Why, oh why, do obese motherfuckers (who can’t even grow a ponytail) insist on thinking they have lessons to share?

Ask this dildo.

Money quote telling you everthing you need to know:

If we’re to believe the author: Women have been throwing themselves at him since the book’s release. “Those dudes that think their woman just comes out to get a book signed are probably in for a rude awakening,” he confides. “As I’m hugging them they’re whispering right in my ear, so I’m loving it.”

What do they whisper? “Stuff like, ‘Can you write your number down?’ or ‘Where you gonna be after this?’ ” he says. “I mean, I would prefer something more sexual, but hey, that’ll do.”

Dude, you didn’t get offered punani, and you know it. You’re an offence to real writers who actually have something meaningful to say, other than “hey, look at me, I’m a moron with no home training.”

So, apparently some politician has a bee in his bung about the FBI’s no-fly watch list. His story? a person on the no-fly list can still buy a gun. Hell of a loophole, that.

Come again?

This is silly, even for an election year. So if I’m a risk to airplanes — based on some arbitrary, black-box data, mind you — I can’t buy a glock?

I thought losing one’s civil liberties required a jury trial. You know, judge, twelve peers, courtroom? “Innocent until proven guilty?” Any of that ring a bell? -or have we abolished that pesky jurisprudence in the name of national security? Worked in Russia… for a while.

(What will be our Siberia? I’ve always considered Georgia kind of a hell-hole. Ooh! or maybe one of the Dakotas!)

What’s next? Eventually the terror watch list will pass through the hands of potential employers, IKEA, and your local grocer: “Sorry, ma’am, this looks like the ingredients for a fruitcake. That’s food terror.”

I can see the slogan now: “Can’t fly? Can’t buy!”

Right. Let’s ask ourselves, when have terrorists ever used guns? They have used planes. They have used cars. They have used vests packed with dynamite. Never a firearm.

Terrorists frown on guns the same way academics frown on profanity: a sign that you’re not smart enough to express yourself. Guns are for hood-rats boosting the liquor store. Use bombs make a political statement. Don’t insult Achmed by calling him Demoin.

We have once again given The Terrorists(tm) reason to laugh. Thank you, politicians!

Sure, Girls Gone Wild mastermind and six-time Douchebag Of The Year winner Joe Francis wouldn’t be living up to expectations if reading about his antics didn’t make me want to wash my hands with bleach. But boy, has this guy set himself a precedent for 2008.

First, he offers Spitzer hooker Alexandra Ashley Farnsworth Higgenbottom Dupre a million bucks to get on the bus and encourage insecure sluts to bare their titties. Then he retracts the offer, realizing that years ago she already spent weeks on his drunk bus, playing lesbian and drinking beer out of plastic cups. So ha, no money for you, bitch: you signed the waiver! Until, um, her lawyer points out that she was only 17 at the time. Whoops!

Guys in shiny suits wearing backwards baseball caps! Wiggers with rimz on their F-350 and decals of Calvin pissing on Iraq! Abandon all ye hope: you are no match for the douchebaggery of Joe Francis.

Psst! A little insider info for you: the Wall Street Journal is soon due to get a sports page.

We all thought he’d leave well enough alone. It had been a few weeks since the sale, and we began rationalize ourselves back to peaceful reality. “It’s not as though he can make it any more right-wing, it’s the fucking Wall Street Journal! We’re safe!”

-but no… the Murdoch Machine has greased up WSJ and is applying the Midas Touch. One inch at a time.

Don’t think it stops here. This is the first of The Journal’s many steps down a dark and musky road. Today, sports scores and a move to midtown Manhattan. Tomorrow, shorter words and an otherwise simplified outlook: “Immigrants: BAD!” “Outsourcing: GOOD!” “Math: HARD!” Those interviews with woman executives? Replace ‘em with Page Three Girl. (Be sure to keep the tits above the fold.) Eventually, our once-revered institution of financial facts and absurdist right-wing opinions will degrade into Maxim for Suits.

You’ll know it’s hit rock-bottom when you get a free copy with every lap dance.

Quite frankly, the only benefit of this downward spiral is that Bait’n'Switch will land its own column. (Once we dumb down the humour a bit.)

Yes, we read the paper for the content… but also for the status symbol we tote under our arm or rudely unfold for reading in the crowded morning subway. I don’t need some Starbucks cup to show I’m overpaid: this is old money, bitches. It’s our way of saying, “Khakis? Yeh, I think my kid used to wear those. Before he went to boarding school.”

Like any other business rag, WSJ was designed to appear inaccessible to the Common Man. Another inch in the Us vs Them gap. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?

Ah well. There’s still Financial Times. -and Hustler. I read it for the articles.

I received a spam this morning with the subject “obramoks”. I do believe that this word amply describes the twattery I’m encountering in the Crown Room Club.

Did I miss the memo?

Is it Tits-Out Month, and no one told me?

Everywhere I turn these days, some lass is trying to show off her cleavage. Whether she’s youngish or oldish, trim or chunky, goth or glam. Whether she’s got the goods or at least the gear to make it seem so… Everyone’s got the low-cut tops and they’re more than happy to lean over and so’s all the lads can confirm it’s real.

Don’t get me wrong. May you never mistake me for one who doesn’t appreciate aesthetics. -but it’s like when I see some lass wearing high heels and a miniskirt, waiting for a train on a cold winter’s day: thanks, but you really didn’t have to. I’d understand if you were to cover up.

Am I the only lad to have noticed this trend?

Look at this total nunce. Bait’N'Switch is offering a competition to the first person who can tell us if this is Axel Rose or Mick Hucknall of Simply Red.