Just a little reminder to all you desperate — erm, adventurous kids who went out and got your freak on with a stranger Valentine’s Day:

See your doctor. Get tested.

Trust me, you don’t want that rash to sit untreated too long…

There’s a new definition for this oft-used word. In the Bait ‘N Switch dictionary, a dickhead is:

A hierarchical superior - strictly professionally speaking - that takes a fucking day off while his entire team is canned by their CEO.

See also “motherfucker”.

It’s Valentine’s Day!

Here’s a little something for all you lonely lasses who returned home from the hunt empty-handed:

As for you lonely lads, well… Try the balls. They’re great.

Message received today:

You will be the Legend of the 10inch manhood…

Yes …

“Kids, gather ’round, lemme tell you ’bout the time I lopped off half my knob… brought me all the way down to ten inches… Rumour has it, the damned Germans took the other half and they’re trying to clone it… so they can make tanks.”

The spam had been rather limp as of late… until today:

Subject: Your most magnificent toy ever, unleashed amongst women with a vengeance.

Feeling less than ordinary? We’ll make you extraordinary…

Unleashed “amongst?” Unleashed on, I can see that, but amongst? That makes it sound like my new WonderKnob will go off and do all the hard work for me! I can please the laydee and still get some real work done.

Hmmm… What was that URL, again?

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.