I'm surprised they didn't go for "Suck My Left One."

This televised punditry obviously qualifies him as a member of the Liberal Media, and, because the sign appears to have correct spelling, and perhaps was commercially produced, I believe he's also appropriately characterized as Mainstream.

I guess I missed the lecture where they explained that the Trickle Down Method works best with a sieve.

Not really sure what the Laura Nyro/LaBelle album's doing on this list, despite the explanation, but I'm all for it if someone buys another one of her records.

Good for you on the Romeo Void mention. Debora Iyall will now talk dirty to you.

And, um, Out people? Move "Le Tigre" way way way up. Or Kathleen will come over there and smack you one.

Give it three months to sit on the rack at TJ Maxx and it'll also be low-cut.

My early draft, including the soundbyte, "The difference between a governor and a painting of dogs playing poker is real smoke being blown up your ass!" was scratched only after Karl Rove's adamant insistence that the dogs were smoking real cigars.

Betcha two dollars Joe Lieberman wouldn't have had this problem.

Proof of the erosion of the No Spin Ozone Layer.

They go to all that trouble and they don't put lipstick on it?

Seems the best way--the only way--to counteract the messianic Family Matters attack of the Republican Right is to just plain rub people's faces in the past eight years, and ask them if that is what they want another helping of.

I'm not promising results, but, really: Gas at $3.50? When it was what four years ago? Economy drained dry by war and ignorance of the globe in the 21st century?

That has to be the battleground. And hope and pray enough people are sick to death enough of sliding down Shit Hill to not buy into a dog wearing makeup.

I hate to kill the mood, but I put lipstick on our pit bull.

These people really take the guesswork out of self-loathing.

"The Incredible Edible Clegg."

He was the beefstick to Ray Stevens' chicken-fried steak.

My kerchief will let you know it really enjoyed this piece when it's free.

Speaking of literary Alaska, isn't it about time we heard a few stanzas of Service's "The Screwing of John McCain"?

Well, I've sent in my request. I've always wanted to be friends with someone who knows someone who'll hang up on me.

She's governing for one and a half.

$65k will get you a haircut AND a shave in Champaign.

I knew I'd end up being pissed that Mott the Hoople never did a summer song.

You mean it's up to ME to make the "XXX Files" joke?

I'm kind of old, so I was hoping Obama''d tune in "The Beverly Hillbillies" rather than "Eight is Enough."

A tale told by an idiot.

The Redeem Team is clearly in formation right here.

I am loving the smart, snappy, & funny, taking back over this lousy-ass web.

All right. Score another one for the Good Guys.

Welcome in, Maggie.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder last night and told me I was dreaming.

Now I have to figure out which one of me feels betrayed.

If you're having problems with ennui, I'll send you a case of Pepto-Bismol.

Does this mean we're not getting married next month?

His flag has 38 stars and 24 stripes.

Nothing like Joe Biden in the news to send one in desperate search for video of water-skiiing squirrels.

Dick Cheney with a rubber-tipped dart gun.

Every time I feel I've become irreparably discouraged by the idiocy of American Politics, this guy steps up and says something that makes total, honest sense. At which point I go back to biting my knuckles and praying November gets here before something fucks it up.

Oh, this just warms my chilly cockles. And representing themselves! Fight on, sisters.

And by the way, I'm available to testify that I had an episode of Perez Revenge after eating the chili at a Cincinnati Reds game in 1978.

There is a very prosperous cross-cultural propagation of this poster with an "American Pie" joke, but I am uncertain how to render it in harmony with the Treaty of Wanghia, not to mention the Mann Act.

Somewhere under my tinfoil hat Dick Cheney lurks, not particularly giving a crap whether or not he has a heart.

Funny + Cash=Dignity.

And is it pounds, or dollars? Because I might be able to shave the percentage a hair, depending upon the answer.

Please hurry. I already have the Reuben Kincaid False Pederasty Charges Scene fully blocked.

The cheese, however, is freshly grated.

She could've saved $13,999.25 and just bought herself another Zero Bar.

SEVEN HUNDRED THOUSAND. For a book about being crushed on David Cassidy. And she's got nothing to turn in.

Call me, Allison. We'll have something for Harvey by the end of next week, and I'll only take 40 percent.

Shall I begin?

The meatballs are frozen.

Poor John Edwards, rapidly enroute to becoming a Nonesie.

It's even more far-reaching than that. Whenever there's a Dolph Lundgren movie on Cinemax, they've pencilled in a codpiece over his loins.

Oh, you better do it, while there's still electricity. Because some BUREAUCRAT might get it in her (it would HAVE to be a girl, right??) head to protect some itsy-bitsy chipmunk from getting fried by your compulsive fixation on Tammy Grimes.

"Gummo #2: Try The Spaghetti!"

That got cancelled for me when they took Fantasy Island off the air.

Tough titty that, for the American version, the following titles have already been purloined: "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," "Flavor of Love, "Pimp My Ride," and "Kitchen Nightmares."

I just solved a crossword puzzle that has had me stumped since Wilbur Mills fell out of a limousine.

Young man, you're an outstanding journalist, and, I'm told, quite cute. If I ever have an illicit daughter I will let you report her paternity.

However, now that you've mentioned it, I acquired some of this substance, frozen, at cost, from a boutique in the Tri-State Area, which I then consumed in a tall glass of amber liquid while reading side-by-side articles about the trend in Glamour.

Keep your eyes on your own page, Mr. Balk.

God has ordered a fish sandwich, with a pillar of salt, just for you, Stu.

Trying to get my arms and feet around the leap from Edwards' lie about when the affair ended to paternity, but hey, you'll explain it to me.

Meanwhile, Pigeon's brother Clay is on my other line.

It sure as hell isn't direct to BVD.

I was just dropping some blue ice off at a party down the street this past weekend.

If John McCain showed up at the Phoenix American Idol trials, Paula Abdul would pitch forward into her vat of Diet Coke about eight seconds into his ukulele solo.

"where," sorry.

Hard to tell were you're laying it to rest on this one, Choire, but I've purchased my fair share of coffins in the past ten years, and didn't feel like I sanctified much besides the oily palms of obsequious morticians.

Bring it, Balk. I got a Silver in Quarters at the '00s in Cabo.

Darn. I was hoping for Mark and Shania duetting on "Camptown Races," but I suppose this'll have to do.

Choire, I'm sure you're read the whole thing: I managed the summary, and about a third of it went down before the rest clogged my windpipe. The entire exercise seems the standard m.o. to create rationalizations for avoiding oversight while offering the palliative that business really ought and should police itself, because, after all, they're the only ones who understand, and so they do it better. And, more, um, cost-effectively.

Doesn't a hardened Al-Qaeda member qualify as a weapon of mass destruction?

I'd put on an Adam Ant record right now, but I can't find my epaulettes.

I have to get out of the bathroom more often.

This is going to further dilute the commenter talent pool.

I always get clammy at open casket conventions.

"Stealth"? Is that what the Boss is doing, walking the halls with a crossbow?

Oh, but each and every one of us, we resent everyone, regardless of our age, income, or political persuasion.

It's just that we aren't all not getting paid to vent our resent, and therein lies your schism, paradox, and/or paradigm. Whatever. It's what I feel, and it's free.

Hi, Andrew. I got all lathered up to read your whole comment, but you nailed it at "dismissive."

That's a breathtaking career arc. Kudos, indeed. What's next? Grow a dick?

I hopped the fence myself so many times just reading your piece that my pantyhose are now totally chafed, even though I was wearing them on my head.

Well, I mean, I didn't "now received," that would be just silly, but your byzantine technology casts my errors into eternity, so poo on you.

I am going to board an airplane tomorrow and will choose this fine, albeit stodgy, periodical to smudge my fingers until the $4 snack box arrives.

In related news, I now received three issues of the same Bon Appetit each month. Which is stupid, you know, because I only cook the recipes once or twice.

Obama's first act as President will be to sign an executive order mandating the immediate production of "Anaconda II."

Hell, they got ten pages of hits on me. First one's about some guy getting a pair of shoes for Christmas or some wacky shit like that.

Right after I finish cooking up a Thirty-Minute Hairball.

"AARPists Only."

(And I'm older than you, Balk, so sit down.)

God. I remember when it WAS the coleslaw.

Great. Now I know which one will put me to sleep quicker on the plane this week.

Never underestimate that sneaky Larry Craig's ability to get his Laroccos off.

While I'm troubled by the genderflecting overtones of the term, I am resigned to its use, since "colostomy bag" is extremely difficult to enunciate when drunk, plus I've usually tripped over something before I get to the "bag" part.

Are these the Moe 2.0 Auditions? There's way too much punctuation here.

I can even be Shemp, for a year or so.

So. Balk. About that Curly. . .

Oh. You said "EAT" the raw animals and "FUCK" whoever we want. . .

Oh, my. I must read more carefully.

Yes, and "The Rifleman," Johnny McCain, said the exact same thing yesterday. Replicate that "Iraqi success" in Afghanistan.

Which Mission we Accomplished a few years ago. Nostalgia's a wonderful, enduring feeling. And the commute is short.

Oh, it's a C-class, Choire. You, me, a couple nylon stockings and an evening perusing several finer package goods stores and we could have one of those.

Gotta get behind this. The moment I seen that picture, I like to start laughing till I cried.

The issue as I see it, bobbitchen--may I call you 'bitchen'?--is whether or not the child understood which hole to use these respective objects in.

Discuss.

or, The Poetaster.

All Hands Below Decks.

NTJ, that wasn't me who just said something on Gawker about someone who isn't you.

Next week it's Maya Deren's rare "Meshes in the Afternoon Delight," in which Tawny Kitaen attempts to have a torrid relationship with an autographed photo of Loni Anderson, but is recursively thwarted by Ms. Anderson's inability to sign her full name.

Witty.

Fully-baked pseudoanalysis. With cream cheese.

It's OK, NTJ. You don't really need to say you're sorry.

Do you guys need a Curly?

That seemed brilliant. Even visionary. However, I've been emotionally and intellectually crippled by having to get out of my chair to change channels at a tender age.

markleng, where CAN a searingly scorchingly hot and up-and-coming lad like myself meet concomitantly parboiled celebrity singles for white-hot alternative lifestyle action?

markleng, you'd be looking for the Philip Roth post.

Oops. I got a little too excited reading this.

He's still fuming that the Persians stole all his Congolese elephants and rode off with his Risk board.

This is totally confusing. WHICH part of Mexico am I supposed to send the truckload of plague-ridden scorpions to?

Well. Lah-de-fucking dah. I once--TRUE STORY--was sitting in the backyard, in my capri shorts, the ones with the powder-blue pandas, and a CHUNK OF BLUE ICE fell right of out the sky (SWA 1331 from Omaha--I checked my OAG Official Flight Schedule Guide) and landed RIGHT IN MY BOURBON. Plus it was Knob Creek, which I had intended to enjoy neat, so that made it even WORSE.

But did I get on TV? No! Not even fucking MAURY POVICH. And I called those assholes, believe you me. I even went down there, but the address they gave me was PHONY. Can you even stand it? It's got to be because I didn't have the video. I had no video. Fucking cheap-ass Southwest Airlines.

I'm going to start following myself around with a security camera.

Choire, I think you and I actually had a conversation for 2.3 seconds once.

It appears I am expected to say something. Well, I got something to say.

They filmed this $45 gazillion dollar piece of schlock across the street from my parking lot last summer. Fucking Christian Bale parked in my fucking parking spot. TWICE.

So, yeah, I'll go see it, if Batman's tires get slashed. Fuck yeah.

Shit. I was all hot and bothered to pitch an idea about people who write about people who write about people writing about people. But now you tell me some person has already written about people who have been writing about it.

I'll be all set once I buy another $29,999,981.00 worth of Canadian Club.

Jesus. It only cost $350 to have her spayed.

Tab Sports Guy needs to go on a turkey shoot with Tab Hunter.

Thanks, tiesheawhateveryouare. Always good to hear from a true litigator.

[WINK, karion!!!!]

I guess sites can print all the "Terms of Use" they want, and perhaps they may have rights to content entered thereon by outsiders (but I strictly DENY that allegation). . .

And why anyone would want to waste time "filing a complaint" about PH's swill is a further mystery, but

I no think he can dictate the forum in which a non-paying user, who thinks legal rights were violated by the site, can sue or bitch. But, this idiot did anyhoo. Plus who the fuck told him to pick AAA? He should have gone with the other AAA. Or the AA.

Any IP lawyers care to weigh in?

Let's see if Lee has the integrity to give us the names of his 6,600 cousins.

He once killed a man without getting out of shower. Targets have been known to line up outside his door, begging to be offed. The wives of his victims have pleasured themselves to snuff films of his work.

He is the Most Interesting Hit Man In The World.

"Stay bloodthirsty, my friends!"

I, too, have a crush on Garo Yepremian. He once made a pass at me.

Oh.

!

?

I get 'Day of the Triffids' by someone who's been hitting the Miracle Gro too hard.

A momentarily confused Kevin Kline, when informed the film involves an alien, ordered the INS to institute deportation proceedings against Mr. Murphy.

I got here at 4:30 to get in line to comment on this post, but some squirrelly dude with a scraggly beard and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth told me the comments were closed already and if I didn't like it, I could suck Bock's Caulk.

Sucks that Kurt Weill doesn't live in Kansas City anymore.

This is old Nueskes.

I dreamed I had cybersex with one of you people, but you all look so much alike, I didn't know which it was. You ever been photographed in a one-piece, Choire?

Also: afterward? I cried into my keyboard and was electrocuted. But Denton decided a story about it was "too insidery." Although he did remember my name. "Oh, yeah, that guy who's the pig, right? I thought we lopped his head off months ago."

I attended a "speaking engagement" by HST at Illinois, circa 1979. We waited on line for hours in a driving rain to get on the front row. Fortunately, we were twisted out of our depth and unable to realize what was happening to us.

The crowd was ablaze in madness and despair. A geek in a tweed sports coat emerged at one point from behind a tattered curtain to place a bottle of Wild Turkey onstage, which was promptly purloined by a shrieking, shirtless man who leaped out of the audience.

Thompson arrived two hours late, eschewed introduction, and merely strolled onstage. Fifteen hundred people brayed at him like rabid geese. He digested this for a moment, took a pull on his cigarette holder, then blurted "Shut up, God damn it!" into a microphone. The crowd roared; several women fainted.

After the din subsided just enough, to the level of bitter, spasmodic moaning, I fixed my bollixed, glassy gaze on his and screamed (though his feet were within my reach) "You'd better be weird, or we'll kill you!!"

The good doctor stared down at me with genuine panic shining from behind his tinted rectangular shades.

Nice that the firm took the lead of being the "damaged plaintiff" for its six to ten to twenty etc. [allegedly] harassed female associates, who suffered the [alleged] harassment but aren't [allegedly] harassed enough, apparently, to be plaintiffs, and in line for recovery of $$$.

Or could the real [alleged] harassment be Pitcock's attempt to get into the pants of the clients he wanted to take?

In other news: If you're in a LoverBoy way, I'd get an allegedly different fucking name.

"Familes of people killed in plane crashes," and I apologize for that ghastly grim sentence.

I'm guessing none of your sexual experiences outlast the length of your comments.

If I may inhere this with more grimitude: I've represented families killed in plane crashes. The long and short: you don't want to know what they'd like to be able to bury. But they do.

I don't understand it, either. But they do, and cling to that with--grim--obsession.

Complete and utter fiction. This "Charlie" has a dick.

I don't know that I have that many hugging penguins.

In keeping with this theme, I have purchased a Bearly There Bra. Only now I need more depilatories.

Oh. I thought it was Steffi's unfortunate younger brother. The one they never showed you in the stands at Wimbledon.

Holding out for the premiere of 'Ocean's Fifteen.'

God damn it. When are we going to get some caterpillar stories?

Exemplary something-or-other.

Is this where the Michael Nesmith article will be appearing?

Balk, did you eat all the tranquilizer darts again?

I had something topical to contribute but right now there's this leashed animal wearing a cap demanding I put something in his cup.

I tried the five-way chili in Cincinnati once. Someone had to have done some time for that.

And then Yogi Bear called me a Boob.

I wasn't, like, mauled or anything, but Curious George now tells me I bore him.

There's No More Water, Asshole.

Get Used To It.

You can _____ my ______. Allegedly.

Ironically derivative. I've been brewing Folgers Crystals for years with saliva.

But of COURSE it's a shopping cart. She's on her way to the Rite-Aid.

Is this what's known as hitting the sagging curve?

If she's the Janis of this generation, then this generation is the Sixties of the Fifties.

Oh, my. I do need an editor.

Harkening back to the director of the original film, "Grand Theft Auto," which caused its director, Ron Howard, to later go on a copycat spree that included "Ransom" and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas."

Donkeys might fly.

[w/ apologies to Karion]

Why not go for "Don't Stop Believing"?

But, it's an elected regime, right? I like democracy. I'm all for that. Terror, that's what frightens me.

Harvey Levin better order a couple boxes of permission slips.

I was more impressed by the fact that he can simultaneously pound two cans of Old Milwaukee, text order pizzas, and still say something caustic to Bill O'Reilly on the TV.

And how come you never turned on the AC when I was around, Balk?

Tell them you wrote an advice letter to Spencer Pratt. You won't have to worry about discussing politics.

Achy Breaky Windbag.

Billy Bob hitting his stride with the "High School Assistant Principal" phase. Wonder who's tattooed on his pocket protector?

He's also a Cardinals fan, Assman, if you want to get in on some of that.

Do you suppose Obama's watch has to have batteries, or does he have one of those deals where he has to constantly go around shaking his wrist?

It'd be a stroke of genius if they'd continue with someone smart and intuitive.

Probably too much to ask.

Um. So.

If there's no mole, he ain't going to the hole? Or that wasn't him in the hole?

Help me, Johnnie!

The President smiled down upon His Eminence and sighed, "Ratzi, you're doing a heck of a job."

I think if you're able to wake someone up giving a blowjob you can't be a Republican.

I thought it was better with the edit, don't you?

Curt Schilling is a British porn star, Choire. You won't find his books, but you may find his box cover.

Curt Schilling is a British porn star, Choire. You won't find his books, but you may find his box cover.

I was always concerned about Clark Kent. He must have perspired an awful lot.

Maybe that's why he blew his brains out.

I fly Gitmo Air. They give you a pair of sneakers as you're boarding.

Freedom's just another word for "works cheap."

Then it's settled. We'll send the rest of the pennies to Kentucky.

Jeez. I'd hate to be the doofus who put too much mayonnaise in his tuna salad.

Dana needs to renegotiate his vacation package.

I'm having a difficult time determining any portion of it that's NOT fake.

But, no, see, it's just THAT woman, not women in general. OK, and Katie, too. THOSE women.

'Cause there are, of course, lots of women who are capable and qualified for positions of highest respect and responsibility.

I'll think of one. I'll get back to you.

This piece would have projected much further if it had been trimmed.

More like being impregnated by a monolith.

It's thirty friggin' words and it needs an editor.

Next case.

Thanks, no. Already bought a Filet O Fish today.

I can't be tell bothered with this advice.

I got sued by the Isles of Langerhans for sending some sauerkrauts down there.

Nope. There's a more anatomically-consistent counterpart. But I'm no prick.

I don't have the heart to tell this guy that Josef K was guilty.

KUO meant "without," and apologizes for wasting your precious time.

McCain is ambivalent about David Byrne, reports indicate.

He's also hiring consultants to determine if he can admit liking "99 Luftballoons" with betraying Israel.

Well, I'm not wireless yet, but I am a mobile content provider, and I''ll come over to your house and berate you for $19.99.

Plus roaming charges where applicable.

Unfortunately, it's not nearly as exciting when Ron Popeil is doing the spraying.

I wouldn't elect him with your dick.

I'll be happy to help with this, Balk, but I'll need a $10,000 retainer.

This is where the Gawker Commenter Meet-Up Afterparty is happening, by the way.

Balk, bring paper cups. And a tarp.

Oh, hell, whatever. Let's all have another rum and Sakrete.

And what if you were still reading this e-mail? Which part would you tell me you loved the best? Huh?

I liked "Puppies," myself. But that's just me. No, really. Which part?

These half-measures have some appeal for those of us who've had to go to the emergency room to remove the Redi-Whip cans from our nostrils.

It's my understanding Brian Eno knocked up David Bowie, so there's probably a bit of generational projection at coldplay here.

What it all means: "I have five years, ten tops, to land that gig modeling Young Men's Underwear in the JC Penney catalog."

Guess they won't be covering "My Generation."

She's more of a trashy Ho-Ho. After it's been out in the sun a couple hours.

Back up half a step there, Choire, though you're probably right Joyce will be paid: isn't the ruling merely that she can proceed with the suit against her lawyers? In any event, that seems like a defamatory-on-its-face statement, and the lawyers' conclusion [=excuse] of "non-actionable opinion" is FRIGGING DUMB.

Dear Lawyers to the Lawyers: Tell your clients' insurance company to warm up the checkbook.

Domino's=Michigan=Desperation Delegate Base=Wasn't Delivered In 30 Minutes=Cold, Cheesy, & Free.

I love watching people who can afford sex talk about it.

American Ingenuity understands that, as society evolves, so the market with it. I'm selling shares in misery now for cheap. I suggest you all get in before this unique ground-floor opportunity implodes.

Y-y-you. . . .Skunk!!