Mazel…good things.

Oh, the article is written by Dr. Ruth Westheimer, that little funny old lady who at the ripe old age of 89 waaay back in 1987, was popular because she might have used the term “penis” on the air once and that made her a credible source on topics such as “sex” and “oral stimulation”. Blech.

Two things immediately came to mind during and after this voracious beast of an article.

1. How the hell is Dr. Ruth still relevant? She’s 137 years old, for craps’ sake. The only way she can have any sex is if she makes sure her plastic on her couch is spotless and it has to be before JAG comes on the rabbit eared Magnavox, not to mention you’ll need about a gallon of Astroglide warmed up ahead of time to…you know what, enough visuals of Dr. Ruth’s crunchy old clam.

The sad thing is that while at one point when this country was going through sexual puberty and things started becoming more acceptable to say, Dr. Ruth was relevant. Sadly, though, in 2009 most 12 year olds now know more than she does and could teach all of us a thing or two about such sexual topics as the Alabama Hot Pocket or the Alaskan Pipeline. Which is why…

2. This is the single most obvious thing about sex to write about. Hmm…let’s see, if a man loses weight, he will be able to have much more pleasuable sex. Let me file this one under, “Things that even a retarded stem cell would know.” No shit, Ruth. It is a well known fact that if a guy is so fat that he becomes winded tying his shoelace and hasn’t seen his cock and balls without the help of a mirror and a forklift in over a decade, odds are his sex not only is not pleasurable, its non-existent. Fat cells clog arteries which equals no boner. Fat cells create fucking fat, which would get in the way of putting Sergeant Stiffy in anything other than a dirty sock. Finally, fat cells make Estrogen which not only creates man-tits, in turn who really wants to get a pounding from this dead sexy man.

But did you also know that fat cells create estrogen also and that, well, I can’t believe this, lowers sex drive? What the hell? Women don’t like having sex as much as men? Goddamn it, I quit.

The article should have just come out and said, “Hey! Small Planet! Get off your ass, do a lap around the block, lose the weight otherwise the next time you’ll get pussy is around the time you trick your cat into eating Fancy Feast our of your third roll north of your balls.”

I think my point is made.

Any other “no shit” news to report?

*cough ‘bullshit’*

Well, now it has been brought to my wandering attention that The Hills has spawned a reality spin-off called The City.

The City, for those of you that don’t know, is where this:

“California girl who toiled for years for her father’s sweatshop while being fed week old Churro’s and jars of donkey piss, finally escapes the fifth layer of Hell and travels across country in the back of a manure hauler with nothing but a frayed pair of granny panties, a sock filled with bacon and a polka-dotted muu-muu all the way to New York to try her hand in the fashion industry. She got a sweet gig through careerbuilder or something and was relieved when her years of study and reading about fashion under the dim light of a swinging light bulb paid off with this sweet gig.

In New York, she has met other people that have worked equally as hard, if not harder, to get where they are. It’s amazing they are alive, quite frankly, I mean, it can’t be easy wrestling alligators during mating season or being a Venezuelan prostitute for years to earn that kind of money to move to NYC.

Anyway, they all have a place to stay now, some food, jobs…”

…all that shit, but that’s not important. What is important is that the above is a much better story line written by me, a no talent hack (feel free to disagree) that can’t write a strip club commercial, let alone a television show…and which one would YOU want to see?

Now, I could only manage to watch forty-three seconds of episode one of The City before I felt yesterday’s Super Bowl corn dogs and sauerkraut trying to escape, so in 43 seconds, here’s what I gathered. The City has…

An attention whore. Check.

A guy that is a flaming fucking tool and of course he is “a musician” who happens to be the stars love interest. Check.

A flat out, legs spread across the East River whore. Check.

I'd still do her

An anorexic model with the self-esteem of a fat cheerleader who smothers her boyfriend out of fear that he’ll fuck anything that moves when she is gone. Check.

A boyfriend that will fuck anything that moves when his anorexic girlfriend is gone. Check.

And a New York socialite that has no reason to be in existence, really. Check.

If I had $1 million...she might do me

Am I missing anything?

Basically, The City is a show that will continue to pander to the youth of today’s constant need to try and relate with rich do-nothings in order to feel good about their own lives in Fuckyoursister, Missouri…

…much like Soap Operas do the same for Xanax taking, Fupa having, mom jeans wearing idiots from the suburbs of Milwaukee.

Oh, one question…and this is a pre-emptive strike.

What is the over/under on how long will it be before somebody comes into this blog and comments, “if u h8 this show so much, y did u take the time to rite about it? ur jus jelus n omg i think ur a retard. i love the city, i luv mtv n i think whitney is kewl and jay is sooooo hawt.”

I say five minutes. Any takers?

Die already MTV…die.

Who likes this show and why? And before you tell me to check myself and call me a cock sucker, let it be known that I hated Melrose Place, too, so save your “Generation X vs. Generation Y” bullshit for another day.

Fall Out Boy sucks. That is all.

Here’s the problem. Fifty of those seconds were filled with possible side effects and Surgeon General warnings about the use of this product. Really. Fifty seconds. Basically, the ad sounded like this:

Woman: Hey ladies! Wanna fuck the entire hockey team after the big game? Well now you can and you won’t get preggo! Take Yaz! Pop the pill, lie down and spread ‘em! Woo Hoo!

Female Announcer: Possible side effects of Yaz include mild nausea, vomiting, missed period, bloating, cramps, poor choice in male selection, breast swelling, vaginal crunchies, green ooze coming from your fish hole and purple piss…you’ll feel like a Slurpee machine, actually.

Women with heart trouble, herpes, blood circulation problems, kidney or liver disease, fat asses, tiny breasts, have red hair, love black guys and flash gang signs in random facebook photos should not use Yaz. Basically, if you use this product, you might die. But then again you won’t get pregnant, so boo yah!”

At least that is what I thought I heard.

Anyway, same goes for boner pills or old dudes having trouble urinating…any other pharmaceutical out on the market designed to help our naughty no-no parts…

And what the fuck is PMDD? I know about PMS, but now there is a whole other level of acceptable bitchiness for women out there? Holy happy shit people! I can’t wait to hear that excuse from my secretary.

Me:  “Hey, Zoey! How are you today? Did Mr. Schitzenpuken call about that contract?”

Zoey: “RAWR! FUCK YOU ASSHOLE, YOU TINY DICK PIECE OF SHIT!…sorry, I have PMDD.”

Anyway, Yaz helps PMDD to some degree, I guess. Makes the hormones more regulated or something. So, you might not be a total fucking bitch anymore, but you might have blood clots and your vagin reeks of Mrs. Paul’s fisksticks to everyone on the elevator. So that’s cool.

Listen. I have the solution to our reliance on drugs to make our penises and hoagie-houses work better.

Don’t want to get pregnant? Pull out, stick to anal sex or give blowjobs.

Can’t get a throbbing boner? Get a magazine…or go to the Happy Ending Palace Massage Parlor and Restaurant, pay $50 and let Sook Mi take you to heaven. Tell her I sent you.

Can’t piss? Drink a lot of beer and water. You’ll be a regular water fountain pissing boy in no time.

But trading heart attacks, blood clots, weight gain and hair loss just to make sure that you don’t have a spermy infiltrate your kiddie bubble within the tubes seems drastic…if not lazy.

I have to go and make sure Zoey didn’t cancel my appointment with Sook Mi.

Mazel…good things.

But, as I get older, I start to wonder why its so damn hard to stay in shape…other than round. I think about it when I’m walking, when I’m eating whole pizzas, every time that I get winded in the shower washing my feet, or have trouble seeing my penis without a mirror, I go on this little fitness kick to get my fat bulbous ass in shape.

Well, something has piqued my interest folks. Something new and exciting, something that I can relate to. My good Lord, they’ve harnessed the power of lost dignity…they’ve released…

Flirty Girl Fitness.

There I was, it was late, I was sucking back a six pack of Miller Lite tall boys eating all fat hot dogs searching the late night shows for those “Girls Gone Wild” DVD offers, just so I can TiVo them and imagine that I, too, am on some random college campus while white girls everywhere are inserting things into orifices and doing unsavory things that only happen in Thailand…when the Flirty Girl Fitness spot came on.

Mazel…good things.

Who knew that it was now abundantly clear that not only is the stripper lifestyle so warmingly looked upon, but that random ex-skanks that want to relish their old days of bar hopping and “backing into” the football team would embrace it as a way to stay fit!

The kit comes with a pole, a DVD and lord knows what else. It has workouts called “Booty Beat”, “Just Teasing” (they need to get rid of this one), “Beginner” and “Intermediate Pole Dancing” all the way up to “Full On Clam In Your Face”…actually they don’t have that one, but I don’t care. This is groundbreaking.

Now, I never said I would do the workout, because, well, that would be flaming gay. But it does bring up another point or two that I would like to know more information about before I start recommending this item to every woman that I know that I feel needs a, how shall I say it, a boost to get the fat off their ass.

So, here I go:

Question 1. Will there be a moratorium on lawsuits placed for those women that should not be anywhere near a brass pole, let alone flying on one?

I can see some real heifers not consulting their physician before pursuing such a program and in the process end up straining a quad or a gunt muscle. Or are lawyers on call?

Question 2. Will the DVD include the following:
- Extra floor support beams for the women that don’t peel off 30 before trying it.
- A male fitness counterpart…you know a douchebag DJ kit that comes with a DVD on how to dance/dress like a dickhole.
- Instructions on how to give proper lap dances, you know, in case somebody wants to watch?
- and if somebody does want to watch, how about Monopoly type fake dollar bills to give that real strip club feel?

And speaking of that “real strip club feel”, will it also include…
- A blow up Pacman Jones, maybe a Ray Lewis? How about a random NBA baller? The doll can come with an electric fan and extra fake c-notes to “make it rain” for even more authenticity…maybe even a bonus CD of gunshots and screaming! I mean, if you’re gonna play ball, you might as well feel like it’s Dodger Stadium.

All in all, I think it’s a great idea these skanks, errr, Flirty Fitness chicks have come up with. Now, I’m no misogynist, I only play one on TV, but I think all most some women should try it. I would pay good money to see chicks dance and swing on poles in the name of fitness, instead of the other reason I see chicks dance and swing on poles…

Wait…they DON’T want to go home with me?

Balls.

What do you think of this idea? How does it rank on the money making scheme chart?

A few of you youngsters out there are unfamiliar with the term “rabbit ears”. A lot of you are clueless of the term “turn the dial”.

Then again, a lot of you are clueless about life, you douchebags.

I digress.

You see, television technology has jumped leaps and bounds over the past 25+ years. I can remember when cable TV was a novelty, like when only the rich, fuckheaded, tool-boxy neighbors “The Johnson’s” could afford that shit. I was stuck with five channels and an antenna, wondering what it would be like to see a movie un-cut and maybe even a bad word thrown in for good measure.

VCR’s were a big deal too. Record television and movies? Fo’ real? Watch movies, uncut over and over again until the machine ate the tape? That was awesome!

Over time, those things came and went, upgraded and improved. Obviously, as you can tell by my assholish behavior and seedy language, I did eventually get that cable, partaking in many nights of Skinemax After Dark and movies that an 11 year old has no business watching (Revenge of the Nerds, Deliverance, Anything with Eddie Murphy), but I did, and I am now an angel to prove it.

We’ve moved onto TiVo, Satellite Television, DVD players, Digital Recording devices, Digital Cable, Plasma Screen TV’s, Flat Screens, YouTube, Webcasts, so on and so forth. And in reality I have tried to keep up with the technology as best I could, without being such a dick hole that I have to have the latest thing all the time, like you credit rich assholes that HAVE to have all the latest to show off to your buddies that hate you until football season, and compensate for that “Lack of Weiner Girth Syndrome” that you have.

With all of that palaver being said, I have seen, for the 1,902nd time, that commercial stating that after February 17th, if you still use an antenna to receive television, you’ll need some kind of converter box to watch TV as everything is going digital.

Great advice.

I’ll take it a step further.

If you still receive your TV solely by antenna, that means that you still have to turn the dial to change channels, in which my polite advice is to GET WITH THE 21ST CENTURY, YOU HORSE AND BUGGY DRIVING RETARDS! Good Lord! We’re a month away! Buy a new television and get with the program called Cable TV or something! Now, I get that some people might be out in the “Boonies of North Dakota” and they don’t get cable out there, yeah fine sure. But you aren’t still farming with Oxen and Push Plows, are you?

No. And do you know why? They are inefficient antiques that were state of the art at the turn of the last century, for God’s sake. For the Love of all that is Holy, get a satellite dish, since, well, we do live in a country that has landed a man on the moon (allegedly), landed some piece of shit on Mars (allegedly), has a missile Defense System (allegedly) and put about 100 million floaty thingies in our Earth’s atmosphere to keep us ahead of the times information-wise.

So, do it already, before you end up watching NBC and Kelly Ripa blatther on about nothing like the crack-headed wind-up doll she is while a tornado rips through your Wagon Train, which would not happen had you had the Weather Channel.

Get the picture?

Do any of you actually use an antenna for TV anymore? If you do, ever comsider stealing cable, because, well, you are a loser if you don’t have at least that?

My friends poor wife. That fat bitch.

Anyway, she happened to have an Us Magazine sitting in her little library next to the commode. Normally I would use this as poo paper, and I tried reading the back of a shampoo bottle, but I had read it before. The boxes of those tampons, whoa Nelly. How you women bleed for five days and live is beyond me. Thank god I have outdoor plumbing.

So, I was reading this Us Magazine, and one of the main stories in it was about Blake Lively, this hot little trollop whom I have no clue is, but I’ll tell you, I was glancing at that Jergen’s bottle ever so lovingly, if you catch my drift people. Mazel…good things.

Blake Lively, as I found out from her wikipedia page (the bible of all, well, things) is a starlet from Gossip Girl and the movie Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and it’s follow up Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants: Holes in the Crotch or whatever, who cares.

It seems that as a girl, poor Blake was made fun of because of her choice in clothes as a kid. She had a thing for going to antique boutiques and picking out clothing with her momma and then wearing them to school, so when she went to her private school, the rich kids saw her taste for clothes, called her a shit load of names like, “Doody Head” or “Stupid Face” or “Whore” or whatever 2nd grade girls call each other. She was traumatized and is now pissed (probably toward that spoiled rotten, rich bitch, fat ass fucking twat Whitley Crustycrack for picking on her).

And now that she is a star, she has spilled the beans to Us regarding her feelings about being picked on and wants all the gossip following losers to feel her pain.

“The more they work with me and see my style, and the more I learn about fashion, the more input I have,” she says. “It’s more collaborative now than it was in the beginning because then I had no idea what I was doing.”

Yeah, toots. You’re the star.

Look, Blake.

I’ll go out on a limb and say that you were a complete fucking clown in school weren’t you? Had a passion for the dramatic…always were acting, probably were goofy looking, right? Face it. You were a theater dork. And theater dorks get picked on because they are, well, dorks. Low on the food chain. Self-esteem of sewer rats. I get it. I played football. I picked on your kind relentlessly. You were a tool.

There is a little lesson that I learned early in life, Blake. From a guy named Crash Davis. You don’t know him because, well, he’s fictional, and he is from 1988.

But he once so eloquently said,

“You’ll never make it to the bigs with fungus on your shower shoes. Think classy, you’ll be classy. If you win 20 in the show, you can let the fungus grow back and the press’ll think you’re colorful. Until you win 20 in the show, however, it means you are a slob.”

My point is, when you make it to the big times, you can wear whatever the fuck you want, up to and including nothing, and the press will think you are special. Until you make it onto the big screen, you are a fucking dork and the target of many rich kids jokes about how how your Strawberry Shortcake underwear has shit stains on them.

In other words, Blake, deal with it. You’re hot and rich.

In the meantime, Blakey-poo, if it makes you feel better, I’ve printed your picture for target practice.

Mazel…good things.

So, who feels bad for celebrities and their traumatic experiences as kids?

These fucking humps were sold a bill of goods, or embarked on a career where attention and bugging the shit out of you is the way to go and now they need to schlep it to every Harry Paratesticles they know.

#4. Local Actors

Acting in some capacity since their first grade Christmas pageant where they were Vixen and were caught picking their nose on video camera, now they are playing the lead in the off, off, off Broadway, civic theater version of Capote at the Masonic Temple, which is the acting equivalent to coaching the Massillion Mustard Farts to the little league 4-5 year old tee-ball title.

They wouldn’t be so bad if they wouldn’t be so pompous about their abilities. Seriously, you don’t need to hammer us with emails and texts stating that for one night only, you feel like an Tony Award winner because, well, you aren’t. And for the record, you can’t sing and the funniest part of your High School senior play was when you sharted green apple splatter while hitting the high notes in Hello Dolly! THAT was gold, pure gold.

#3. Environmentalists

Global warming, greenhouse gases, tainted water, pesticides, carbon footprints, tree killing, good fucking lord leave me alone already! Is there nothing better to do with your time than harass 40 million people about the hazards of eating a tomato grown in Southeastern Iowa because they used a pesticide that doesn’t agree with the local grub worm population? Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick. Thanks to you cock knockers I have a low volume toilet that I have to flush fourteen times to choke down that really sloppy, Titanic looking turd, using 14 times the amount of water I would have used had I just used my “Great Lakes Water Level Lowering” Toilet once. Get a real job and quit trying to dissect my living habits, you tree hugging bully.

I’m looking at you Al Gore…

#2. Car Salesman

In what other profession can you be pulling the little round Bingo balls at the  Tony Randall Convalescent Home and Child Day Care and go on a ramble about about the upcoming “Dollar Extravaganza only at Shitbox Subaru Hyundai Yugo”?

None, that I know of.

And why do you need to accost me to say that all models are on clearance and you’ll give me an even better deal if I could tell five of my friends to go to Shitbox Subaru Hyundai Yugo and then pass the savings onto me?

Truth be told, I could show up with my cock in my hands loaded with peanut butter and offer a smudge of that as a down payment and you guys would do it, so quit bombarding me with mailers and fliers and phone calls, jackass.

#1. Multi-Level Marketing/”This isn’t a Pyramid scheme” Schlep

Suckers. This is any get rich scheme designed as an Independent Business or Franchisee where there is “little up front cost” yet you get your bowels sucked out of you with the proverbial wallet plunger for the cost of everything else. These people have to set up house plans where you invite as many people as you know, to show the plan, the way to financial freedom in only 12 months, blah diddy fucking blah. These folks are real bad, filled with golden dreams of boats and riches and nice houses and never having to work for “the man” ever again so long as you buy your own soap or exotic fruit drink at 5,000% mark-up.

I’d rather dry hump a whole side of beef jerky loaded with bees while my cock was dripping with honey, thanks for playing.

Mazel. Good things.

Which ones did I miss?

A few weeks ago I attended a Christmas musical that my awesome, social genius kids were participating in. It was a religious thing, held at a church that has more multimedia equipment than a local television station, and featured a series of God loving enlightening pappy crap tunes that sounded a notch better than cats getting spayed by a lumpy nub of a finger through their rectums (which I imagine would create howls and shrieks of pain, unless that is your kind of thing).

I don’t know much, but I do know one thing…

Private, religious schools have nothing but a collection of hot mom’s I’d like to nail while on my knees praying to the almighty clam.

I don’t know what it is, maybe it is my unique ability to notice anything with a nice set of tits and legs from 10 miles away, but my kids’ school has a ton of these women. I’m pretty sure that now I would at least take time away from being a total douchebag to volunteer at their school if I knew that every time I went I’d have a full stock of whacking material implanted in my head.

However, in retrospect, I might want to reconsider after further reviewing the situation (once my fluffed member returned that blood it was borrowing) I noticed a few things that were red flags about these pseudo-Stepford wives, and will make me retract toward more sane public school mom’s.

1. Some of them spoke.

That was a bad thing. Sure, they looked fabulous in their tight shirts, jeans and fuck me pumps or whatever they were wearing to make me more turgid than a skateboard rail, (because nothing says, ‘I love Jesus’ more than a paid for huge rack on display, perfect nails and $250 shoes). But the words they use. “We hope that God blesses you in the New Year.” “I feel so wonderful being able to provide a wonderful house the Lord loves.” People don’t really talk like this, do they? No way, sorry. It is physically impossible for a woman to be THAT fucking hot and not say, “Stan, I want to bounce on that baby arm you call a cock.” Just. Not. Possible.

2. Their idea of a “fun night” is procreating.

The act in and of itself is fine by me. Hell, the idea of rough, ruthless, “let’s play the back nine next” sex is an idea I can wrap my head around. But, when you’re a woman with four kids under the age of seven, well, I begin to wonder if you even have a television. If your idea of “home entertainment” is getting cum dropped in you and hoping that you can spend the next nine months waddling around like you smuggled a beach ball, well, I’ll be not sowing the seed of love, sweets. I’m watching football during that time o’ the month. Mazel.

3.  Their kids are fucking brats.

I guess your kids will be assholes when they’re raised on McDonald’s in large SUV’s playing Madagascar every time the key is in the ignition and pretty much get everything they want all the time out of mom because she feels guilty about being at pilates, classes, on her cell phone, pregnant or whatever they do to avoid their already born kids. That’s a recipe for raising sucky, assholish, “therapy in a few years for sure” kids. Remember, my kids are cool, your kids suck.

4. They are married. Yeah. Kind of a problem. At least public school mom’s are open to the idea of fucking other men. Which I guess is why half of them are single. Huh. Go figure.

So, bring on the Christmas plays, the Easter pageants, the Sadie Hawkins dances, Bar Mitzvah’s…whatever. I love the ladies at these things and those images that pop in my head of what I could do to these women, and it’s free. Like low quality sample porn sites. And public schools.

Mazel. Good things.

In my opinion, you guys have some good things to offer. I mean, you have given me Pete Wentz and his royal doucheyness to make fun of, and that’s cool.

You have given me hope that your generation will finally figure out how to go and fuck oneself scientifically after watching Zac Efron look like he wants to fuck HIMself, kinda like this guy…

and that will cut down on the human population, so kudos for that in advance.

So, therefore I am willing to overlook the fact that you have given us Brillo pad hair having, skinny women’s jeans wearing, breaking up with hot hoors over the telephone in 25 second dudes that have made emasculated males the envy of teens everywhere.

I overlook that because you have also given me the hot chick that runs the counter at my favorite liquor store down the street, who smiles ever so sweetly at me while I pick up my Early Times and Foster’s pints, sweetly enough that I go home and masturbate to that image of her…

I’ve said too much.

But I cannot overlook your lack of knowledge when it comes to music history. There is no fuckin’ respect for the predecessors in the music biz…not from you people anyway, rip off artists. Not when you open your mouths and embarrass yourselves in public and sound so clueless. C’mon, Generation Y’ners. Just because you rock out to Guitar Hero World Tour doesn’t make you a musician and certainly not an expert on all things musical from 1970 forward.

Look. I am an entertainment executive. I know my shit. If you are going to call me or anyone out on any topic of historical musical or film significance, know your shit, don’t be whiny pussies and stomp up and down like a four year old retard when I prove you wrong. Case in point.

In the past three weeks, I have had:

• Four late teen, early 20’s “girls” emphatically insist that Kid Rock wrote “Feel Like Making Love” because it was on his 2003 album. When I told them that it was actually written by Paul Rodgers of Bad Company fame in 1975, they looked at me like I had a cock growing out of my ear and told me, “there’s no way that song was made before. Kid Rock writes all his stuff”. Okay sweet tart. Go fuck your beer bottle.

• A 22 year old male call me out by saying that not only did Rush suck as a group, but that he only liked bands from the States. However, his favorite “old school” band is Oasis. You know…Oasis? That “band from the United States of England”. He insisted they were from California. Strike Two.

• Another 20 year old radio contest winner tell me that she loved the latest Pink Floyd song that was out. When asked which one is that, she replied, “Learning to Fly” and that she “heard it a few times on the radio recently and never heard it before, so it must be new.” Yeah, 1987 new. But she was smokin’ hot, and she was wearing this lace thingy where I could see her tittays, so she got a pass.

Look, I am splitting hairs here. I’m not a fucking know it all either. But I also don’t throw a tantrum when I am told I am wrong, I just simmer inside and call you a cocksucker while drinking sour mash whiskey, you fucking humps.

Generation Y, allow me to appeal to your collective brains. You are saavy, smart, you spend money on stuff I promote so you help pay my bills, thank you. You late teen, early 20 something chicks allow me to get a raging boner without the use of pharmaceuticals…Mazel, all good things. But please. Learn some pop culture history. It’ll be good for you and you can learn not to repeat the same disastrous mistakes us Gen X-ers made. You know, like this asshole…

And loosen up those jeans, guys. Your self sterilizing an entire generation by scrunching your ball sac.

And you young ladies? Call me. I have a ten inch tongue and can breathe through my ears.

Mazel. Good things…

Listen people. I’ve said it once, and I’ll probably end up saying it again and again, because you are all as dense as a 1970’s Playboy Centerfold’s triangle carpet…

Nobody really cares about your fuckin’ kids. Really, none of us do. I don’t pretend for one second to think you care about my awesome, cream of the crop, super intelligent offspring, so don’t think I give one “squeaky top of the ass crack” fart that I care about yours.

(This includes all of you whack job mothers that feel the need to grace us with that Holiday letter about your seed each and every year. Here’s a hearty, “eat my ass” for those flaming piles of peanut-filled shit.)

Well, Jerry Maguire apparently hasn’t received word of my dislike for his immaculately conceived child. In addition to pimping his latest Hibachi Turd of a movie, he was quoted as saying to some People Magazine reporter, who clearly should have it in the cards to kill herself, that his daughter Suri is one hell of an intellectual being.

“Watch out Harvard! She’s not even three years old”, says the report, “but little Suri Cruise is a bona fide brainiac, boasts her proud papa, *closet gay actor Tom Cruise*.”

“Her vocabulary is incredible!” Maverick told PEOPLE outside the New York premier of Valkyrie. “Still his favorite words to hear are “I love you, dada” and “I love you mama”.

That shows her vocabulary skills? No specific examples of how incredible her vocabulary really is, Cole Trickle? C’mon. I want to hear Suri say, “I am really enthralled that my father decided to stretch his thespian wings by playing perhaps the most courageous individual ever to attempt bringing down Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich.” Then I might say that at 2.5 years old she has an incredible vocabulary.

Instead, she has the ability to say, “I love you dada” at that age. Sorry, Brian Flanagan, that only proves to me that she is not functionally retarded. Hell, my kid, when she was five, in her awesomeness, wrote a short story about a pig named Gunter Schnitzelgong, whose best friend was an Alligator named Alphonso Funktastic, so I guess that means she is going to win the fucking Pulitzer, then, right?

Until then, leave the predicting of the future of your daughter’s intelligence to his lord and savior L. Ron Hubbard and just continue making mediocre, “kinda gay” movies like you have been since 1986.

And Katie? I don’t live that far from Toledo, in case you want to visit your family. Then come over and get a deep-dicking courtesy of me. Lord knows you aren’t getting it from Eyes Wide Shut, wherever he/she is now.

Mazel…good things.

* Not actually added to the article in People Magazine