Holla, here’s the beginning of my latest rap, let me know what you think:

Greased Up

Greased up, because I am distended
That’s the way I get when you are bended
– Over, like a four-leaf clover,
Smother your ass like an Irish rover
Smack it, because you know I’m gonna pack it
Butter it up like my name is Buddy Hacket
Constipated, my underwear stinks,
Gonna stick it in like I’m Jar Jar Binks,
With a “misa,” and a “misa,” “misa,”
Gonna lean you over like the Tower of Pisa
Rapunzel, Rapunzel throw down your hair,
I’ll climb on up and take it on rare
Like steak, but you know what I mean
– Prime cut, the kind’s that lean
I need that, cause I’m on a diet,
So shut your pie-hole and keep it quiet
Bitch, your hair’s too long,
You grovel around me in a way that’s wrong
Dignity, that’s what you lack,
But you compensate with a fly-ass rack
Speaking of which, shut your mouth,
You never stop talking, just like Ralph
On Happy Days, but they weren’t so happy
Cause Richie was a pussy and the bitches were nappy

Grab a cool 12 pack of canned Miller Light, some lawn chairs, ZZ Top's Eliminator album (blarring out of your King Ranch F150), your favorite Dale Earnhardt T-Shirt, a few stacks of one dollar bills, some of your closest male chauvinist friends for one hell of a Sunday afternoon! Feel free to scream, yell and tip as you watch the ladies mow your lawn.

1,500 plus CPDRC inmates of the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center, Cebu, Philippines bring life back into the timely classic "Thriller."  No mere mortal can resist…

According to witnesses, prominent literary and cultural critic Harold Bloom “snapped like a dry branch,” in front of a New York bookstore, where legions of Harry Potter fans have been cueing up to purchase the latest Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

“It’s crap! It’s fucking crap! It’s double fucking crap!” He ranted at the assembly of overtly nerdy adults and blank-faced children – many wearing faux dark-rimmed glasses and wizard hats – who seemed more perplexed by Bloom’s sub-references than intimidated by his harangue.

“What’s a Northrop Frye?” one school-aged boy with an “I Heart Hogwarts” t-shirt asked his mother.

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Maybe some kind of breakfast special?”

The 900-pound gorilla of literary criticism, Bloom is the Sterling Professor for the Humanities at Yale University and Berg Professor of English and American Literature at New York University. He is also a leading “bardologist” who has painstakingly analyzed the works of William Shakespeare, and has gone so far as to insist that Shakespeare “invented” humanity.

“What has [Potter author] JK Rowling invented? Broom fetishism? Fixation on some asinine delineation between normal people and these bullshit magical types? And you all pretend this is new?”

Bloom then spread the fingers on his right hand and began counting. “There should only be four contemporary authors on the shelves in that whole fucking store! Fucking [Cormac] McCarthy, fucking [Don] DeLillo, fucking [Thomas] Pynchon, and fucking [Philip] Roth!”

He then shook his closed fist at the hapless Barnes and Noble security guard who tried to placate him with a Grove Centenary Edition Samuel Beckett boxed set. Brushing the offer aside, Bloom cupped his genitals through his corduroy pants with both hands, and shouted, “I’ve got your Muggles right here!”

A minute later, Bloom reeled toward the curb, arms stretched overhead in total capitulation. He then propped himself against a parking meter and vomited. Hunched and wiping a smear of drool from his mouth, he hissed: “I quit. I surrender. You fucking cunts don’t want authentic imaginative vision, then you don’t get it! Spend your weekend soaking up that fucking derivative pabulum. Go ahead, just dumb yourselves right on down. Why hasn’t anyone read The Flight to Lucifer? You . . . you . . . literary lemmings!”

Bloom then smiled slightly, taking a touch of pleasure in his alliterative moment before a pair of police officers gently led him to a waiting ambulance.

Dear Mr. Beale,

My wife recently left me, and I've been very alone. All the self help books I've been reading tell me I was in a co-dependent relationship. They say I should learn how to be alone before I look for someone new, learn how to be a "whole person" without anyone else around. But when I'm by myself I just feel alone. How do I become a whole person?

Dear Lone Star,

The self-help manuals have it exactly wrong. Being alone, to quote the great Arthur Bach, is simply horrible.

When others are not there to distract you, there is always the danger of having to face yourself.

Let me drop a very expensive pearl of wisdom that my mind coughed up while I was being water-boarded by a Russian mobster with biceps larger than Rosie O'Donnell's thighs: if there's one thing that you must avoid at all costs, it is you. If you ever comes calling, run like hell. Your inner self is not really something you should get in touch with, nurture, or savor alone-time with. You'd be better off facing Hulk Hogan in a cage match.

It's not that you is a bad motherfucker. You is much worse than that: you–your inner self–is like your mother, ex-step-mother, and ex-wife rolled into one, except with no redeeming secondary sexual characteristics. He–actually your inner self is a girl–she is a whiny little bitch who writes letters to advice columnists. She's the kind of inner self who buys self-help books about co-dependent relationships when she should be at home making dinner while you drink beer and watch porn. She's selfish, needy, and has the emotional range of a depressed circus elephant. Above all, she's fucking boring. She's got no sense of humor. If you hang out with her for very long she will drive you fucking insane. This is not to say you should get back together with your ex-wife; she's just like this as well.

Run, do not walk, from yo(h)urself. You should be more afraid than a hooded Rush Limbaugh being forced, on threat of electrocution and worse by the militant armed wing of GLAAD, to do a marathon impersonation of Michael J. Fox while balancing precariously on a can of spam. If running from yourself requires the kind of cocaine habit that would embarrass the bastard mutant offspring of Robin Williams and Kate Moss, then do it.

Destroy yourself before you run into yourself. Otherwise, they only way to save yourself is to do what everyone else does–find someone who isn't so nauseatingly tiresome and latch on to them. Oh yes, deep down their inner self is just like yours and they'll become unbearable. But that takes time. They have to close the distance.

You can keep running.

Yours in contempt,

Mr. Beale
P.S.: When you need a break from running, please see the enclosed bottle of lotion–for rubbing on your pussy.

Simpsonize Me is a great site.  Everyone is overloading it right now, but it's worth it to see yourself as a Simpson's character.  Just picture yourself at Moe's Tavern sipping on a Duff Beer with Barney and Homer….so be patient and follow these intructions:

1. The site is under a heavy load, so if you keep getting errors, try again.
2. Your picture needs to be at least 640×480, but bigger is better. Go for 800×600 to be safe.
3. 72dpi is OK, but again: bigger is better.
4. Straight-on head shots are all that seem to work. If you get errors, go into Photoshop and pump up the contrast settings. The more, the better.
5. While in Photoshop, removing any random items behind your head will also improve your results, especially if they have a lot of texture. A white wall works, but things like bricks, trees and skylines need to go.

He's probalby singing about his secret man-crush on David Cassidy, but it doesn't make the song bad.  Let the soothing sounds of John Travolta's "Whenever I'm Away From You" take you away for 4 delightful minutes and 38 wonderful seconds.

In a move that surprised some and intrigued others and left still others vaguely indifferent, Rupert Murdoch introduced FOX NEWS CLASSIC to the cable viewing audience. The network will consist largely of old newsreels and editorials from local news channels across America — some as old as the early 1950's and as recent as the late 1990's.

"We feel that by creating this network, we're responding to a very real need," Murdoch said in a statement in his fuzzy, Bond-villain-with-Alzheimer's style of speech. "We feel that America — now more than ever — needs to be reminded of a time when the views of today's extreme far right were the American mainstream. When bigotry and intolerance, hatred and alarm were the watchwords of every good citizen. When gays were in the closet and women were at home, where they bloody well belonged."

The network claims to have something for everybody. From editorials praising George Wallace trying to prevent black students from entering a white school, to B-roll of Barry Goldwater speeches. Murdoch even promised forgotten weather reports from 1954, "When there was an afternoon in Duluth in the month of February where the temperature was in the low sixties. This will go a long way toward debunking the myth of global warming."

"This is an exciting day for the silent majority of Americans who want nothing more than to shut up, sit down, and be told what to think," said nebbishy FOX pundit, Sean Hannity, who will have a weekly feature on the network. "I'm just proud to be a part of it."

This is an amazing film. It really convinced me that the Japs were an evil, soulless nation. I’m just brainstorming here, but we should have Disney un-freeze Walt and make Anti-Taliban Propaganda films. Hmmm…

Open on a lonely bar in the middle of the Nevada desert. Goofy, drowning in the loss of his favorite Frisbee, is approached by Col. Trautman about a dangerous mission that only he and he alone can accomplish – kill Osama Bin Laden and all “evil-doer” Taliban extremists. Goofy tells Trautman that he’s done fighting wars for the government. Goofy is outside licking his nuts when he sees Donald Duck approaching from the distance on a flaming red, white and blue crotch rocket. Donald tells Goofy to put the past behind him, they high-five, embrace and immediately jump on a flight out of Edwards AFB for the Middle East. Over the mountains of Afghanistan, Donald and Goofy do a night HALO jump armed with only two Rambo knifes and one match. Against impossible odds, they track and kill Osama and all his evil doers and eat their still-beating, malevolent little hearts out of their rib cages. The film would climax in a breathtaking Anti-Taliban interpretive dance around a large bonfire with “evil-doer” blood smeared all over Donald’s face and chest – all to the music of Michael Sembello’s “Maniac” from the Paramount Pictures all-time classic motion picture film Flashdance. Goofy is off in the distance, the light from the fire dancing across his hardened face. He does a bong hit out of Osama’s skull and remembers his best days with his long, lost Frisbee. Fade out.