Don’t worry, I’m not going to make fun of Farrah Fawcett for battling cancer. The news of her recent relapse was sad, and I wish her the best.

But I would like to address the latest reports about the star of Extremities and my older brother’s wet dreams seeking alternative medical treatment in Europe. Or at least that’s how its being reported by those who haven’t suffered massive brain trauma. But the good folks at Starpulse.com chose to run the story with a slightly more provocative headline:

Farrah Fawcett Seeks Illegal Cancer Treatment

“Illegal.” That’s some savvy reporting. I mean, why write that a B list actress/A list masturbatory aide is undergoing unapproved medical therapy, when you can imply that Farrah Fawcett hopes to cure her cancer by committing a crime? I’m actually amazed by their level of restraint.

How about Fawcett Claims Snorting Heroin Cures Cancer;

or Fawcett Rapes Puppies Upon Advice of European Physicians;

or 9 Murdered Bolivians Found In The Trunk of Cancer-Free Fawcett?

If you’re going to suck, why not go for the gold?

Despite the path blazed by classic Middle Eastern action flicks like Rambo 3, I haven’t been able to get excited about The Kingdom. Maybe it’s that Jamie Foxx with a gun reminds me too much of Stealth, or that Jennifer Garner as a soldier reminds me too much of Jennifer Garner. It’s hovering in the low 50s on Rotten Tomatoes right now. For a comedy, 50s could mean anything, but for a political action drama with a conscience—the sort of stuff movies critics are dying to love—that’s pretty bad. I sort of want to love it but for a different reason: after exhaustive research (when is IMDB going to buy Rotten Tomatoes goddamnit?) I can confirm that the director Peter Berg, is also the guy who played “Irish” Terry Conklin in The Great White Hype, one of the most underrated comedic boxing performances this side of Rocky IV (Two Stallone sequel references in one paragraph, I’m on fire!).

Also, The Darjeeling Limited is in limited release this weekend (damn you Wes Anderson for making film critics more redundant than they already are) and though it’s at 65%, the Cream of the Crop are giving it a rough ride. One critic who liked it said it’s “Somewhat funny, but in strange and subtle ways, even by Anderson’s standards.” I’m guessing this means the actors just think of a joke and the audience has to guess what it is. That’s really the only way things could get any subtler than The Life Aquatic, in which Bill Murray dressed up in a red cap and pretended like he was playing poker with the camera for two hours.

I’m guessing the Kingdom bombs (sub $10 Million opening) and Darjeeling does about what Aquatic did: make enough money to fund Anderson’s next celebration of sad people in weird clothes.

Look, I’m no prude. I have a scheduled lovemaking session with my fiancée on the first of every month, and let me tell you: it gets pretty festive. But I feel I’ve got to draw some scrupulous attention to the ads for American Apparel I’ve been seeing everywhere.

I first saw an ad on the back of a magazine at a family get-together at my father’s house, and immediately assumed he was a child pornographer. After a very awkward ten-minute discussion and a bowl of spilled guacamole, it was explained to me that this:

was in fact an ad for a clothing store and not for a rainbow of underaged sex slaves as I had assumed. Since then, I’ve seen a number of these ads pop up, usually on the backs of magazines. This has proved problematic, as I am a functioning illiterate and spend my time at the doctor’s office or in line at the grocery store perusing magazine backs.

Suffice to say, the healthy erection I achieved after leering at this ad for twenty minutes didn’t help my attempt to persuade the checkout girl to give me a double coupon discount on a single coupon basket of mango slices.

If I could read or write—which, again, I cannot—I would have probably put it together that the word “tights” refers not only to leggings, but also to the woman’s vagina, and blown a load right there in aisle five.

These ads are dangerous, and they’re getting worse. I spotted these two smoldering on the rack at a local newsstand:

On the left, although you can’t read it (welcome to my world!) is text encouraging you to Google the model, Lauren Phoenix, billed as an actress and director. Can you guess what kind of actress/director Lauren Phoenix is? I’ll give you a hint: her name is Lauren Phoenix.

A Wikipedia search for the lass will reveal that she is indeed a rising Canadian porn star, and in fact has been awarded XRCO’s no doubt prestigious “Orgasmic Analist” award two years running.

And dear God! If my deciphering of the unintelligible scribbles on the right is accurate, this disease is spreading to our friends in Japan! Not only do I fear for their men, I also have to wonder what kind of mind is approached with the idea “we should advertise the fact that we are opening a branch of our clothing retailer in the Land of the Rising Sun” and responds forthwith with “what girl that works here can we get naked?”

That’s right! The models featured in American Apparel ads, according to text on the models section of their website, are primarily workers at the American Apparel factory! What kind of magical place is this where everyone is half-naked, attractive, and willing to be photographed with a single spotlight on grainy film a la’ 1970’s snuff films? What powerhouse of masculinity put this thing together?

The answers are Los Angeles, home of Pink’s hot dog stand and other sexually suggestive products, and Dov Charney, AKA this guy:

Gotta love the 70’s ’stache. Explains a lot, primarily this article accusing him of rampant sexual harassment and fraternization with his employees. But despite controversy and scandal, Mr. Charney is standing strong, refusing to back down from his hyper-sexualized advertising style. In fact, perusing the AA website one can unearth unpublished gems like these ones:

And of course this lovely ensemble:

Mmm, yeah, hot. God I’d love to fuck me some of—ARE THOSE LITTLE KIDS?! STOP IT DOV CHARNEY! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!

To find out way more than you’d ever care to know about the sleazemonger Dov Charney and his filthy, filthy business, check out this exhaustive knowmore.org business profile of AA. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some adult education classes at the learning annex to attend.

It’s no secret that the People’s Republic of China and the United States have been in a bit of a pissing contest for global domination since the fall of Gorbachevland—both sides have their pros and cons, and history will show whether America, with its freedom of press, religion, and erotic “Battlestar Galactica” fan-fiction, will triumph over our competitors to the east, with their cheap labor, catchy songs like “Generations Remember the Great Kindness of Chairman Mao,” and unquestioned dumpling superiority.

However, the Chinese recently fired a major shot across our national bow by staging the meeting shown above, captured by Yahoo News:

He Pingping (R), a 2′ 5″ man, adjusts his suit as he shakes hands with Bao Xishun (L), a 7′ 9″ herdsman listed by the Guinness World Records as the tallest living man, in Baotou, north China’s Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region…

Aside from the fact that He Pingping’s parents should be ashamed of themselves for giving their son such a racist and derogatory name, the meaning of this photo-op is clear: the Chinese are pulling ahead in the most important race of all: Guinness World Records. Add these tallest and shortest men to what I assume are their existing distinctions for Greatest Wall, Leadiest Toys, and Most Wangs, and it’s no wonder the U.S. is being left in the dust, records-wise.

So readers, I ask you: what great potential records are within our nation’s grasp? Do we have a shot at:

• “World’s Pastiest Jiggly Fat Kids”?
• “Most Meandering Plot in a TV Show About Castaways”?
• “Slowest Postal Employees”?
• “Most Starbucks Locations per Square Inch (Currently 7.8)”?
• “Celebrity Most in Need of Panties”? or
• “President Most Suited to a Guest Appearance on Hee-Haw”?

Leave your suggestions in the comments. The status of America as World’s Most Totally Kickass F*%#ing Nation depends on it.

If you’re one of the biggest douchebags in the entire world, you’ve probably thought to yourself at some point, “I love t-shirts with words on them, but where can I find one to express my vehemently pro-rape sentiments in a humorous way?” Wonder no more, my friend; there’s this new thing called the internet, and you can buy all kinds of stuff on it. Even t-shirts that cater directly to you and your penny-draft swillin’, beer-pong playin’, fag-beatin’ retard friends!

There’s no shortage of funny pro-rape t-shirts out there on the web. In fact, there’s too many! How can you tell which pro-rape t-shirt is the right one for you? With this handy Friday fashion guide courtesy of CRACKED.com, that’s how.

Slogan: Does This Shirt Make Me Look Like A Rapist?

Message To The World: I am insecure in my appearance and need to seek approval from the outside world. I also might be a rapist.

What It Says About You: You are new to the rape scene. While you want to let people know that you’re ready to get into the game, you’re still not sure-footed enough to really effectively do so. Maybe it’s best to stay on the sidelines for a little while - is there a Big Ten university nearby? If so, bring a notebook to any bar near campus and watch closely. Don’t wear this shirt, though - try something with vertical stripes for now.

Douche Factor (1-5): 2

Slogan: Anti-Abortion But Pro-Rape

Message To The World: I think that life begins at conception, and that each of those precious gifts from God is sacred and has the right to live. I also think that rape should be legal - that way I can rape lots of women and not go to jail.

What It Says About You: You are a complex individual. While your pro-life sentiments make you a great fit for abortion clinic protests and GOP rallies, your views on Rapist Rights will make it difficult for you to make friends there, let alone find women to rape. Have you ever heard of Meetup.com? They’ve probably got something for you.

Douche Factor (1-5): 3

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Dear readers, in my eternal quest to find the freshest, most intriguing, least important minutiae about which to blog, it sometimes happens that there is a moment of kismet, of destiny, of utter serendipity. At these moments, it is as if the Comedy Gods have reached down from the heavens and deposited a fully formed piece directly in front of me.

I give you, without alteration or exaggeration, four headlines that appeared in my Google news search this morning. I’ve linked the articles themselves, but trust me; they’re not nearly as hilarious as the headlines.

Angelina Jolie Loves Eating Bacon and Sausages

Christina Aguilera Digs Chicks

Britney Spears Loves Public Restrooms

Hillary Duff Likes Vaseline on her Face

Amen.

ADDENDUM: Turns out Hillary Duff loves Vaseline so much she’s agreed to become their new spokesperson. It’s a perfect fit, really; whenever I think of Hillary Duff, my first reaction is always to go straight for the Vaseline.

SECOND ADDENDUM: Yes, I masturbate with Vaseline. No, I don’t recommend it.

The board of directors of the Munich Oktoberfest have decided to ban everyone’s favorite lazy-eyed mogul from attending this year, because apparently during her visit last year she “displayed behavior unbefitting a drunk, selfish, promiscuous, functionally retarded socialite.” Okay, that may not be a direct translation, but German’s a tricky language.

The point is, what do you have to do to get kicked out of a beer festival? That’s like the asshole at a frat party who just finished his eleventh game of beer pong, hurled all over a girl, then proceeded to make out with her, is asking you to leave because you’re bothering everyone

So what did Paris do? Did she strip naked and befoul all the bratwurst? Did she make an unflattering comment about this year’s Miss Beer Gut? Did she read this poem about her aloud? No. She dressed up in lederhosen and tried to shill her own brand of canned wine. At a beer festival. In Germany. Celebrating fine beers. Paris Hilton brand canned wine.

I know they’ve got a shady record, but honestly, haven’t the Germans suffered enough?

First of all, it’s not even a hundred dollars, it’s $188. That’s like Carl’s, Jr. charging eight fifty for their six-dollar burger. But price gouging aside, The One Laptop Per Child Project hopes their new low-power XO computers will provide the fundamental foundation of knowledge developing nations need to launch themselves into the lower middle class.

To do this, the company has developed a Linux-based, nearly wordless OS that runs on durable, cheap laptop-like devices. Between Nov. 12^th and 26^th , the company is having a “Buy One, Give One” sale during which you can buy one of these glorified Speak n’ Spells for the aforementioned 188 clams, and thereby earn the opportunity to purchase another one to donate to a needy child. Hey, remember the days when giving away money was free?

Some financial heavy hitters have already stepped up to the plate, including world’s richest person Carlos Slim Helú, who plans to buy 25,000 XO computers and hurl them from a stealth fighter jet as he flies over Nigeria. Nicholas Negroponte, founder of the project, hopes generosity like this will trigger others to support the movement and bring a torch of knowledge to the poorer areas of the world.

No, Nicholas Negroponte, founder of the project, that’s not what’s going to happen. What’s going to happen—after our forums are overwhelmed with messages written in that click language—is thousands of Ethiopian children are going to discover Google image search. And, if the scamps are anything like me, there’s only going to be about a two month lag time between typing “boobs” into Google and posting goatse all over your friends’ desktops while they’re sleeping.

Now, I’m not begrudging the starving children of the world pornography; God no. I’m just saying if we’re going to give it to them, let’s do it right. The XO computer has a wi-fi connection, which is a plus, but it’s also powered by a crank. That’s going to tie up your masturbating hand, and no one wants that. At the very least, we’re looking at a massive wave of carpal tunnel from all the kids cranking their computers continuously to avoid interrupting their download of Ass Factory 9: Assignment Ass.

So I say, let’s just cut out the technological middle man and send over some magazines and tapes. Hell, it’s not like we need them anymore. We’ve got the Internet.

#5: ESPN Announcer Daydreams About Britney Spears

I’m not much of a sports fan. As such, I’m not all that familiar with the conventions of football commentary, but still, even I can tell that there’s something off about this. Mostly because the other guys are like “What the fuck are you talking about?” before quickly and clumsily shifting the focus back to football. It’s almost like they’re scared that thinking about Britney is gonna turn them gay. Probably because it will. That’s how they (the gays) got Perez Hilton.

#4: The Worst Comedian Ever

Funny Hat and ill-fitting suit jacket? Check. Camcorder set up on a tripod in the corner of your parents’ basement? Check. Actual jokes? Not so much. I’m not saying that jokes about fat chicks aren’t funny (they are, obviously), but there are no actual jokes here - he’s just saying that fat chicks exist and assuming that that will be enough to make us laugh. The saddest part about it is that usually that IS enough to make me laugh. Somehow this kid managed to make it unfunny. You’ve heard of observational humor? This is more like observational observation. My guess is that this is either a brilliant performance art piece or a secret disaster that should have been taped over immediately. Although either way we get to laugh at him, so I guess it doesn’t really matter.

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On Monday we talked about the upcoming premiere of the worst-titled show in history: Happy Candy BlowJob Dirty Sexy Money. Well, last night I checked out the first episode and learned that watching New Booty Diamonds Dirty Sexy Money is no passive affair. Instead, I suffered the three following extreme reactions:

1. Good lord! This isn’t a drama! It’s… it’s… I’M WATCHING A SOAP OPERA! (Am I gay now?)
2. Wait! Nate Fisher came back from the dead, went to law school, and now works for the Darling family?
3. Am I crazy or… wait… is it true? YES. Billy Baldwin is good in this!

To explain, for some reason, I assumed —that in a post-Sopranos, Deadwood, Rome, Weeds, Rescue Me world— Dirty Sexy Money would be a drama. The presence of Donald Sutherland and Jill Clayburgh only added to that belief. But make no mistake. Hot Leggy Gold Dirty Sexy Money is a full blown ridiculous soap opera. (Oh, and as far as the question about being gay, I should explain I was having some hot gay sex while I was watching.)

Next, Peter Krause. I enjoyed him on Six Feet Under, but he’s not exactly Malkovich or even Michael C. Hall. He may have been portraying a New York lawyer, advising the most powerful family in America, but he was still Nate Fisher, the dude who ran a food co-op in Portland before returning home to the family funeral business. Maybe Rachel Griffiths can leap off the abysmal Brothers & Sisters and stoke Krause’s acting fire the way she did so well in 6FU.

And lastly, yes, it’s true. Billy Baldwin was really enjoyable in his portrayal of a New York Attorney General, future Senator, and tranny sex enthusiast. Only Baldwin seemed to strike the right balance of drama and the playfully absurd that a completely ludicrous fluff piece like Steamy Sugar Orgasm Dirty Sexy Money needs to survive.