Hint: It ain't Hitler

Welcome to another edition of the exciting new game show, "What The Fucking Fuck?!"

Hands on buzzers, contestants.

What famous pop culture icon said the following when asked by Jambands to describe the last Grateful Dead show they attended?:

"I have no recollection of it whatsoever, other than that it was awesome. ... I flew out to the Jerry Garcia memorial in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco with a fellow Deadhead from D.C. the weekend after Jerry went to the great psychedelic rock concert in the sky. ... it was great to be with my fellow Deadheads."

Was it:

A. Phish lead singer, Trey Anastasio?
B. Closeted homosexual & 'Uncle Arthur' from Bewitched, Paul Lynde?
C. Brittle, gun-toting polemicist, Ann Coulter?
D. German Madman & obligatory option in these lists, Adolph Hitler?

Before we reveal the surprising answer, please enjoy this soothing musical interlude featuring many Deadheads in full, spasmodic flailing:





So, who is our mystery Deadhead?

The answer is, of course: C. Ann Coulter.

Yes, Ann Coulter is all about the peace, love, and harmony. And rainbows.

Thanks for playing, everyone! See you next time on "What The Fucking Fuck?!"

Madonna, please, I beg of you, put some fucking fat in your diet!

A Cheeto, a chocolate-covered peanut, something to put a little softness in that bag of glass shards you call a body.

Cut off the head of this picture, and you got an 80 year old immigrant leaving an osteoporosis clinic with tennis balls in her bra.

I'm sorry to be so cruel about it, but I just can't take it anymore.



I give her well-deserved kudos for being disciplined and dilligent. If she were an athlete and showed up on my ESPN, all muscle and bulging vein, running a marathon, that would be fabulous and appropriate.

But she is an entertainer. As should be obvious by now, I don't watch ESPN because I don't particularly enjoy looking at athletic bodies. So every time I catch a glimpse of Madonna on whatever non-sport medium I am invariably watching, I literally wince because she is so rigid and hard (on the eyes).

I realize I'm sounding petulant and rather like my personal tastes should dictate what goes for everyone. But you've gotta understand, I've had over 20 years of dealing with this woman.

When she initially foisted herself upon our innocent world, I didn't like her because her music was trite, she couldn't sing, and I found her brazen self-confidence obnoxious.

But she had two saving graces: she was relatively attractive and danced very well. And I readily admit to enoying watching her videos when I was in high school. So clearly, despite my contempt, it's evident that I was able to endure her presence with marked civility.

But now she's completely crossed the line.

Her music is still trite, she still can't sing, her self-confidence shows no sign of abating, she has becoming laughably pretentious about her "art" and religious beliefs, and, in her final 'Fuck you' to good taste and decency, she has become stomach-churningly --aggressively-- unattractive.

Honestly, Cheetos would help. It won't make the problem go away, of course, but it would help.

Ideally, the most gracious thing for her to do, to repay us for all of the attention she's demanded from us for two decades, would be for her to go and quietly wither into her old age somehwere private. Or at least hang up the fucking leotard.

But we all know that graciousness is not one of her virtues. That old bitch ain't going anywhere she don't wanna go without being shoved.

Rolling Stone chimes in

Pete Doherty Watch

And now a word from Pete Doherty's mum

The Peter Doherty saga continues to take the weirdest, most publicly laid-bare twists and turns. I have never seen anything like it.

There is something so profoundly disturbing about the idea of this being published.

These types of books are generally written by bereaved, grieving family members once their loved one is dead. What can Mrs. Doherty possibly hope to gain from releasing this book while her son is still alive? It's almost inconceivably cynical to think a mother would attempt to cash in on her child's fucked-up life, but, well...

The publisher's blurb paints a picture of a woman who's telling a story that could help other mothers in the same situation:

For over three years, Jacqueline Doherty has been watching her rock star son's messy descent into drug addiction. Every step of the way has been charted by a hungry media. And every step of the way has been agony for a loving mum. Pete Doherty's celebrity means that his addiction has become public property. But, Jacqueline is a private person and her painful story is the story of any mum - or any parent - trying to help a child who has gone off the rails.

Granted, she absolutely has a story to tell. A harrowing, gut-wrenching, riveting story. But I must question the wisdom of her timing. Will it help Peter to have even more of the details of his private life splashed into the newspapers of a callous general public? Is that what he needs at this critical -literally- 'do or die' point?

I suppose, on some deep, scary level, Pete might already be dead to her, and perhaps this might be a desperate last-ditch attempt to try and reach a part of him that's still able to focus. If so, I wish her success.

But if nothing else, perhaps it will help disperse the air of 'cartoonish junkie' that lingers about him, and encourage the public to at least remember that there is an actual human being underneath all the mangled wreckage in this car crash.

Of course, it could have the opposite effect and he will become an even bigger punchline.

I just don't know.

The whole thing is so bizarre and perverse. And the most twisted thing of all? I literally ache with the anticipation of reading it.


...

Babyshambles were due to play a festival in Paris over the weekend and, true to form, it was a logistical mess, with two members waiting for Pete at the station 5 (five!) hours, Pete never showing, and the band missing the gig entirely.

Details are still spotty, but evidently the group is still together, and they did manage to play an unscheduled later show somewhere in Paris.

Reports have also filtered in that Pete was noticeably under the influence.

"What we lack in armaments, we make up for with hot cross buns."

Just when I think I couldn't love the English any more....


Lazy Sunday UK

Country Mouse & City Mouse drive across country together

Driving on the I-25 in Colorado, the city of Denver glistened in the distance like a wet hooker. She crooked her finger at me sexily, enticing me to come explore her nooks and crannies, and be entertained by her crooks and trannies.

It had been a very long car trip - nearly two months by that point, and we still had another month to go. My travelling companion, Amy, the unquestioned leader of the expedition (because it was her vehicle), and an honest-to-God actual hippie from the 1960's, had an aversion to cities.

"They scare me." she said, when we were making our pre-departure plans.

I had always loved the excitement and danger of cities, but I also liked to play the role of someone who's genial and easy-going, so I assured her that I would be quite happy to stick to back roads and small towns.

Which we did. And did. And did.

Amy was in her glory. And of course, I wasn't. The lack of concrete began to wear on me, and I reached a point where the magic and grandeur of breath-taking scenery constantly spread out before me like Miss January grew to be painfully tedius and impossible to appreciate properly. By the time we'd reached the Grand Canyon, I'd hit the wall.

"It's amazing...", I said to Amy, enthusiastically.
"...for a fucking hole in the ground.", I said to myself, bitterly.

When the cluster of Denver skyscrapers appeared on the horizon as we drove through an early-evening rain, I remarked how beautiful the city looked, all lit up and festive. Pointing to the skyline jutting out of the ground, I turned to Amy and said, "Now those are my kind of mountains!"

She smiled, and immediately took a tire-screeching right turn onto the 470 so that we would bypass the city completely as we searched for our next podunk stopping point.

Some days later, we'd found ourselves in a pleasant spot in the Colorado Rockies. Sitting beside a campfire, our tents were up, dinner had long-ago finished, and we were relaxing with a few beers.

The mountain tops, sillhouetted by a backlight from the setting sun, created a jagged line across the horizon. And it was very quiet. Crickets, the crackle of the fire, and a river running swiftly in the distance was all that could be heard.

Until Amy took a swig of her beer, exhaled with a loud "Aaaahhh!" and said, "Now those are my kind of mountains."

I didn't say anything.

I simply looked at her and furrowed my eyebrows just a teensy bit in the hope of conveying something to her along the lines of: "Yes, those ARE mountains. That was rather the point when I first said it, you fucking dumbass. I was speaking metaphorically to offer a subtle hint that I am up to my fucking neck with nature. And while I'm screaming at you impotently inside my own head, let me assure you that it's been VERY well established that you prefer the real kind of mountains, so there really wasn't any point to you saying that at all, was there? And, another thing, was that the best you could think of? Three days you've had to conjure up some retort and you simply turn my own words back on me? Jesus Christ, why did I agree to this? When is this fucking trip going to be over?!"

Amy set her beer down on the patch of dirt underneath her chair and looked at me, seemingly pleased that she was able to give me a little tit for tat.

I silently turned my head back toward the mountain range. The sun was sinking lower by the second. I shifted to a more comfortable position in my lawn chair, and lifted the bottle of beer to my lips.

"Yep. Those are mountains, alright." I said.

And then I took a drink and pouted. But only for a short while. I had to get to bed. We were heading out early the next morning for Utah and it was my turn to drive.

Hallelujah!

Jesus was, apparently, not successful in snuffing out Peter's spirit.

Babyshambles spent Friday and Saturday night in Sweden. Pete, just a few days out of detox, was fined for having cocaine in his system (let us pause here to sigh heavily, shake our heads in sad disbelief, & fight the urge to, as one fan threatened, become James Blunt fans).

But the band managed to performed two suitably chaotic and messy shows. Praise!



Management cut the power, but Pete wanted to keep performing.



He fell off the stage onto the shards of glass from the lights he had broken with the mic stand just moments earlier.



And left with two beautiful, albeit obligatory swedish groupies.



Newspaper reports lead one to believe Pete was completely out of his head. But fans (including one who uploaded cell-phone video footage as proof) reported that he looked surprisingly well.

But as with anything involving him, one just never knows what the truth is.

All we know for sure is that, at this moment, Pete Doherty, in all his disheveled, unhygienic glory, lives. And his story continues marching inexorably toward it's inescapable conclusion, handily keeping us all on the edge of our clean, comfortable seats, riveted and horrified.
Bless him.

Boys and Girls, we'uns is in serious trouble here

This typically daffy and stupidly-easy-to-mock Bush response to a reporter's question received an astounding amount of attention.

Yet this terrifying quote of the day from our Dear Leader has been all but ignored.

So I'm just gonna be blunt: we deserve the ass-raping this guy is giving us.

Northern Belle

She's driving home, alone, clad in leather jacket, pencil-skirt, and fuck-off pumps. The skyline twinkles on all sides as she races with the early-evening traffic. Her cell phone, expensive sunglasses, handbag, and leather briefcase are sitting on the passenger seat of her shiny black sports car.

Approaching an intersection, the traffic light turns from yellow to red.

"Goddammit.", she sighs, pressing on the brake pedal.

Letting her car roll slowly up behind a white BMW, she brings it to a complete stop and reaches into her handbag for her cigarettes. Lighting one, she exhales and gazes through her side window. She absently begins to entertain one of the scenarios she regularly tinkers with. Like little fire drills in her mind, these are mental rehearsals of what she will do when bad things happen.

Tonight, it's the carjacker-sidling-up-to-the-window-brandishing-a-gun scenario. She's almost decided on the proper course of action to take should it ever happen.

She would pretend to faint.

Of course, it has to be done correctly.

It would be natural to glance upward at the man, so that's what she will do. And because she will be completely unaware of his true intentions, she might even smile coquettishly at him, taking him to be a kindly gentleman, chivalrously alerting her to some complicated mechanical problem that could render her vulnerable to injury.

And then she will glance down and observe the gun.

Her eyes, newly awash with disquietude, will slowly saunter back to meet the evil-doer's cold, steely gaze. After allowing the dastardly varmint to regard a flicker of her distress, her sweet Georgia brown eyes will roll dramatically into the back of her pretty little head.

And then, with delicate grace, she will, as all ladies do when bearing witness to such ungentlemanly conduct, collapse with a flourish onto the horn, thereby innocently sounding a distress signal.

After all, it's rightly unthinkable that even a crackhead carjacking blackguard could shoot a dainty damsel overcome by a case of the vapors!

Fiddle dee dee. Why, the very idea...

The light turns green and the swish of engines revving snaps her to attention. She presses her foot down hard on the accelerator and flicks ash out the opening of her window. She speeds off into the encroaching darkness that hovers ominously before her, and glances into her rearview mirror, imagining the ghost of her assailant being ground into a pile of bloody, mangled pulp underneath the parade of cars following behind her.

Up yours, Mount Rushmore

I looked up into the night sky as a big, bright moon cast subtle shadows in my peripheral vision. A feathery cloud formation skittered across the horizon in a single line, stretching for miles. It looked exactly like an x-ray of a human spinal column.

"Cool.", I said. Because it was.

The moon is thought to have the face of a gentle, mirthful man.
The sun is a powerful king that we do not dare to look directly at. Rock formations are "old men" or President Kennedy
God is jealous and vengeful, or loving and forgiving.
Nature is a mother(fucker).

We like to attribute human qualities to things in the natural world. It appeals to our egos and eases our fears that we might be every bit as insignificant as dustmites. By having something of our likeness reflected on a grand scale, it confirms our suspicions (and hope) that we are the best thing going in this world.

But since nature can't be counted on to regularly stick her tongue down the backs of our trousers, we mostly have to stroke our own egos.

So we put up thousands of bronze statues of ourselves in city parks, create The Academy Awards, and the Nobel Prize, and use T.N.T. to blast our faces into mountain sides. Such a huge expanse of energy and time for no other reason that to be able to say, "Aren't we the shit?!".

We're really no better than some insipid, insecure celebrity who buys his own star for the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.

All of our self-aggrandizing pomp is tacky and tawdry when compared to the graceful, quiet ease in which a gargantuan rendering of a spinal column can appear in the sky, incomprehensible and sublime for a few short minutes, and then just slowly fizzle away.

A quiet, placid late spring night

Last night, I stepped onto the back patio to have a cigarette. It was as deep into the dead of night as it's possible to be. The time of night when the only thing stirring are the rapists, robbers, and various flying insects, who skulk about looking for the opportunity to molest an innocent lady standing on her back patio, alone and vulnerable.

I could feel my pupils stretching wide open in their desperation to suck in as much light as they could possibly squeeze out of the blackness that surrounded me. And I was grateful that they recognized the gravity of the situation we were all in.

Hi, it's God. I'm either away from my desk or busy assisting other worshippers. Leave your name and invocation after the beep & I'll call you back.

BEEEEP!

Ashtray

A flint sparks a
yellow tongue
hissing as it licks
the cigarette tip

scorched tobacco
sizzles ominously
as it takes to
fiendish
malevolent
life

and my ashtray is a
snake charmer's basket
from which
a serpentine stream
of venomous smoke
slithers upward
sensually
seductively
writhing in shades
of ash

On not being dead

Today, I've become the age that Jack Benny was every year until the day he died.

I have a feeling that this year, my funny-as-fuck Jack Benny year, is going to be good. Due in no small part to the sudden absense of the niggling thought that I would only live to be 38.

There was no rational reason to think this, of course. I'm healthy and my people generally reach into the very respectable 70's before snuffing it. So why I thought it, I don't really know. Maybe I imagine I'm unique and expect to be one of those who gets the "Oh, she was so young..." comments said about her by shocked mourners. Maybe it's because fat, lethargic smokers are supposed to exit early.

Maybe 38 just felt somehow like my number.

Robyn Hitchcock once said about death (paraphrasing here), "It's like the last present under the tree, but we never get to open it and find out what it is."

We all know it's coming. Even if we don't think or talk about it every day, we all know death awaits. I'm not afraid of it, exactly, but I would like to know ahead of time when it will be my turn, so I can ease into the idea and make the transition as neat and tidy as possible. Like on a quiet Sunday night at home, when you're folding laundry & packing a lunch for the start of your work week....

Now, I don't fold laundry on Sunday nights, and I'm usually racing around like a speed-freak trying to throw something edible together for lunch before dashing out the door. But I like to think that, on the eve of my death, I would seriously get my shit in order. Of course, knowing just how strong my aptitude for procrastination is, that's probably a pipe dream.

But still, if given the option to know my expiration date, I would choose yes.

I made it through age 38 and my feeling of dread was wrong. So to come right out and say that I expect my 39th year to be good, likely means that in the coming months, I will lose a leg in a combining accident. Or inherit the collected works of Bob Seger. Or a large insect will gain entrance into my body via some unsecured orifice whilst I'm sleeping, and wreak havoc with the copper piping.

All horrifying, but very survivable, maladies.

And lingering in the back of my mind, for no other reason than 'just because', is the number 44.

Wait, I've changed my mind - I love God.

Woman Hit By Lightning While Praying

DAPHNE, Ala. -- Worried about the safety of her family during a stormy Memorial Day trip to the beach, Clara Jean Brown stood in her kitchen and prayed for their safe return as a strong thunderstorm rumbled through Baldwin County, Alabama.

But while she prayed, lightning suddenly exploded, blowing through the linoleum and leaving a blackened area on the concrete. Brown wound up on the floor, dazed and disoriented by the blast but otherwise uninjured.

She said 'Amen' and the room was engulfed in a huge ball of fire.

*stands to applaud* Beautiful!

Any guesses as to what our faithful worshipper had to say about the incident?

The 65-year-old Brown said she is blessed to be alive.

And there it is. Sigh.


God specifically tosses a lightening bolt down on this woman's house, misses her, and she thinks it's a blessing.

Isn't it possible that God just has really shitty aim?