Deke Skeever, owner of an adult toy/erotic goods store in San Francisco called The Pansy's Saddle has had a series of complaints and possible lawsuits lobbed his way this past week because of a product he sells — an inflatable sex toy designed to resemble Ann Coulter, the blond Fascist Aryan media shrew.

"I still don't see what the problem is. It's just your run-of-the mill sex toy. I've sold thousands of the same model altered to look like Pamela Anderson, Sharon Stone, and Bill Parcells."

The problem, it appears, stems from the fact that most of the people who bought the toy find it to be anatomically (if not politically) incorrect.

"It's got a goddamn vagina!" Barked Lowell Puckfist, an assistant district attorney from nearby Campbell, CA. "Why in hell would I want an Ann Coulter doll with a vagina?! My Scooter Libby doll doesn't have one, my Barry Goldwater doll doesn't have one, even my John Fucking Birch doll doesn't have one …!"

According to the California Better Business Bureau, Puckfist isn't the only one who's feeling mislead.

"To the best of my knowledge, there has never been any documented evidence that Herr, I mean, Miss Coulter actually possesses female genitalia," says Newton Bunnykirk of the CBBB. "These people, the ones who've bought the doll, feel they have a legitimate, well, er, …beef."

When asked if he would give the displeased customers refunds on their purchases, Skeever said that "for obvious reasons, refunds or exchanges on sex dolls are just a pretty bad idea. Think about it for a fuckin' minute."

Virgil Lentilbent of Reamed Creek, Ark. died in his trailer yesterday. He was 87.

Lentilbent, who worked as a custodian at the local Greyhound bus station for 42 years, had claimed to be the first person to coin the racial epithet "There's black people, and then there's niggers".

"He was awful proud of it [the phrase]," said his wife, Flossie. "That'd be purt near the first thing outta his mouth when he met a stranger. 'Name's Virg', he'd say, 'I'm that guy what first said there's black people and then there's niggers.'"

While there can be no actual proof that Lentilbent was in fact the first person to utter the phrase, a study at Colgate University's sociology department has shown that well over 2,000,000 people in the United States alone have claimed authorship of it. "We actually have a party for the whole department about every eight months or so to celebrate each ten thousandth person who claims to have invented the phrase," said Everett Sheffield, who is black and founded the study. "We're consistently amazed at how the people who champion white supremacy are always the worst examples of it. It'd be almost cute if it's roots weren't so steeped in bloodshed."

But not everyone agrees.

"A man of great wit and articulation has been called home to God", said Toby Roy Kilgore, host of a morning call-in show on Reamed Creek's AM radio WKKK and a lifelong friend of Lentilbent's. "And I doubt there's be a monument or even a plaque to commemorate his contribution to humanity. It's a goddamn disgrace."

It's not just about the bad-boy anonymity of having your face fully covered by black headgear. Nor is it the heady juxtaposition of Italian designer jeans, soccer shirt, and other Euro-wear, with the genuinely impotent rage not quite meted out from the barrel of your jammed AK-47.  Or the adrenaline rush you get from awkwardly handling a rocket launcher while crouching in the middle of a dilapidated urban street, waiting to be obliterated by an American or Israeli tank.

It is, my friend, about one of 2007's best home based businesses: Middle Eastern Insurgent.

Tired of office drudgery and un-creative work? Looking for more freedom–from your boss, family duties, not to mention Zionist oppression? Do you want action? Are you angry and frustrated–and I mean ready to explode? Do you have a history of suicidal ideation? Then Middle Eastern Insurgent could be the home business for you.

While not always the most lucrative of home based businesses, insurgents we polled spoke extremely highly of job satisfaction. Much of that satisfaction is related to the fact that this business is a no-lose situation: if things go wrong (or right, depending on the mission), you're a martyr, and that means 72 virgins waiting for you in heaven. And although we worry that even that could get pretty stale after eternity (and what is angel pussy like anyway?), there certainly must be other heavenly rewards. It's paradise, after all.

On the other hand, if you do well, you could end up doing anything from enjoying a permanent vacation in the caves of Afghanistan to looting the offices of a rival party in the Gaza strip. And did we mention that multiple wives? That's right–you don't have to wait to be with God to get laid.

Getting in is easy and there's little overhead. Your comrades will supply you with AK 47, rocket launcher, and dynamite vest. As for training, Middle Eastern insurgents get to train in some very exotic locations. Buy your "Let's Go Pakistan" guide right now.

Keep in mind that this home business is not for everyone. For some it will raise ethical considerations. If you're not ready to kill infidels and if you value your own life, you're probably better off with our previous highlighted home based business, "Envelope Stuffer." But if you have what it takes you could make a fortune, have fun, and even end up as the next beret-wearing anti-establishment gun-toting hero on posters covering the wall of almost every college dorm room in the world.

Dear Stat Dorks, Sabermetrics devotees, and Moneyball disciples –

I just wanted to take a moment and say on the behalf of anyone who ever played, coached, watched, listened to, or talked about baseball how completely very sorry we are for not recognizing or embracing your principles and formulas.

We’re sorry to believe in the things you so ardently dismiss. Things like clutch hitting, RBI’s, wins and losses for pitchers, bunts, steals, and that one manager over another can make a difference.

We’re sorry we played the game as kids and loved it. We’re sorry we remember where we were when Kirk Gibson hit that home run in Game One of the 1988 World Series and we’re sorry for arguing over beers whether Walter Johnson would be a dominant pitcher in the modern era.

We’re sorry for being thrilled by something that is ultimately, at its best, a game. Sure Major League baseball is a business, we don’t pretend that it isn’t. But when we play it — God forbid, even as a video game — it’s a game. We’re sorry for not thinking to turn it into an exercise of arithmetic … I mean, c’mon, what kid wouldn’t rather be doing math when he could be playing baseball?

We’re sorry we don’t just collectively bow down and blindly worship Bill James (though to be fair, he seems to want to distance himself from you people just a bit) and praise Billy Beane as the only real baseball mind in the game despite the fact that the teams he’s put together have never, never, ever won a playoff series. We’re sorry our reality is a bummer for his theory.

We’re sorry we didn’t commit your precious OPS, WHIP, and VORP* to our pantheon of stats. Not that they’re without merit, just that, well … sorry, they’re just so decidedly unsexy. “VORP”?

We’re sorry we have favorite teams. Sorry we have prejudices and grudges. Sorry we sometimes believe in fate and curses. Sorry we remember the ball going through Buckner’s legs, Bobby Thompson’s home run, Steve Freakin’ Bartman, and Bucky Fucking Dent.

We’re sorry chicks dig the long ball instead of, well, you.

We’re sorry, … we’re just so fucking sorry.

Now let us enjoy our game.

PS — actually, we’re not sorry about making fun of VORP.

*Value Over Replacement Player

Singer/Actor David Johansen apologized publicly today for the existence of his one-time alter ego 'Buster Poindexter' and the song he recorded as Poindexter, 'Hot Hot Hot'.

"I really can't begin to say how sorry I am for that kidney stone of a song," a visibly shaken Johansen began from a prepared statement. "For all the weddings, parties, vacations, cruises and holidays I've ruined because of that song, I can only offer a heartfelt apology. I ask that any and all people in possession of a copy of that song — be it on tape, LP, or CD — destroy their copies as soon as is reasonably possible. I'm really begging you here, people — I can't bear the weight of this humiliation any longer, knowing that song is still out there. Do it for all of us."

The song, which contains the powerfully contemptible "I'm hot/ you're hot/ he's hot/ she's hot" sung with a repetition bordering on the satanic, has been a favorite of drunken morons, overweight paralegals, tone-deaf homosexuals and most Germans and has sat at or near the top of hundreds of music critics' "Worst Songs of All Time" lists.

"I say a mere apology is not enough," opined University of Wisconsin senior Tip Triptick, editor of the independent music magazine, Scorn, as well as programming director for the university radio station, "His actions deserve nothing short of violent reprisal. A kneecapping or nut-punching. Something permanent and severe."

We're told a simple blog post from an ex-Hollywood publicist-turned-blogger making the rounds on the internet started it all. In his post, the blogger claims that Gyllenhall’s homosexuality is the “ worst kept secret in Hollywood. ” Convincing Ledger’s coked-up Hollywood publicist that we’re respectable suicide counselors, Original Unoriginal got the opportunity to speak with Gyllenhall’s Brokeback Mountain co-star Heath Ledger by phone early Tuesday evening.

“I’m the fucking Joker, but it looks like the fucking joke is on me,” says Ledger in a barely audible, despondent tone.

According to sources, Ledger reportedly locked himself in a bathroom and vomited for three hours straight upon hearing the rumor that Jake Gyllenhall is a homosexual – from more than one hundred of his closest friends.

“My friends think I’m a fag now. I get up to 30 text messages every hour,” comments a broken Ledger.

Heath and Jake became close friends while filming the critically-acclaimed, Academy Award-winning Brokeback Mountain in Canada roughly three years ago. In the film Ledger and Gyllenhall portray two cowboys who meet during a summer job and forge a complicated, and ultimately tragic lifelong romance.

“He always talked about that fucking stupid fucking Stanislavski shit. Brando, Dean, Lee Strasberg, Stella Adler…he really sucked me in.” Ledger begins to sob quietly through the phone. “I guess it wasn't a secret on set that he stole one my shirts that I used in the film from wardrobe. Life isn’t worth fucking living anymore.”

Attempting to calm the near suicidal Ledger, Original Unoriginal chooses perhaps the most inappropriate method acting quote of them all:

“Well Mr. Ledger, why didn’t you try acting?”

We hear silence on the other end of the phone, followed by either the sound of a cell phone being thrown into a wall or a gunshot. Developing…

Midget Wrestler Caleb Smith was also known by his ring name El Dopa. His signature move, the Trackmark, was feared throughout the industry.

"He was a great wrestler," said friend, enemy, and occasional tag-team cohort Dodgeball. "First he would get you into a headlock. Then he'd spin you around, get you real dizzy. Then he'd turn you over and pile-drive you."

El Dopa frequently grabbed the microphone away from announcers and created a daunting impression in a single-piece white spandex costume with a white, horse-shaped mask: "First I'm going to get you into a headlock. Then I'm going to spin you around, then …."

"He built his image around heroin," said frequent opponent Slam Spade. "But it wasn't believable. That guy was muscular."

And as it turned out, more muscular than even his friends knew. Last week Mr. Smith turned a routine orgy with a girl's volleyball team into a scene of tragic carnage.

"Simultaneously asphyxiating six active females with dental floss is not easy," said local police chief John Deer, "even for a non-midget. We've only seen it done once before. but when you're 'roided up like that, anything can happen."

Steroids. Apparently Mr. Smith was so imbued with them that his testicles had retracted all the way into his brain, lodging themselves behind and protruding his eyeballs, driving him insane.

"It's a tragedy," said ex-wife Linda Kemp. "He wasn't like he was portrayed in the ring. I mean he was a real asshole, but wasn't violent on a regular basis. Every now and then to let you know being a midget didn't mean who couldn't keep his women in line. But I had no idea he was capable of this. Not with dental floss."

A group of smokers who claim to speak for the "oppressed smokers all across America" are very angry with a man they say is be "undermining the mission to end smoking bans" in several US cities.

The group, Citizens United against National Tyrannical Sanctions (CUNTS), were outraged when they recently learned about a smoker who behaved with civility and consideration toward non-smokers.

Tom Smith (not his real name) was recently seen stepping outside a restaurant to have a cigarette — even though the city Tom lives in doesn't yet have a smoking ban in place. "It just seems like the decent thing to do," Smith told reporters. "I've never felt entirely comfortable blowing my cigarette smoke into the air in confined areas, especially when other people are around. I mean, when you really think about it, expecting other people to be subjected to cigarette smoke just because I feel like having one is awfully rude."

Elmer Flass, CUNTS spokesman and a two pack a day smoker, couldn't disagree more.

"When guys like this Smith character start popping up, it really puts a stain on the rest of us. Smokers are proud of the ceaseless whining and bitching they do about not being able to light up in bars and restaurants. We're happy likening our plight to that of slaves or even prisoners of concentration camps. Getting huffy and indignant because we can't put others at risk is something we're proud of. Discourtesy is the very capstone the smoker's existence. But the Tom Smiths of the world — with their consideration for others — could ruin our good name."

"We've got a very solid plan going. One that not only will allow a smoker to light up wherever and whenever he pleases, but also a strategy that will force non-smokers to cough up [pun presumably unintended -- Ed.] a percentage of their bar or restaurant checks to go toward paying for the cigarettes or cigars bought and smoked at the establishment that night. We're fucking tired of these cheap-ass bastards getting free second-hand smoke."

When they sent us here, they sent us with a mission. Dick Cheney said: "Make those savages laugh." Well by Allah we tried.

They embedded us in the U.S. Army's 1st Comedy Dragoons, the oldest and the most comic regiment in the army. During the Civil War it saw action at Harper's Laugh-Off, the largest comedy open-mic showdown between the North and South. Some said slavery couldn't be made funny, but they underestimated the creativity of a rag-tag group of brave slapstick boys, The Three Minstrel-teers.

Today, in Iraq, our brave boys drive M3 Bradley CFVs and M1A1 Abrams tanks full of comedy straight into the hearts and minds of the enemy/local populace. Three years ago it was Carrot Top, howling from a megaphone while jumping up and down on a 120 degree sun-baked turret, his face glowing in the heat even more than his hair.

The Iraqis didn't find it funny.

Then they escorted in Robin Williams, whose free association stream of consciousness riff on the peculiarities of Arab culture did not strike a chord. Weeks later Woody Allen's neurotic hypochondria had become oddly appropriate and unfunny, given his age and the local mortality rate. It's just hard to raid someone's home in the middle of the night, line them up in front of Woody Allen, and expect them to be a receptive audience.

Then they sent in OU for a final surge.

We tried, we really tried. We did a lot of funny shit in a lot of funny places. We told Michael Jackson jokes to entire Mosques. We held up pictures of Paris Hilton's crotch to quaintly modest Iraqi women. Our fly-girls showed their tits all over Baghdad and passed out jello shots. Our jackass team lit their balls on fire and ran screaming down the streets of Ramadi. Nothing worked.

What about the OU website? We blogged our asses off. But when they're not getting indiscriminately killed by bombs or at checkpoints, Iraqis seem to spend more time trying to survive than checking their newsreader during the daily 10 minutes of electricity for the latest OU post. We suspect many of them do not even surf the Web, much less visit our site.

I sit here absorbing the sites and sounds of Iraq for the last time. The local culture. The call for prayer. The smell of freshly brewed coffee with hints of filet o' fish, and the feel of a plastic bench against my ass (I'm writing from a MacDonald's in the Green Zone). What can I say, except that it's with great sadness that we — the OU team–are leaving Iraq.

It's a sad day. We came to teach them about democracy and the zany potential of the internet and the healing power of laughter. What can we say–I guess you can't change a culture at the end of a gun, or even a pen. Sorry Dick Cheney, and sorry G.W. — we tried and failed. Sorry, Iraq. And thanks for the memories — including this precious last memory, my delicious McKebab.

Again, thanks. It's been real. It's been funny. It's been real funny.

Just not funny enough.

An elderly Iraqi woman claims that two bullets hit her house Tuesday after a coalition forces raid on Sadr City.

The woman cites the Magic Bullet Theory from the Kennedy Assassination, saying that the first bullet entered through the front door at a downward angle of 17 degrees, destroying her brand new 3-Panel Oval Craftsman Pella Door. It then moved upward in order to leave the door, destroying a brand new Waterford Crystal Chandelier, where it waited 1.6 seconds, turned right, slashed into her original Warhol Cagney Print and bounced into her La-Z-Boy recliner in pristine condition.

A second bullet entered her kitchen in a spectacle of explosions, destroying her brand new Sub-Zero refrigerator, nicking the rustic contemporary marble counter-top, where it did a miraculous 180-degree turn and speeded towards her living room. There the bullet waited for 2.3 seconds and entered a Sony Bravia XBR 52" 1080p Flat-Panel LCD HDTV shattering several components before exiting and then entering, then exiting, then entering a new Pioneer Elite Blu-ray High-Definition Disc Player with Standard-DVD Up-conversion — from which it later fell out and was found in almost "pristine" condition on her sand floor.

The woman has filed a $1.5 million lawsuit against the coalition forces for property damages, pain and suffering, loss of enjoyment in life's pleasures, and emotional distress.

Source.