Rape Whitney on Last Comic Standing

One of the nice things about losing your mind is the new reality is funnier and more interesting than the regular.

I got halfway through an article called ‘How To Make a Bow Tie For Porn’ before snapping out of it. It didn’t read “porn” but “prom” (a spinning bowtie for porn would’ve been funnier).

I missed the first episode of Last Comic Standing but caught this week’s. They’re pomping the Hinda Pie-alot but hell, at least the ad is amusing. They put 10 comics (not all at once) in the passenger seat of the Hinda and all season long, you rate them online.

This week’s comic was Whitney Cummings, a name that’s porn-ready should she fail, except I swore the TV screen’s fine print read RAPE Whitney, not ‘rate’ Whitney. Either way: Winner!

The rest of LCS was meh. There are three red ticket-winning comics worth watching:

Cabbie Guy: I’ll know his name next week, but if you saw him you know who I’m talking about. The NYC cabbie “type” with the pancake English driving cap, cigar and fluffy muttonchops. He painfully referred to himself as a loser every time the camera was on him.

Bob Biggerstaff: porn-ready name but a fat guy with glasses. Funnier than Drew Carey but we’ll see. Last year he didn’t get a ticket.

Andi Smith: made it last year to final 20 or 10. I have a crush on the gawky-tall, pale, pony-tailed, caustic redhead with a wide mouth. I don’t think she can ever win LCS because she’s a gawky-tall, pale, pony-tailed, caustic redhead with a wide mouth. But she’s on TV, getting the SMITH name out there in the world. What’s great about a woman like that is while you’re having sex with her you’re fantasizing about talking to her afterward and laughing. You can’t say that about 99.99% of women.

A lot of these damned comics are perfect for who they are and what they do; the problem isn’t them but the nature of a comedic competition for the crowd’s love. Comics are mirrors and pretty people are lust objects; people would rather look at lust objects than in mirrors.

One more thing: not to give riceburning cars any more face time here at meatlights, but a second commercial airing during LCS shows the Hinda Pie-alot encountering a prematurely-landed air balloon lying across the road with an old naked White guy in the basket.

When a second White guy pops up (what was he doing below eye level?) the First Commandment of Politically Correct Television is invoked and an old Black Token pops up at the same time as WG2 and unnecessarily explains, “We’re nudists.”

I find this Black tokenism patronizing. And it’s everywhere! I can’t even watch American History X without a Black guy getting in the way (stomp stomp).

Bukey the Cat (R.I.P.)

when you adopt an animal from the humane society they have you sign a form basically saying you take full responsibility for this life you’re bringing into your home and you better not fuck up or else. i do take better care of bukey than myself. i care more about her than my ownself. that’s why her going blind has upset me worse than either of my two divorces. it’s why i bawled like a little baby for three hours straight the other day after she slipped off the bed and hurt her back (she’s all better now). she is my true soulmate so i care more about her than anything else in this world. that leona helmsley who left 12 mil to her dog and nothing to her grandkids? that is cool. that dog of hers loved her more than anyone else on the planet and she knew that and did the right thing. they say a lot of old folks give all their money, or a part of it, to their beloved pets. i’m right on with that.

howie

p.s. bukey’s on my lap right now.

**************

Dear Robert:

Ah fuck, Death again.
Death at the end of every sentence, built into every heart.

The social scientists will never admit that losing a pet is worse than losing a human, too many people would be surprised and insulted to discover they will be missed far less than a dog or cat. Yet it’s true. If I had my way, the pets I loved dearly would be living on elsewhere and those humans that broke my heart would be put to sleep. That seems fair. Fairer than this.

When we first meet those animals that become our pets, we immediately forget their bodies, so perfectly matched to their souls, will give out long before our love for them. For this reason, no matter how old we get, the death of a pet will always be a crime.

I’ll spare you the jack-assed line of the professional eulogist (“I didn’t know ____ personally...”) I knew Bukey (though pronounced BOO-key her name sounds like “BYOO-key” in my bullet head) and how special she was. I read about her antics for over a decade. Her feline indifference to being a sort-of AHA mascot lended credibility to the writing since no matter how many people didn’t write in with comments, she was always first to ignore the words and instead eat pizza.

Bukey threw me for a loop by eating human food, and when I informed you cats have no taste receptors for sweetness you posted pictures of her destroying a full box of Krispy Kremes. Ha ha ha.

Right now you’re legally insane. Love does this and so must grief. You will find your way through the maze.

Bukey was a beautiful girl who lived a long, full, happy life. She couldn’t have had a better owner.

Neither could you.

In loving memory.

Tough Love for Mexico

The essay Tough Love for Mexico has been updated and deserves a much wider audience (which it can’t get from meatlights, ha ha ha).

The problem with most of author Don Pauly’s plans is they would require an official declaration of war to carry them out. It’s all right with me if the only way to save the USA is to make Mexico want to be a better person at gunpoint but I’m, ahem, in the minority.

Realistically, Pauly’s simple, brilliant designs are unworkable because there are no longer enough patriots in the USA to support it. It’s too late.

The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, heavily endorsed by Ted ‘Swim’ Kennedy, shifted American immigration from educated European nations to third world shitholes, and that was just LEGAL immigration, you know how the rest turned out.

Because of the failure to honor the rule of law, it’s now going to require nothing less than civil war to survive the ongoing Mexican invasion, lawlessness to defeat a greater lawlessness.

“History, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.” — El Morpheus

Fuckfield #101

Smallville In Extremis

It’s sheer kryptonite masochism to even write about Smallville anymore. The last 3 episodes have been as dismal as the previous.

Jimmy Olsen as 007/Bourne – Another “20 hours earlier” crapfest. My favorite part is when Olsen soundlessly drops from an AC duct. Must be a great feeling to start out an aw-shucks camera-wielding doofus only to discover you’re a ninja who can dance like Arthur Murray when forced into service by an agent of the “Department of Domestic Security.”

What if? – What if Clark had never made it to earth for some reason? Who knows, nobody bothered to come up with an interesting answer. Clark and his idiot super-cheekboned cousin can’t dodge a bullet across the room just because it’s made with kryptonite. This after countless previous seasons’ encounters where Clark had time to yawn and cook eggs at superspeed while various bullets crawled out of the ends of guns. If k-bullets were all it took to kill him, every villain would have such a gun.

Once again, Rosenbaum finds himself in the natty ironic all-white Apocalypse suit while the same footage of Judgment Day missiles from Terminator 3 gets re-used. Whew! That saves us writers like, a whole minute of creating anything new!

Then we’re treated to one of the most absurd scenes in the entire series’ history when Clark holds his baby self and places him in the ship that will carry him to earth! Is this still a dream? If not, where are Jor-El and Lara? Why does Clark lose his powers 2 seconds after skipping through the portal to Krypton? (Yes, I know about the red sun, but only kryptonite drains him that fast, otherwise, he loses his powers slowly).

(We interrupt this review with a mini-rant about Brainiac. This fucking plot irritant has never been given a solid background or explanation as to why it’s programmed to be evil, nor does Clark EVER try querying the Fortress crystals/Snore-El for answers about how to defeat it [or fly]).

The current episode where Lex follows yet another Macguffin – I don’t know what to say about the “Veritas” plotline other than that it’s dumb. Just…dumb.

Wait…my super-hearing is picking up a meeting of Smallville’s writing team…

Smallville Writer #1: ….so we make Lionel part of this secret society that knew about Clark “The Traveler” all along!

Smallville Writer #2: But that makes no sense! It negates whole seasons’ worth of build-up! What about the Malachi caves?

Smallville Writer #3: Kawachi caves, dummy. Malachi was the name of the brothers in Happy Days that tried to crush the Fonz in a demolition derby. Thus, the Malachi Crunch.

SW#1: How did you know that?

SW#3: I’ve got internet access on my Sprint Gigapump Phonetextthingy! Everything you need!

SW#2: Shit. I’d have known that but I left my Sprint Gigapump Phonetextthingy in my Toyota Yaris. It’s sitting between the Yaris’s standard dual airbags and mp3 jack, right next to my pack of Stride Penguinmint Gum!

SW#1: AS I WAS SAYING, Lionel was part of this Secret Society along with Christopher Reeve, I mean, Virgil Swan. We just make everyone a part of this Secret Society in order to fill in any plot holes we missed: Swan, Margot Kidder, Chloe’s Mom Lynda Carter, The Queens, Lois’s Dad The General, Lana’s Parents, The Olsens, The Olsen Twins, The Trumps, The Jeffersons, The Bunkers, The Flintstones–

SW#2: —The Kents. (The other two look at him.) No? You said everyone! What’s the name of this Secret Society, anyway?

SW#1: I don’t know, but it’s got to be something Latin. Yaritas?

SW#3: Worry about that later. This Secret Sprint society will be the reason Lionel was always busy and ignoring Lex! Even though we’re not mentioning it till now!

SW#1: Because up until now it was a secret!

SW#2: What about when Lionel was made a Kryptonian vessel by Jor-El and won that episode’s superpowers lottery? Didn’t he get all of the answers right then? How could be give a crap about the Stride Gum Society after learning everything?!

SW#1: The answer to that, my friends, is simple. We kill off Lionel.

SW#2: Can’t we just make him blind again? Or shave his head in slow motion? That was cool.

SW#3: All right, let’s get started. We need another villain this week. The rebel vampire guy from Buffy?

SW#1: What the hell! It’s lunchtime! I’m having a salad! A very-tossed salad!

SW#2: Did you just say “veritas?” Isn’t that Latin?

This week we got a dose of “The Doctor” from Voyager as the last survivor of Veritas. Once again a mere mortal gets the drop on Clark–who can move at a speed par with light–by opening a secret lead compartment on his staff, revealing that all-purpose plot device, kryptonite. Oh well, even Clark’s not fast enough to speed away from lazy writing.

There was one cool moment this episode: the workings of the creepy CGI clock. spoiled only by the rest of the episode surrounding it. One cool moment in an hour (40 minutes, if you have Tivo) ain’t enough. Lest you challenge my opinion of the lameness, when Clark speeds out of the church the candles near the doorway don’t even flutter.

Coming up next week, it appears Lex, after weeks of chasing Super Macguffins around the globe, finally discovers the Fortress and possibly Clark’s “secret” now known by at least 10 or more people. Incidentally, the Fortress of “Solitude” has seen almost as many guests as the rent-controlled apartments on Friends.

I don’t know how finding the Fortress will enable Lex to ‘control’ Clark when NO ONE, including SuperBlonde Cheekbones who lived on Krypton for many years, knows how to operate it. The thing must’ve been made in China as it’s provided ZERO help from the day it was created. You’ve got the last remnant of an advanced world and civilization yet the writers can’t make a single compelling story around it. That, friends, is a total load of Stride.

My world a toilet, you in it

Never did get back to you about frolf. Mac, a buddy from work one level above Acquaintance, his 3-year-old son, another guy and I went frolfing 2 weeks ago. Despite my rant, Mac’s boy was a cute well-behaved urchin except when he rolled off a bench and landed face-first in the dirt (he was OK).

The game of frolf requires strategy, skill, etc. I can’t imagine who came up with it or why since unlike bowling it’s a poor excuse to drink, though you’re walking often and far in hot weather.

I went frolfing again this morning after staying up very late on my “Friday” last night. I was late to pick-up Mac, who this time came alone. He’d wanted me to bring some weed….because I was late to get him, I brought a J along, but when he got in my car he already stank of the shit.

We went to a different park, much bigger with longer throwing distances (most holes were 3 or 4 par) and once again I borrowed a disc from Mac.

During the 3rd or 4th hole I sent his disc into a wide ditch filled with knee-high water. I was fully ready to buy him a new one but I’ll be damned, he waded in there, treading carefully along the clear, slimy bottom and got it. After that I didn’t do as well as last time. The water traps defeated any boldness I had, or had left.

The breeze was cool but it was still a disgusting humid Florida morning. Before and after the water trap incident, Mac kept hitting me up for the J. As it’s easy to out-argue a stoner I deflected his rap. I was disgusted that he kept asking for more after he already stank like a bong in a hippy’s den and I was already pissed about having to carry the shit in my car. The draconian punishments the State metes out to stoners it should be giving to child molesters, but that’s nothing to argue about after you’re pulled over. I didn’t want my car seized and shit job lost over a fucking joint, as well as being arrested by some dumbass cop who smoked plenty more weed in high school than the amount I did (none).

Yes, after the water trap my heart wasn’t in it anymore. After 5 holes we left the park and went to the local store that dealt solely in frolf sporting goods.

There were 30,000 or more discs in there, neatly stacked in crates separated by tabbed dividers. It looked like a record store, if records meant sleeveless albums of fat neon wax. I couldn’t believe all the shit in there. For a made-up sport, frolf has all the trappings of a real one, including a poster of its friendly jug-eared pro champion, Ken Climo (pronounced KLEE-mo).

The shop’s owner was a slightly chubby but cute chick. For the record I’d rather have fucked the proprietor of this establishment than ever play frolf again. But life has a way of rolling you forwards long after you’ve died inside, so I bought two frolf discs for $15, savoring the $1 discount. The Frolf-chick remembered Mac from his last visit though he didn’t think she would. He’d set himself apart by being stung by a bee in a park. She remembered.

I got rid of Mac fast after that. I had shit to do today and no more time to waste.

I don’t know what to do about frolf. I learned what I needed to know, mainly that I don’t have a secret talent or gift for it. Odds are before reading this you’d never heard of Climo, but as the Tiger Woods of Frolf, he probably makes 30 to 40K a year, not counting endorsement deals.

That’s what I’d like, I think, a well-paying but not too-well-paying career where I’m famous or interesting to only a few and no one else on earth gives a fuck. Kind of like blogging.

Kaylan Nicole

I see from the “meatstats” men continue searching for Kaylan Nicole. Unfortunately for them (and me) I found this on her official website:

Kaylan has actually split the business, gotten married and moved back to the Midwest. Hope she comes back soon.

I don’t give a shit if she ever comes back. Any pornette that leaves the business even for a year will return to find 3500 skanx burning holes in the carpet with their knees, eyes closed and tongues out under that damned Peter North’s turkey baster. There’s so much damned norpography now there will actually be a day–if only a day–in the near future when the whole world has had enough image-sex and turns it off. Even Homer Simpson has been known to stop eating donuts.

I’m sure KN’s husband was either in the biz along with her, wealthy and/or a swinger. I just can’t imagine any pornette giving up the cock buffet and settling for just one, their brains are wired differently from other women’s. I wonder if the husband is excited by her body…of work, or never bothers. I could never love any woman who’s lain under a Marc Wallace arc of man-yogurt or TT Boy meat-seizure.

Mentally I understand how a man could marry a porn star, despite her past or because of it. My dead heart, however, completely rejects the idea as absurd. That’s why God is God and I don’t want God’s fucking job. I have no forgiveness.

Fuck you, I work for the aliens

I figured the Beeroness, first mentioned somewhere in this post, would eventually find a stunt cock.

Unfortunately for me, it was her freshly exed-husband’s meat. I’m just bitter she ended her dry spell (what a ride it must’ve been) with the very turd that cost her almost a million dollars to divorce. “What the fuck is wrong with women?” is a question God extra-pretends not to hear.

I swore to the guy relaying this information: “I GUARANTEE you since the divo he’s fucked at least one of the bitches in her circle.”

“I don’t think so. He’s ugly, and they can all find better-looking stunt cocks elsewhere.”

With apologies to my friend, if/when the aliens invade I’ll be the first one to defect to their side, as long as they kill me last after taking over. Aliens may have the tech for me to unscrew the skulls of certain ugly but sane broads and plop their brains into the bodies of other, more desirable women, the off-the-rack nutjobs. Tampering with Ma Nature? Bullshit. Nothing is unholy that works in your favor.

The human is such a predictable, despicable piece of shit. The only thing worse than living among the beasts is knowing their depravity is bottomless. Every fucking day.

Fucking Jessica Alba

“Jessica Alba, natural lay”

Yeah, she’s hot
and let’s say you somehow got with her.
You stick it in a hole, get off, and you’re still there with her.

Stuck.

Now you have to talk.

About?

I don’t give a shit how hot a woman is,
her asshole stinks.

That’s just what assholes do.  Stink.

I mean, it’s natural.

Let’s not pretend Jessica Alba’s current doofus
who got up in them guts didn’t notice
her asshole stinks.

Before he came, I’m sure he noticed.  And now she’s pregnant.

 

Stephen King shits the cot

I’ve already touched on Stephen King here at meatlights regarding his stereotypes of Italian-heritage characters. To date I’m the only person on the web who has ever pointed this out.

I’m not personally insulted by King’s Mediterranean “racism” since I long ago stopped reading him and even his best novels are littered with stereotypes, primarily Magical Negroes and a literal army of bastard children with supernatural powers.

I haven’t read any King books cover to cover since The Green Mile. I read the last part of the final Dark Tower novel in the bookstore and felt really bad for people who actually gave a crap about Roland, as it was one of the most atrocious cop-out endings ever.

For Conservatives who used to read King, author of classics The Shining and The Stand, and his readers still bothering today, all should be grateful that his overly-long, wordy novels don’t have nearly as much liberal proselytizing as they could have.

Lately King’s been getting a lot of well-deserved heat for this snarky aside, given to high schoolers:

“I don’t want to sound like an ad, a public service ad on TV, but the fact is if you can read, you can walk into a job later on. If you don’t, then you’ve got, the Army, Iraq, I don’t know, something like that. It’s, it’s not as bright. So, that’s my little commercial for that.”

So far King refuses to apologize for these thoughtless remarks while many of his fans try in vain to spin what he said into a positive. Nice try, but no matter how hard King denies it, he wrote Dolores Claiborne and Insomnia.

I ask you King fans which is more believable:  that the bulk of today’s soldiers are not only literate but college-educated, or King’s wife Tabitha and son Owen (cleverly-disguised as “Joe Hill”) got book deals on their own merit.

Don’t take too long to answer. Other than this post, I don’t give a shit.