The next morning I rolled over to find, buried in my pillows, his perfect face, now bleached haphazardly with smeared remnants from my melange of zit creams.

After that night, I shuffled my facial routine from time to time, risking a break-out to avoid the break-up I had always feared.

Sadly, things did cool for us a few weeks later, though I'm utterly thankful to say it was not as a direct result of my own exposure. Actually, it was something that he did which pushed me to want out of the relationship:

He swallowed his floss.

Sick, right?

Stars Get Naked To Help Hurricane Relief

And the biggest star of them all is of no exception.

Star Jones, E! TV's Red Carpet hostess with the most-ass, donated the $3000 Marc Bauer gown she adorned at this years Emmy Awards to the Clothes Off Our Back Foundation, a charity which auctions off outfits worn by celebrities at award shows and movie premieres, delivering the proceeds to those in need.

This year the organization has chosen to lend their financial assistance to the relief efforts for victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Rather than bidding for the dress, however, the Red Cross announced they will use it as a tarp to cover the areas still flooded by the storm, and to provide shelter for the thousands left homeless in the hurricane's devastating wake.

In a related story, Star Jones ate this dog.

Great Exhortations

I sit here now, a patient, impatiently waiting for the impending news, the who's, the what's, the when's and the why's, and my eyes, my eyes, they wander warily down to my feet, to their defeat, as each toe attempts a wiggle on it's own, alone, my ten little piggys trapped under the tether of a leather, weathered and worn, like my soul.

You see I've been in this seat before, starring down at this floor, at these shoes, canvassing for clues that could creep me closer to completing the repeating mystery, my history, that historical, rhetorical, metaphorical obsession with love.

And that's about the time I hear my name. So I gather up my belongings, replace the curled, unread magazine to the top of the heap and follow down the longest of hallways, this weaving woman in white, a revision of the vision of some guardian angel I've seen many times before.

In my dreams, perhaps. No, on the side of a bus, in an advertisement hocking low cal cream cheese to the masses with fat asses. That's right, I know your precious secret. Your hypocritical oath, indeed. I too can't believe it's not -- but before I can utter, mutter or stutter she butters me up a sweet, smooth smile, and I step into her chamber, despite the clearly present danger, and assume my role as her daughter for the slaughter.

The doctor will be in shortly, she seethes. Take a seat.

Great, more waiting.

I eye my options, a plastic step-stool shoved into the corner, paying penance for being so damn uncomfortable no doubt, or the parchment bathed butchers block bellowing out before me. Clearly this is the end I was intended to meet. And so, like a flesh covered flank of fillet mignon I flay myself out to the sound of what used to be a flawlessly smooth surface, now wrinkled, crinkled and ruined under my shifting weight.

And here I wait. Wait to be seen, wait to be heard. Wait for a fate whose arrival will burn every last hope with every new desire for a freshly filled future barring, of course, brimstone and fire. Liar. She said he'd be here shortly.

Short. That's me. As I eye the scale, then my pale, frail reflection in the mirror. Who is this guy? And when did he stop being the man I wish to pretend to want to try to be? Me? Yeah, I'm still here. Still queer. But you don't have to get used to it. Shit, I never did.

Knock knock, like he needs to ask.

I find his hardened face particularly telling. Compelling, this sudden swelling in my chest, at best, the sweat beaded forehead, the desert in my throat. Was this really all she ever wrote? Was this my last call, my life's line of credit, indebted, overdrawn with a ravenous red reaper out for collection?

Did you use protection?

Like he needs to ask.

Like I can remember.

What's up, Doc? Is that ba-dee-ba-dee-ba-dee all folks? Or do I get a second shot, a lyrical last dance, another chance to romance and recall the memories, fuckin' vodka reeking memories, in the corners of my eyes, these lies, these lives, their wives.

Oh yes, the way we were.

Allergies, he says. Tis' the season.

Nothing more could be less. And nothing less is ever more depleting. Then excreting my appreciations for both his time and expertise, I tease, can I still turn my head and cough?

Ease off, it's just an expression. Some half-assed imitation, a celebration of temptation, yet his half-hard hesitation gives pause to trepidation and in that moment of speculation, when anticipation weds reservation, I smile in desperation and let it slip, this, my greatest exhortation.

I'll see you in six months then...

...when we'll dance another day, and die just a little bit in between.

Potty Time, Excellent!

Some things never change. Even when you're the most powerful man in the world, surrounded by a room full of equally important world leaders, prime-ministers, princes and presidents alike, you still have to ask for a Hallway Pass to use the shitter.

Cut to the UN World Summit, where the heated topic of discussion was terrorism and international security. And as issues of a waning war and progress for peace began to churn, President Bush found the need to drop a bomb of a different nature.

Caught by an AP photographer with an amazing zoom lens, Bush scribbled a note to Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, sheepishly announcing, "I think I may need a bathroom break? Is this possible?"


Perhaps the most telling aspect in this developing story is his wavering position to potty. He isn't even sure he HAS to go. He just thinks it. Then again, this is the same man who sat dumbfounded for seven minutes in a classroom reading "My Pet Goat" when the nation was "under attack."

Rumors of brewing trouble within his Cabinet quickly began circulating when Condi returned Bush's note with one of her own:

"I told you to go before we left the House!"

Let's just hope Bush wipes his Tush better than he balances a budget.

Hit That Baby One More Time...

SO THIS JUST IN: Britney Spears was out till 5AM, took a bunch of drugs, passed out cold on a metal table and threw her legs up wide in the air surrounded by a bunch of strange men.


Coincidentally she also had a C-section later that night. And by the looks of it, not a minute too soon.

Those who still cared the Pop Princess was alive breathed a sigh of relief when Baby Brit, whose name is rumored to be Preston Michael Sean Christian Spears Federline (I'm not making this up people!) made his healthy entrance into the world, weighing in at only 6 pounds, 11 ounces.

Doctors at the UCLA hospital are still baffled by what accounted for the other 340 pounds, though they are investigating a strange discovery left behind in the parking lot where Britney's water supposedly broke.



In a related story, the Religious Right, hearing the news of Britney's breeding, took the baby's birth as an opportunity to teach wayward children of the dangers in having unprotected sex, and to resist the lure of Satan's slimy serpent.




They also reminded young girls that they can, in fact, get pregnant from kissing.




This will be the first baby for Britney (shocking, I know), and the third for Father Federline...that we know of.

Puttin My Mouth Where The Weiner Is

Well the polls are closed, and the votes are in and unfortunately my first choice in the Democratic Mayoral Primary, Anthony Weiner, came in a conceding second. Perhaps I'm just a day too late and a few hollers short to make good use of a semi-public endorsement for any one candidate, so instead I'll make a semi-political plea:

Though he has chosen graciously to step aside and let Who-The-Fuck-Is-Freddie-Ferrer take the lead nomination for the party, and thus the fall in what will most likely be a slaughter-house victory for the Bloomberg camp in November, I can only hope that this bruised and beaten Weiner doesn't shrink into limp obscurity, broken and abandoned, never to be heard from again.

Can you say John Kerry?

Unlike the other three mayoral contesters, the Congressman still has a job to return to now that his part in the race is complete. And with 30% of the New York pool of Democrats standing behind him, I hope he continues to serve out his term fighting for those of us who tossed him our support over the past few weeks. His journey, from placing dead-last in the polls to almost-tied for the win, is an inspiration and true pledge of political purpose.

We may not have our Oscar Mayor Weiner, but we've had our fun with puns. And when all is said and done, isn't that the best use of a Weiner in the end?

Freaky Frodo Fancies Figure's Fanny

Fabulous.

The definitive moment in my romantic life has at long last arrived: proof that Elijah Wood likes the ladies. Well, at least cardboard cutouts of them...


I've heard of pubic lice, but pubic...hobbits? Just goes to show you these days you never know where a painted woman's been.

FEMA Director Resigns, Bakes Cookies

Okay so he may or may not have baked cookies, but Mike Brown of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the government arm responsible for the rescue and relief efforts in New Orleans and parts of Mississippi, did step down from his position as Director today, citing the importance in avoiding "further distraction from the ongoing mission of FEMA."

That is, the mission to ignore poor, black Americans pleading for food and assistance in ever worsening conditions.

Falling under fire over his qualifications and history in dealing with emergency management, and specifically his muddled response to the immediate needs down south after the destruction and social devastation left behind in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Brown is but another victim of what I now call "The Fall Out Factor."

There's something familiar about someone being praised and paraded around town by the President, who for the record proclaimed days earlier, "Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job," now finding himself without said job, without any political purpose, and frankly, without a friend in Washington to lean on.

Well, maybe just a few, say, former Secretary of State Colin Powell, former Attorney General John Ashcroft and former Commerce Secretary Donald Evans. Not to mention former Agriculture Secretary Ann Veneman, Education Secretary Rod Paige, Energy Secretary Spencer Abraham, and most recently NASA Deputy Administrator Frederick Gregory.

It seems many majestic men and women initially appointed and publicly applauded by President Bush have fallen to the same fevered fate, choosing to leave his Cabinet mid-sentence rather than serving out their terms under his, what is it called now, rein?

Apparently the only person near the White House unable to admit fault and step aside to let someone more competent take control is the head honcho himself.

No surprises there.

What with a botched war in Iraq, a social security system in scraps, a country divided now more than ever and shared criticism for his part, or lack thereof, in the disaster relief down south, it's no wonder a recent CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll shows a 54% disapproval rating for the games this grown man chooses to play.

Some of that criticism speaks to the speed at which the government responded to those left behind after the storm, predominately of poor, African American communities. When asked about the racial divide and it's role in the issue, Bush pointed out, "The storm didn't discriminate, and neither will the recovery effort."

I, for one, believe him. I mean, clearly it was easier to save the white people; they don't blend in with the muddy water. At least that's what I expect the next press release to reveal.

But if idle racism wasn't to blame for the horrifically bungled operation, what was? Incompetence? Now there's a novel admission.

In any case, my advice to the next chump who finds himself wading knee deep in Brown's big old shoes: watch your back, and the floor, for when it falls out beneath you, and it will - it always does - there's very little left in which to seek comfort.

Well, there's always the freshly baked cookies...

Big A Votes Nay To Be Gay In LA

Yay. Just when you thought it was safe to walk down the aisle, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger terminated all hopes for gay couples in the state of CA when he vowed to veto a bill that would legalize same-sex marriages in the state.

The legislation, passed overwhelmingly by the state Senate, would have been the first to allow for equal representation and finite recognition of gay marriages, beyond just civil unions or domestic partnerships. Citing a conflict with the voter-approved Proposition 22, which forbade the state of CA from reinterpreting the definition of marriage to include those of the same sex, good old Arnie claimed, "We cannot have a system where the people vote and then the Legislature derails that vote." Well, he didn't actually say that; his press secretary did. Turns out the Governor had a hard time pronouncing the word "Legislature."

You would think in a state where retired porn stars ran for the gubernatorial position, the radical idea of legal reform wouldn't have threatened the CA governor as it did. Then again, with the onset of the infectious right-wing setting in across the country, it shouldn't have surprised anyone that a call for equality would be met with political and social dissent.

It should be noted when Proposition 22 went out to registered voters for approval, it was accompanied by Propositions 21 and 23, which, respectively, legalized the union between liposuction and botox, and banned carbs from everything including oxygen.

Alas, our nation's Girliest Man decided to follow through with the systematic neglect for equal rights for all it's citizens, "out of respect for the will of the people." Ironically it is Proposition 24 which calls for a ban on any state representative who sounds like a drunken Neanderthal when speaking publicly.

What remains to be seen now is how this recent decision will affect future relationships between the Governor and the LGBT communities. Critics were quick to call attention to his hypocrisy, urging what many have called a gay-friendly state administration to reconsider their current stance on the issue.

"I'll Be Back-lashed!" (It works when you say it like a German idiot).

You see, when Schwarzenegger starts whining about how unfair the laws are keeping former foreigners like himself out of the White House, I hope he remembers the "will of the people," that is, those who made laws years ago without any regard for equality, change or progression in society. Maybe then he'll understand what real civil leadership is about -- taking action, making a difference and standing behind your convictions, in or in the face of slipping approval ratings.

Wait, that's not how our government works. Silly me, I forget sometimes this isn't Canada.

Anyone wishing to email thoughts, concerns or hopes for a better tomorrow to Arnie and Company can do so by using the following: governor@governor.ca.gov. Don't expect a response, though; he's very busy licking George Bush's ass-crack.

Yeah, I went there.

Alicia Slip-erstone: A Special Report

So I know there are far more important things to focus on in the world right now: The thousands of displaced starving southerners, war-torn Iraq, the Democratic Mayoral Primary, hell, even the fact we didn't get to watch more of Andy Roddick's sweat-stained shirt rise high above the rim of his mesh-clinging waistline at the U.S. Open...Yes, there's sobering news all around us these days. But desperate times demand desperate pleasures. And heeding the call was the one and only Alicia Silverstone, who cluelessly performed a mitzvah of mayhem when she slipped and fell on the red carpet at the GQ Man Of The Year Awards party in London.

Let's just call it a wardrobe malfunction and pay no attention to the trail of empty wine bottles left behind in her wake.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't usually enjoy pointing and laughing at someone else's tragically public misfortune, especially when that someone is as sweet and blonde as the former Batgirl. But I just can't shake the notion that there's something almost cathartic in reveling in the thought that even a babe-a-licious bombshell can blunder so bombastically. Yeah yeah, I know we all put our pants on one leg at time, even the wealthy and well-known. But it isn't every day we fall flat on our faces with a sea of photogs poised to preserve the memory for all the world to Cher-ish.

And for that, a generous thank-you to the PETA Princess.

Alicia, your random rises and feverish falls at our feet have served as more than just fodder for freelance bloggers from here to Istanbul; they've become a much needed pressure-valve in what can only be described as intense and uncertain times. And at the very least, you now stand as a role model for each of us, especially those down south who have recently taken a tumble of a far more severe nature.

You see, if Alicia can pull herself up by her lacey ankle bootstraps and face the world again with a crooked, squinty-eyed smile, then hell, isn't there hope for the rest of us?

I know you're thinking it, and I wouldn't feel right not saying it, but can I? Should I? Okay, here it goes. Wait for it: As if.

By the way, if a picture is worth a thousand words, here's 4000 more. For more details on (and the original pictures of) the Alicia Sliperstone Experience: 2005, click here.

Consider these the Before, During and After shots:



"Do you prefer 'fashion victim' or 'ensembly challenged'?"

I happen to think she looks hot. But I totally crush her anyway so maybe I'm not the best judge here.



"Oh My God, I love Josh!"

You can actually see the very moment her ankle gives out and folds under the pressure of her drunken weight.



"I felt impotent and out of control."

You said it.



"Anything you can do to draw attention to your mouth is good."

Ummm yeah, Cher, I don't think that's the kind of attention you want right now.

By the way, why is no one helping her up?

What-Ev!

Because Of The Wonderful Things He Does

So it's election time again. No no, not THAT election. We have, let's see, $18 Billion more dollars to waste on war, 1500 more service men and women to send to the slaughter, carry the decaying deficit, destroy the social security system, add two more homophobic right wing judges to the court, nuke a rain forest, prolong the cure for cancer...yeah, that's about two and half more years with that son of a Bush.

I'm referring, of course, to a more local hellstorm. It's time to elect, or perhaps reelect NYC's next mayor. Now I don't like to choose favorites, and I certainly won't tell you who to vote for, unless we're talking the final five on the next American Idol competition. I just figure any little bit of information I can gather, I'll put out there.

So this morning, as I climbed the stairs of my Manhattan bound subway stop, I was greeted by the very tired-looking, baby-faced blue-eyed beauty, Gifford Miller. If you haven't had a chance to stand in front of him personally, let me tell you, those eyes are so bright they could burn holes through titanium cinder blocks. Small hands, though. Not that it means anything; I'm just saying.

Anyway, I walked up to the man, who shook my extended hand gently, and asked him point blank, "Where do you stand on gay marriage?" Without hesitation he placed his hand on my arm, all fraternity-like and said, "I'm for it, and have been since 1995." Apparently when he was only 12 he was fighting for the gay vote. (He isn't really 22 but with the right amount of botox and a few nights sleep he could pass for a ragged 28).

I don't know if the slogan is pre-packaged but it's kinda catchy. "Have Been Since 1995." As if he was anything else before then. As if any of us were. I can see his pride flag now: "Gifford Miller: Friend Of Friends Of Dorothy, est. 1995."

Regardless, I thanked him for his time and wished him the best of luck -- to which he smiled goofy and declared with a gesture halfway between a thumbs-up and the finger, "You're my luck!"

Whatever that means.

Having met three of the four Democratic hopefuls in person, I can say he's definitely the sexiest of the bunch. But we shouldn't vote for a mayor based solely on his or her looks. I mean, we're not that superficial, are we? Clearly what's most important here is what he'll bring to this fabulous town, you know, like his ideas and his policies. His time, his money and his...oh fuck it...he's hot. And at least I can pronounce his last name without giggling like a little school girl.

I mean, we already have a Big Bad Bush in Washington. Do we really want a Weiner as Wizard of our Oz too? I know it's a goyishly gay city but come on...

Second Chances Suck

The first time you broke my heart, shame on me. I should have seen all the signs.

The second time you broke my heart, fuck you.

Says White House: Let Them Eat Spam

While the rest of the country turns to the south with sympathetic eyes, some of Washington's finest are showing their unrelenting support in our country's continuing time of crisis by joining in on a celebration of all that's still good in the world: over-priced Broadway musicals.

Yes, apparently watching the onslaught of news reports, meeting with representatives from various charity organizations and assisting with the much-needed rescue efforts in New Orleans fell fourth on the list for National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice, who took in a Wednesday night performance of the much loved Spamalot.

Not that I expect her to strap on galoshes and wade through rising fecal matter looking for those who didn't survive the storm, but on the eve of what many are now calling the worst tragedy to befall our country since 9/11, you'd think laughing her ass off with overly-fed tourists from the midwest could wait a few months. You know, at least until we're finished with all the rapes, lootings and race riots now brewing faster than the winds of Katrina down under.

I guess there are worse ways of spending $101.00. I mean, it's not like she flew around a sea of starving refugees in an empty aircraft burning more fuel than an entire city of SUVs put together, you know, in the name of a heart-felt photo-op.