What I've Learned About the Kardashians Simply From Looking at Tabloid Covers

You can learn a lot while standing in line at the supermarket. For instance, did you know that rubbing butter on your skull while sticking your big toe up your ass will result in absolutely nothing of value? Neither did I! And where does all this cool information come from? The tabloids, of course. Now, I've noticed that over the past year or so, there've been quite a few covers with these "Kardashian" ladies on them. I'd like to share a few things I've learned about them just from reading these covers:

The Kardashians are man-eaters: Every week there's a new story about how one of these girls has met the man of her dreams. And then the next week we find out that this supposed dream guy has been chopped into little pieces, salted, and then used as the main ingredient in a prize-winning souffle. I have no idea why the authorities let them get away with this. Such is fame, I suppose. Still, after all this publicity, if these guys keep falling for the Kardasians' charms, they kind of deserve what they get.

They are always pregnant: About every two weeks, the Secretary of State declares another Kardashian officially pregnant. Which is odd since there's only three of them. Well, after a quick Google search, I found out that they have an incredibly short gestation period. There are already 489 fully-functional Kardashian children, with another 43 in various states of disrepair. Also, to my amazement, I found out that I fathered two of them.

They do stuff (I assume): Judging by the amount of cover-space they're given, I can only assume that these ladies do something very important. Perhaps we elected them Queens? I don't remember this happening, but it could very well have taken place during my five-year cocaine blackout. I missed almost everything during that time, including the toilet. Eventually I had to kick the habit because I found that I missed the little things, like not stabbing someone through the head every weekend. Anyway, God bless these ladies. They seem to be doing well for themselves.

Mugwumpville Man Not Surprised to Learn his Boss is a Complete Sociopath

Twenty-five year old Infinite Sweatervest wasn't surprised at all when he heard that his boss, Trickling V. Oilspill, had been arrested for painting fourteen pigs completely blue and feeding them bacon, ham sandwiches, and olive loaf.

"Yeah," Sweatervest said, "I could see something like this happening. I mean, my first day on the job he has everyone take off their shoes and bronze each other's feet. He said it was a team-building exercise. Do you know how hard it is to walk around without the ability to move your toes? I've never had a boss as mean as Mr. Oilspill. I mean, all my life, all I've ever wanted was to design hats for hamsters, and here I was at the biggest hamster accessory firm in Mugwumpville, supposedly living my dream. Only, it turned out to be a nightmare. Bah! I can barely bring myself to talk about it. Once, I was on deadline and only had hours to design a spring mechanism that would allow a small plastic flower to pop out of a top hat whenever the hamster tried to scratch its ears. Well, Mr. Oilspill thought that it would help motivate me if he repeatedly hit me over the head with a hammer, sang "Amazing Grace," and put my mother on speakerphone so that she could yell at me. I never finished the project, to my great horror.

Mr. Sweatervest said that he's hoping his new boss, Velvet Murderblanket, will be a little easier to deal with.

It's Getting Harder and Harder to Hide the Mermaid from my Wife

Well, yes, see, I have this mermaid friend and her name is Biddyboom. She recently broke up with her boyfriend and needed a place to crash for a while. We've known each other casually for about a year or so, having met on a belly button lint enthusiasts website. So I filled my bathtub up and told her she'd be welcome at my apartment.

Well, welcome by me, at least. Because, as awesome as my wife is, she can be quite prejudiced at times. I mean, you can't even mention mermaids when she's in earshot. See, she was bullied by some minnows as a child and that affected her dealings with sea-creatures for the rest of her life. Anyway, I knew that if she discovered Biddyboom in our friendly domicile, then the shit would really hit the fish tank. In other words, she would freak the fuck out.

To my wife, this is the essence of horror

I had to distract her. The first thing I did was place lamps with green light bulbs all over the bathroom. When my wife came home, I turned out all the lights in our place except for the ones in the bathroom and told her that it was radioactive. But she soon tired of bathing in the little wading pool that I had installed in the living room and reminded me that when we were dating we used to stick each other in the microwave and turn it on all the time. We had survived and therefore, were probably immune to radioactivity. Well, I had to come clean about the bathroom and admit that I had been protecting her. From the portal to hell that wold devour her and suck her into nothingness forever if she opened the door. But this "hell in our bathroom" ploy only lasted a few days and now she has the number of a good hairdresser that her exorcist recommended to her. I have no idea what she means by this, but I'm getting nervous.

Does anyone perhaps have a spare swimming pool or pond or something where Biddyboom can crash? I don't know how long I can keep this up.

Occupy Asparagus (Guest Post by A. Jarrell Hayes)

Science has recently proved what we Twenty Percenters have known all along: asparagus makes everybody’s urine into a foul(er) smelling stream, but only 20% of the human population have the necessary olfactory receptors to detect it. We, the Twenty Percenter, are members of the populous oppressed by the much larger 80%--the ones who have no clue how putrid their consumption of asparagus makes their urine.

We, the Twenty Percenters, will suffer this egregious affront no longer. Not without a fight. We refuse to be held hostages in our own country, having to wear gasmasks to enter bathrooms after someone who has eaten asparagus has used them. We demand liberation from the 80%, and we are willing to employ revolutionary tactics to achieve this goal.

Fuck everything about these bastards

We, the Twenty Percenters, have spearheaded the “Occupy Asparagus” campaign. In grocery stores, both large chains and mom-and-pop shops, we shall continue to occupy the space in front of the asparagus section in the produce aisle. We will continue to block shoppers from purchasing the offensive plant; we will continue to distribute leaflets and pamphlets outlining our reasoning behind Occupy Asparagus. We will continue to stand behind the registers and shout “Price check!” whenever the cashier rings up asparagus.

We, the Twenty Percenters, have future plans to take our message to asparagus farmers who profit at our expense. We will explain to them why they are pawns of the 80%; how their labor and product are exploited. We will introduce them to alternative plants to asparagus, such as green beans and Brussels sprouts.

We are united in solidarity. We shall not be moved.

Occupy Asparagus!

Depressed? Make Your Cat Sad and Feel Better Instantly!

Maybe you've been feeling a bit down lately. Maybe you own a cat. Success! Did you know that you can easily transfer your depression to your cat by reminding it of the things it is unable to do? Myself, I like to stand naked before my cat, point at her, and say things like, "You'll never be a fireman. You don't have the thumbs for it," or, "Wouldn't you like to go to the bakery and order some muffins or a nice warm loaf of bread? Well, you could if you were able to form proper words. But, as it stands--"

Uh, what? (source)

Some people will say that it's impossible to transfer your depression to your cat, because they don't have any interest in doing people things like bouncing on Pogo sticks or training a baby seal to wear combat boots. They'll tell you that cats are only interested in eating, pooping, ignoring their owners, and getting rubs.

Don't believe them. I once found my cat in my bedroom closet, pawing at a Mad magazine as if she was trying to turn the pages. And this was just minutes after I told her that she'd never be able to read a word of English! Coincidence? Or had I just discovered the cure for common sadness?

Kirk Cameron is Alive and Well and Living in the Big Rock Candy Mountain with a Hoard of Wart Yaks

"Thanks for the ice cream, you crazy asshole!"

Kirk Cameron's new documentary, Monumental, about America's Christian roots, opened in theaters last Friday and, as you might expect, it brought out the crazies. Can you fathom that there are still people in the world who don't believe in Kirk Cameron? I know! Look, people stop me in the street at least seven times a day and say something like, "Kirk Cameron is just a little fella who lives in my TV. Fun is fun, but you tell me if he appears anywhere outside my set and we might be in business. Kirk Cameron just doesn't exist. How could he?" It gets annoying that I have to answer these questions all the time, but, luckily, I only have to use one simple, yet oh-so-complex word: Faith. Have you ever seen a fart? Of course not, but you can certainly smell it, especially if you've been eating cantaloupe. You can't touch it (well, you could, but you wouldn't want to, what with the after-smell all over your finger and all that) but you still know it's there. Kirk Cameron is alive and well and disco dancing with Uncle Jesse in Pee-wee's Playhouse. And, like your farts, he's even around when you don't want him to be. Kirk Cameron watches over you while you sleep, puts your big toe in his mouth, takes your dog out for ice cream, mows your lawn with his teeth, and saves you $10.99 on two adult meals at Ruby Tuesdays. He is daylight itself.

Morgan Freeman Not Actually Marrying His Step Granddaughter, Sill Hella Badass

Fuck everyone in this poster who isn't Morgan Freeman

In an interview with the Chicago Tribune, Morgan Freeman said that he was not going to marry his step-granddaughter, and they hadn't even been dating. While we hope that he had his fingers crossed behind his back, and we were absolutely shocked that the National Enquirer was wrong about something like this, we're convinced that this was still an act of badassery. I mean, we all know that Freeman was the first African-American to play a white guy in a non-comedic role, convincingly, at least. It was like, suuure, this fella just happens to be the only black dude in an all-white prison. Okay. Cool. But, more than that, there's his military career to consider. In World War I, he was nicknamed Sgt. Bananacakes. Manly name! Freeman and his men invaded the tiny South American nation of Pogo Stixx in an effort to kill the last remaining unicorns on the planet. Was it right that they were simply killing the animals so that they could wear the horns as codpieces? Maybe not, but, again, it was sure badass. So, let's put it this way: Morgan Freeman could have slept with his step-granddaughter if he really wanted to. But he chose not to. Because sometimes showing restraint is the most badass quality of all.

The Joy of Jorts!

Underneath the fancy suit, this man is wearing jorts

Spring is here and summer is on its way. Which is to say, we're almost ready for jort season! It's a joyous time when people are gay and carefree, and, if things work out right, show off just enough testicle to class up the joint. But Jort etiquette can be confusing for a first-time wearer, which is why the Mugwump Corporation is proud to present to you this short jort guide, which will keep you stylin' and profilin' all summer long:

1. One does not simply buy their jorts off the rack: Jorts start out as regular jeans and when they become worn out or hostile to the point where they need to be taught a lesson, they are cut with scissors around the knee area. Some upscale clothing places like Walmart and Target sell things that look deceptively like jorts. But don't be fooled. They were made with heartless machines in heartless factories. Jorts, by definition, are made with love and sweat. You don't buy jorts, you earn them.

2. Cutting your jeans too short will result in "dukes": The easiest way to figure out whether you're wearing jorts or dukes is to check for pockets. If the pockets hang out the legs, even a little, then they're dukes. Even if you're intentionally cutting your jeans duke-length, never cut them so that your ass cheeks hang out. This is gross. Do not be gross. We'll all go on just fine without having to see your taint hair.

3. Where to wear jorts: With the decline of 80's hair metal, jorts have unfortunately lost some of their former luster. Just remember that when you wear jorts, you bring the party with you. Liven up the mood by wearing them to funerals or donkey shows. Wearing them at seafood restaurants, however, is not recommended. Above all, remember, this is the 21st Century. Jorts aren't just for old men with thigh-high black socks on lawn mowing day or young fellas stuffing body parts into wood chippers. Go west, young man, and let your jort flag fly! 

The Easter Bunny's Huevos

This sanctimonious bitch I was talking to the other day was telling me a really cool story. Thought I’d share.


“This is Krazy Karen down here at Karen’s Things ‘n Stuff! We’ve got deals you won’t believe. Three slinkies for under a grand; a gas grill that fits in your pocket for only eight dollars; toothpicks made out of cars, sold by the pound; cars made out of toothpicks, sold by the yard; a fine selection of hand crafted furniture that’ll make your eyes bleed! Hurry on down now before our Easter Bunny gets neutered and changes his mind.”


A few minutes later, when I was in line for the bus, this old maid walked up to me and kicked me in the hip. She started shouting, “Repent, sinner. Repent now or forever hold your piece.” I held my piece out of fear. “He cometh for our sins, he cometh for our wants. He doth not cometh for our needs. Have you ever felt the touch of him?” I smiled and nodded, like a good soldier boy. I was mortified for my balls at that point. “IT IS BETTER TO LIVE ALONE IN THE DESERT THAN WITH A CRABBY, COMPLAINING WIFE, PROVERBS 21:19!” At that point I sucked in my breath and blew as hard as I could. I popped that old bitch’s bubble and watched her vanish.


Just as quickly as she vanished, a chubby bald man in a white wife-beater appeared before my eyes. He saw that my disbelief outweighed my transgression and hesitated before speaking. “UNCLEAN!” he finally shrieked at me before brandishing his mop and proceeding to beat me every possible way with it. During the sodomy, he asked, “Who’s your daddy?” “Mr. Who,” wasn’t an acceptable answer. He shifted sideways. I still squirt a little shit out of the hole in my left hip when I smell lemons.


While lying in my hospital bed, I can’t help but wonder if I watch too much television. Transgression can be a misguided pain in the ass.

The Monster Underneath the Stairs is Actually Kind of Nice

via carabella sands

Scantly P. Mortified heard the sounds of a monster underneath his basement stairs for about three weeks before he decided to investigate. The sounds of singing tater tots and Shakespearian soliloquies horrified him, but his laundry was getting stinky. So down he went, poo-stained underwear in tow, to confront his torturer.

After breaking the ice with a few dirty jokes, the monster offered to help Mr. Mortified with his laundry and said he was even willing to babysit his cat if needed. Mortified said that although he didn't have a cat, his turtles and rats could use a massage and a teeth cleaning, provided his insurance plan would cover it. He then offered the monster a handful of dried beaver chops and asked his name.

Though the monster declined the food, he said that his name was Willoughbee Straightshooter and he had recently realized that he was a failed monster. He couldn't scare anyone. "I remember the last basement I lived in," he said. "I was trying to scare the family of chickens that lived upstairs, making my usual noises and such. I heard a bunch of howling and then several thumps. I raced upstairs to see what happened. Turned out the entire family had died of laughter. You should have seen the smiles on their beaks. Well, that was that. I wasn't scary. So I decided, fuck it, I'll just get along with the upstairs folks from now on. You sure you don't need me to do anything? Those back hairs are looking pretty out of hand."

Scantly P. Mortified and Willoughbee Straightshooter are to be married in June.

Album Review: Damaged Goods by Hellbound Glory

Hellbound Glory is a damn fine honky-tonk band.  I can see why the folks over at XXX dig them so much.  They really are that good.

Recurring themes on Damaged Goods include drinking, drugs, heartache, and loneliness.  This is 21st Century outlaw music.  You like that sort of thing?  Then you'll love this album.  Hardscrabble down tempo tunes like "Better Hope You Die Young," "Lost Cause," and "Barroom Beauty" treat death, addiction, and other dark topics with, if not grace, then a kind of humility.  The uptempo tunes can be moving, too, but they're also great foot tappin' good-timin' songs.  Listening to this album, it's easy to picture yourself in a roadside tavern, drinking a few and dancing with strangers.

Damaged Goods is an album any country music fan should enjoy, but it doesn't hurt to bring some sort of hard-living personal experience to it.  These are amoral songs, but in the best sense.  The album explores working-class redneck troubles without judgement.  It's the strangest kind of negative beauty.  The characters in this album are offered no redemption.  These are people who won't come anywhere close to the American Dream, and, you know, they don't want it, either.  Damaged Goods is on par with the best of David Allan Coe, and fans of his should definitely get this album.  It's all about raw working-class desperation, unfiltered, unapologetic.