Guest Editorial by Gloria Steinem

The time has come to take an inventory of the ground womyn have gained in the battle for equality in this country, and the struggles that we still face in a nation that looks upon us as third class citizens. For while there has been much progress, the road ahead is a long one, fraught with peril and obstacles.

Let’s take a look at the most significant changes the equal rights movement has given womyn thus far.

• More equitable distribution of STDs. In the old days, venereal diseases were mostly the province of men and a small, select group of womyn forced into a life of coital servitude by their white, male oppressors. With the advent of the womyn’s rights movement, every womyn is much freer to do whatever she wishes with her body, whether that be alcohol and LSD-fueled threesomes with strangers in the parking lot of a nightclub, or more traditional threesomes with people she knows casually on a mutual acquaintance’s cabin cruiser. The choice is hers, and accordingly she has earned the right to acquire these heretofore exclusive diseases.
• Upper body strength drastically increased. Held back for centuries by men, the success of the womyn’s rights movement has freed us from having doors opened for us at every turn as if we were anxiety-ridden puppies, too weak to open them for ourselves. Freed from the restraints of our former masters, you can hardly walk down the street today and look at a womyn without noticing the rippling forearm fortitude feminism has wrought. Indeed, it is strength that allows for both unaided door opening and the swift pummeling of any ignorant Neanderthal who continues to treat us like a frail daisy. If for no other reason than this, the struggle for our own personal sense of strength has been worthwhile.
• The View. Finally a mass-media venue for womyn to talk about the things that womyn want to hear about. And furthermore, the opportunity to have strong, intelligent womyn discussing the important issues of the day has certainly put to rest the stereotypes that we are catty, petty beings who are only interested in comparing clothing, dishing gossip, and bad mouthing our sisters.
• Bill Clinton’s presidency. Not since the days of JFK (who, may I remind you was gunned down by an anti-feminism extremist) have womyn been so welcome in the White House as they were under William Jefferson Clinton. We are also heartened by the rumors that womyn will be equally well-received in a Hillary Clinton White House.
• The right to choose.It was not that long ago that a womyn’s gaia-given right to decide what to do with her own reproductive system could only be discussed in the back alleys of large cities. So I am often brought to tears today when I hear of a mother of three making the decision to terminate those children right up until their twelfth birthday. We’ve come a long way, babies. That is freedom. Equality. True choice.
• Muslim women.Since the events of 9/11 I have personally received a great deal of grief on the topic of our Muslim sisters and the supposedly poor treatment they receive. My response is always the same. Who are we to judge what these womyn truly want? Are we so arrogant as to assume that our culture should apply to everyone? Where the less-enlightened choose to see a womyn being lashed as oppression, I choose to see it as yet another facet of sexual freedom, being expressed publicly, and loudly. Have we forgotten from whence we came? This is yet another issue of empowering womyn to make their own decisions, whether we agree with them or not as seen through our jaded Western eyes. To paraphrase noted Rush frontman Geddy Lee, “If they choose to be genitally reconfigured, they still have made a choice.”

Have there been advances? An intellectually honest person cannot look at the aforementioned accomplishments and say “no.” However, there are still many more battles to be fought. As I sit here and write this, there are still real, live men out there who continue to engage in such sexist activities as paying for dinner, pulling a womyn’s chair out for her, and imposing their fascist beliefs on their young daughters by refusing to allow them to wear clothing from feminist icon Madonna’s new Eager Teen Whore line.

I promise to keep fighting the good fight sisters.

Editorial by Buckley F. Williams

I read with great dismay, although no surprise, a story this morning about another innocent farmer whose arm was viciously mauled by a bloodthirsty farm combine: a phenomenon known in combine circles as a “homicide mangling.” By my count, that makes seventeen such attacks in calendar year 2007 (and that’s not including one so-called “accident” in Iowa where a farmer, clearly fearing combine reprisal, told police his cat bit his arm off). As this pattern of violence by these machinated extremists continues, those in the mainstream media do their level best to ignore the facts and present this trend as a common occurrence in all gas-powered machines.

Indeed, if such organizations as The New York Timesand CNN are to be believed, you would be under the impression that you are just as likely to have your arm ripped from the shoulder in a snow plow, leaf blower, or street sweeper as in the farm combine’s whirling blades of death. This is patently false. Moreover, such equivocation merely detracts from the problem at hand and gives a de facto pass to the true aggressors.

The question then remains: Why do combines get a free pass? Well, for starters, the PC mentality that riddles our national discourse has greatly contributed to the special treatment–some would say coddling–that combines have enjoyed from most in the political and media establishments. On top of that, there are those in the combine community who protest loudly and vigorously at any perceived slight or instance of combine-profiling, claiming that the fundamentalist combine organizations are fringe groups and not reflective of the combine population at large.

Take the words of Ibrahim Cropper, spokesman for the Council of Combine Anti-defamation, Independence, and Reparations (CCAIR). When presented with irrefutable facts regarding the extent of farm combine violence, Mr. Cropper immediately dismissed the information as suspect.

“Rhetoric such as this smacks of intolerance and combinophobia at their basest levels,” said Cropper. “Since their creation by the Most High John Deere–Wheat Be Upon He–combines have been known as the Farm Implements of Peace. That anyone would question this speaks volumes about the depth of hatred in their hearts, and the low moral fiber within their souls.”

To say that Mr. Cropper misses the point would be an understatement of the first order. Any serious-minded person would see his arguments for what they are: transparent attempts to skirt the issue and convince the American farmer that the combine is his friend when all evidence suggests otherwise. But the angry, fundamentalist combine invective is the dominant voice in the combine community. A recent poll of combines showed that most felt mangling was justified under certain conditions. What are we to think?

To date, most of the attacks have taken place in the traditional combine enclaves of the Midwest. However, this most recent mangling occurred on the east coast–South Carolina to be exact. As the wave of violence spreads out across the land, we must ask ourselves: Where are all of the so-called moderate combines that we keep hearing so much about?

Chillingly, the combine that attacked in South Carolina this weekend was described by other farm machines as an upstanding piece of the harvest apparatus, well-liked by all and even good-humored. It wasn’t until after the attack, as the rogue combine was being disassembled, that police discovered the fundamentalist combine literature under the hay.

We’ve grown weary of the platitudes: Most combines don’t agree with these attacks; combines are under a great deal of stress at harvest time; they are only reacting to George Bush’s failed agricultural policies. As long as Mr. Cropper and his ilk continue to present weak excuses, it will be left to the rest of us to keep the pressure on our government to address this growing wave of combino-fascism.

Ed: Following is a letter that we’ve sent to Patrick French, a writer at The Daily Mail, concerning his article Sunday entitled “The Surprising Truth About Rage Boy, America’s Hated Poster Boy Of Islamic Radicalism.”

Dear Mr. French:

We read with great interest your article on Sunday about Islamic Rage Boy (“The surprising truth about Rage Boy, America’s Hated Poster Boy Of Islamic Radicalism”). Had you contacted us, or any of the other websites that poke fun at Islamic fundamentalism, you might have discovered the true story behind Islamic Rage Boy, and not simply published a one-sided puff-piece about Shakeel Bhat.

We are the editors of The Nose On Your Face, the website that coined the term “Islamic Rage Boy” (not to be confused with the politically-correct “Rage Boy”), and one of the American websites that you take great pains not to mention in your article, yet from which you draw the majority of the quotes and examples supporting your argument that Americans are engaged in a campaign of hatred against Mr. Bhat.

Stunningly, besides neglecting to mention–or even attempting to speak with–us, you also fail to point out that we are a humor-satire-parody website: not an insignificant frame of reference with regard to the material you cited. We can only conclude that you did not contact us because our input would have interfered with your portrayal of Mr. Bhat as a pathetic, tragic hero under hateful attack from the odious conservative blogosphere in the United States.

So allow us to raise a few points.

• Islamic Rage Boy and Shakeel Bhat are not one in the same. Islamic Rage Boy is a fictional, satirical character, created and copyrighted by The Nose On Your Face (the image we use for Islamic Rage Boy is an illustration). Yes, Mr. Bhat provided the visual inspiration for IRB, but after that, any similarities are coincidental, at least on our website.
• Islamic Rage Boy is not a symbol of, as you say, “all that we fear and despise about Islamic fundamentalism.” To the contrary. Islamic Rage Boy is a comic concept, the humorous embodiment of all that is wrong with Islamic fundamentalism. It is a deliberate effort to fight primitive savagery with laughter. That your piece misses this critical point is staggeringly careless and journalistically suspicious.
• You call the decal we designed (”Honk If You Like the Tender Embrace Of A Mountain Goat On A Chilly Star-Filled Evening”) “a popular American bumper sticker.” This is simply preposterous; we’ve sold seven of them.
• Our Islamic Rage Boy material includes: song parodies, op-ed pieces, advice columns, and the aforementioned bumper stickers (along with t-shirts, mugs, etc.). Whether anyone finds these funny is certainly debatable, however, the fact that it is intended as satire/parody is not open for debate. Again, a point you failed to make in your article.

You seem to have set out to prove that Shakeel Bhat does not live up to the concept of Islamic Rage Boy. We agree, and had you contacted us, we could have saved you a trip to India (but then you wouldn’t have been able to enjoy Shakeel Bhat’s brother covering you with a blanket against the Kashmiri cold).

Putting aside your predisposition to all things Islam, though, we must take issue with your inexplicable conclusion that Mr. Bhat’s failure to live up to the notion of Islamic Rage Boy somehow proves that Islamic fundamentalism is either inept or rare.

If, as you say, “Osama Bin Laden has hijacked Islam from the vast majority of the world’s Muslims,” then why is the vast majority allowing a handful of extremists to be the dominant voice of Islam? Where is their outrage? This, Mr. French, is the pivotal issue, because until that vast majority of Muslims let themselves be heard, their silence speaks volumes. And by evidently writing this article with your mind already made up, and failing to even broach the other side of the story, you’ve fallen into step as yet another “useful idiot” in the Islamic propaganda effort.

GUEST EDITORIAL BY IKE TURNER

I have been following the case of the illegal immigrant who recently scurried back across our southern border with his delightfully curvaceous junior high teacher with great interest.

Some have suggested that this is simply a case of true love that should be encouraged rather than condemned, and that the criticisms of the couple stem from pure racism, as the young man in question is a Mexican national.

Others, like the reprehensible Mr. Potfry, have opined that this is simply one more example of the need for far more relaxed immigration policies, as this “Latino-ager” was merely one of many undocumented citizens who are “doing the fat women that Americans will not do.”

Hogwash. First of all, they’re called “illegals” because they are here… anyone? That’s right. Illegally. If I hear any more junk about “undocumented citizens” I’m liable to go “Old School Ike” on somebody’s ass. Ask Tina how much fun that is.

But more to the point, off the top of my head I can think of at least fifty out-of-work brothers who would hit that without taking her and her considerable assets (financial and flesh-toned), south of the border. When you think of it in those terms, “doing the fat girls Americans won’t do” sounds an awful lot like “doing the fat girls white Americans won’t do.”

What about the way that the lax enforcement of immigration policies is affecting African-American men? Will no one stand up for my people’s right to some plus-sized Caucasian love?

Does that make me racist? Nationalistic? A patriot? Damn straight! But even more than that, it makes me an unapologetic lover of all those pale-skinned, Reubenesque lovelies. To paraphrase the noted poet Sir Mix-A-Lot: “36-34-36? Ha ha, only if she’s 5′3″.”

And to the ladies out there I pose this question: why go out of town for a little ol’ taquito, when you can get the burrito grande supreme right here at home?

POINT, BY R.H. POTFRY: ILLEGAL MEXICAN TEENAGERS ARE DOING THE FAT TEACHERS AMERICAN TEENAGERS WON’T

Guest Editorial by Islamic Rage Boy

After hearing the mounting lies and distortions from Westerners and assorted other infidels on the subject of the giant statue of a “meditating” Buddha that was blown up in the Swat district on Saturday- for which I take full responsibility- I thought it only proper to respond.

First of all, meditation is in the eye of the beholder. The only time the obese Buddhist wretch displayed any signs of “peace” or “tranquility” was after we had dispatched him with several thousand pounds of well-placed C-4. Until that point, he was poised cat-like, ready to strike at me and my fellow peaceloving Muslims who had merely happened through the area in search of one of our wayward whores who had skipped out on her daily genital caning.

Imagine our shock and horror when we came around the corner to find this overstuffed stone cabbage prepared to attack with the fury of a thousand jungle beasts. Anyone who claims that Buddhism is the religion of peace, clearly has not encountered one of these ferocious sedimentary leviathans who act as the gatekeepers of this most oppressive faith.   

As we drew back in terror, the behemoth kept coming, mocking us with chants of “That Danish cartoon was spot on, Muslim swine!” and “Your mama’s so haram, they performed her cliterectomy in effigy!” As he taunted us, lightning bolts flew at us from his eyes and flames lapped at us from his outstretched fingertips! 

We were simply defending ourselves, much the same way we would be forced to defend ourselves against hordes of rampaging homosexuals who sought to subjugate us via their malevolent leers and impeccable sense of fashion - if such creatures in fact existed.

Special Guest Editorial

Gracious Americans:

As I wind down my trip to your country, I feel a need to address some of the visual propaganda that is damaging the reputation of Islam and Iran.

Given the broad reach of this thing you call the world wide web, any dissident with a computer, Photoshop 6.0 and a cave over his head can create seemingly horrible images in an effort to undermine our image. For instance…

Here you have what appears to be several devoted young disciples of Mohammed preparing a whining whore for stoning. Quite believable, no? Look at the texture of the dirt, the apparent agony on her face. Makes you feel like you’re almost there.

But wait. Let’s take a look at the original photo.

The truth will set you free, no? Here you have several young Iranians enjoying a nice jacuzzi– a scene that is played out across Iran on a daily basis. The young woman had just entered the tub, and was simply wincing because the water was hot. I hope you can now see how a malevolent mind might alter such a joyous image for their own devious intentions.

Which brings me to Exhibit 2.

I can just hear you saying, “Oh my! Look at the big, bad Iranians hanging a couple of poor but non-existent homosexuals!! They’re soooooooo evil! Wa, wa wa.” Please. If you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you in Tehran.

Here’s the original photo.

You know, I think what hurts most of all about this one is that someone could take an image of such pure innocence– a child’s party– and use it for such insidious purposes. Two boys, simply waiting their turn to play an American pastime, Pin The Tail On The Donkey. But instead, you are led to believe that they are being executed because they have been pinning each other. Which, as I’ve made clear, doesn’t happen in Iran.

I hope this sets the record straight. I am disappointed that I have to spend so much time addressing inaccurate propaganda when my time would be better spent finding out where those 6 Million “dead” Jews are hiding, but such is the life of a Head of State.

Guest Editorial by Grand Kleagle Jackson

I can honestly say that I never thought I’d find myself agreeing with a colored, but danged if that Whoopi Goldberg fella doesn’t make a boatload of sense. Now, I don’t know too much about Mr. Goldberg, and he’s not the type I’d typically have over for a social visit, although I have to admit that I rooted for him in that movie where he hunted down Arnold, that cross-dressing wrestler, and the negro fighter from the Rocky films. So when I heard him speak out in support of Michael Vick by saying that dogfighting is a tradition among the coloreds from the Deep South that should be respected, my first instinct was to reach for my trusty lighter, a gallon of gasoline, and a length of rope. But then I got to thinking. Tradition. Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Now, there are many types of traditions involving coloreds here in the South. Speaking as someone who has seen his own personal traditions and viewpoints stomped on by out-of-control political correctness, I certainly agree with Mr. Goldberg that tradition must be protected at all costs.

Take the term “coloreds” for instance. This is an innocuous, traditional Southern term used to describe savage African beasts of burden. Unfortunately, in a cruel break with my people’s custom, this word is now considered offensive by many and is taboo in most circles. And unless you’re one of them gibberish-spewing, latter-day minstrels they call “rappers”, you can’t use the word n***** at all. (See? The chicken-shit editor just blocked it out.) If you do, you’ll have to apologize on national tv while wearing a “World’s # 1 Al Sharpton Fan!!” t-shirt. That’s not all, they also garnish 85% of your wages for the rest of your life. It happened to my friend Hank’s cousin. I’m not even kidding.

The madness does not end there. Did you know that in most Southern states it is now considered a “hate crime” to draw and quarter a negro? Oh yeah, it’s true. Don’t even think about setting them on fire any more. Heavens no. And just try advocating for the traditional Southern custom of slavery at a dinner party nowadays. You’ll be standing alone on one side of the room with people pointing at you faster than if you were Rosie O’Donnell with a bowlful of hot wings and a misfiring gastrointestinal tract. Whatever happened to protecting the white man’s traditions?

That is why I was so heartened to hear a black man talking sense for a change, even though protecting my traditions will likely have an adverse affect on him personally. Mr. Goldberg clearly understands that a larger issue is at stake here. We could all learn a thing or two from him.

Much is being made of the voice mail I recently left for my ingrate daughter, and I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight.

First off, I’m Alec Baldwin. Say it again slowly, dolt. That’s right. Alec. Freakin’. Baldwin. You may think you can fathom what it’s like being me, but unless you are an extra-terrestrial being with infinite cerebral capacity (who also happens to be named Baldwin), you can’t. You can try to coax your feeble mind into grasping the number of responsibilities I have, but then you’d have to multiply that number by 100. Then go watch “The Hunt For Red October”, and you’ll realize that you should multiply it by 100 again. Maybe even a third time.

It really doesn’t matter, because whatever result you come up with is microscopic when compared with the true burden of Baldwinity. In fact, right now scientists are struggling to come up with some metric to quantify the weight of my existential responsibility. They have so far failed, and several of their heads have exploded in the process.

But back to the matter at hand. About 11 or 12 years ago (really, am I supposed to know precisely how old the little $#$*&@! is?), my sperm tragically merged with the ovum of one Kim Basinger. What’s most peculiar about the incident is that historically speaking, my sperm do not merge; they overpower, strangle, and eat ovum. This process is not unlike a school of piranha devouring an injured hippo calf. Once fed, they then proceed to clog the host-wench’s ovaries with such a massive amount of pure, uncut Baldwin DNA that massive organ failure results.

Yet, a child was born and we named her “Ireland.” Not after the country, but rather because I was so filled with ire at the temporary weakness exhibited by my heretofore omnipotent man-seed. You can be sure my testes were given a good talking to after this lapse, and there have been no repeat performances to date.

So, I’ve allowed this overgrown zygote called Ireland to draw breath (thus depriving true Baldwin’s of precious oxygen) by my estimates for some 9-14 years now. Some nights, while I hover over my bed pondering the limits of my human life form, I wonder if I should reclaim my missing DNA by eating my ill-begotten spawn, thus extending my own life and increasing the likelihood that a sequel to “The Marrying Man” can be made. I know that my friend and fellow political pundit Rosie O’Donnell has eaten several of her adopted children and claims that the experience was invigorating. And they weren’t even flavored with the special Baldwin all-spice.

So, with all of this as a back story, I think you can understand the reaction I had when this accident called Ireland failed to answer my call. Trust me, it will all be straightened out. From now on Ireland will not miss my calls because I am going to personally outfit her ears with the necessary wiring via some needle-nose pliers and just a pinch of the Baldwin magic.

Thank you.

Alec Baldwin

Guest Editorial By Butch Nicotera

Most of you have no idea who I am, so please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Butch Nicotera and I went to school with Dennis Kucinich, or as we used to call him, Penis Blew-spinach. I’m not some fancy writer. I don’t make my living commenting on political matters. I am just an everyday Joe who lives in Minnesota working a 9-to-5 gig.

What I do know, however, is the benefit of doling out a good ass-kicking. Back in elementary school my business was issuing beat-downs to whimpering, sniveling, whiners, and business was booming. Now, it has come to my attention of late that old Blew-spinach has started spouting off more of his namby-pamby garbage, and may need a refresher course in Shut Your F***ing Piehole 101. He’s in luck; I’ve kept my teaching certification up-to-date.

Apparently he is aiming to shove a “fairness doctrine” (which is really just another way of saying “Help everyone! My vagina is chafed!”) down the collective throat of the American people. Apparently I was a bit too lenient in the old days as old Penis seems to have forgotten the lessons I tried so hard to beat into his freakish head.

I know that you’re probably thinking, “Hey Butch, it’s not nice to make fun of the guy’s appearance. It’s not his fault he looks like the result of a one-night stand between Mr. Spock and Mitch Albom.” Horse-feathers. My daddy used to whup me with a hubcap just for having two eyebrows. Ol’ Penis is getting off easy. 

But I digress. When he ran for the House of Representatives, I let it go. I figured somebody there would make an example of him. When he ran for president in ‘04, I knew he’d lose and I was right.

However, when he announced his plan to run for president this time around I realized that I had to do something. Not because I think he’ll win, but because I cannot listen to another word coming out of his frustratingly un-bloodied mouth.

That is why I formed Swift Kick Veterans From Duluth. We are a group of everyday guys and gals who are coming together to bring back old-school drubbings to those who need them most.

We are currently seeking volunteers with proficiency in any of the following areas:

• “locker room style” towel-snap delivery
• atomic wedgie application
• proven flinch inducing techniques
• lunch money reallocation 

As is the case with my patience, time is short so please do what you can to help right now.

Guest Editorial by OJ Simpson

I must admit that the recent hanging/decapitation of Saddam Hussein’s half-brother, Barzan Ibrahim, has me a bit confused. He was sentenced to death by hanging, but after the floor dropped out from under him, his head fell off.

So which was it- a hanging or a beheading? There are nuances that go along with each. A hanging is “the suspension of a person by a ligature, usually a cord wrapped around the neck, causing death.” Notice that there is no mention of a rogue head rolling about.

A beheading, on the other hand, is what happens to your ex when she goes gallivanting around the town with that pretty boy waiter who fancies himself an actor. Hypothetically.

So where does that leave us? It was not a true hanging because of the head removal. And it was not a true decapitation due to the lack of intent to behead. What we have here is the rarest of executionary hybrids; a bedangling. Barzan Ibrahim was bedangled.

Although the method of death may not have been a true “hanging” in the classical sense of the term, you have to admit that it was a nice clean cut. Damn. Head was taken clean off? With a rope? I busted my black ass cutting off Nicole’s head using… I mean if I had killed Nicole, I would have busted my black ass cutting her head off using a well-sharpened steak knife, never mind a rope. Those Iraqi ropesmiths have game.

I also have to take issue with the executioners choice of footwear in this instance. What was up with those shoes? If I were about to take someones head off, hypothetically, I would wear dress shoes made of the finest Italian leather. It is considered poor form to bedangle while wearing goatskin loafers. Show some respect.

And remember; if the head falls off during a hanging, you got yourself a bedangling.

Thanks to Dr. Sanity.

Guest Editorial-

by Ike Turner

As you might imagine, I have been closely watching the Sheikh Taj el-Din al-Hilali case in Australia unfold with bated breath. Not only do the Sheikh and I share many similar views on ho’s, he also happens to have one of the most mackdaddyistic names that has ever been.

I have included the text of his statements and added a few thoughts of my own.

“When it comes to adultery, it’s 90 percent the woman’s responsibility (I feel this is a somewhat low estimate, but carry on). Why? Because a woman owns the weapon of seduction. It’s she who takes off her clothes (Um hmm), shortens them (Talk a little slower), flirts (Hey now), puts on make-up and powder (Careful, you’re gonna make the Ikeman cometh) and takes to the streets (What ?!? You must be crazy), God protect us, dallying (Sounds like somebody needs to keep his tricks in check). It’s she who shortens, raises and lowers. Then, it’s a look, a smile, a conversation, a greeting, a talk, a date, a meeting, a crime, then Long Bay jail. Then you get a judge, who has no mercy, and he gives you 65 years (Preach on).”

“But when it comes to this disaster, who started it? In his literature, writer al-Rafee says, if I came across a rape crime, I would discipline the man and order that the woman be jailed for life (”Discipline the man”?!?). Why would you do this, Rafee (Yeah Rafee, why?)? He said because if she had not left the meat uncovered, the cat wouldn’t have snatched it (Alright, you lost me here. I am all for blaming your trick for most everything, but when you start yapping about some nasty combination of bestiality and a deli-platter, you’re on your own).”

“If you get a kilo of meat, and you don’t put it in the fridge or in the pot or in the kitchen but you leave it on a plate in the backyard, and then you have a fight with the neighbour because his cats eat the meat, you’re crazy (I’m not sure I completely dig how you people roll). Isn’t this true (Hell no)?”

“If you take uncovered meat and put it on the street, on the pavement, in a garden, in a park, or in the backyard, without a cover and the cats eat it, then whose fault will it be, the cats, or the uncovered meat’s? The uncovered meat is the disaster. If the meat was covered the cats wouldn’t roam around it. If the meat is inside the fridge, they won’t get it (Look here. I’m about as kinky a son-of-a-bitch as you’ll ever find, but these “cat-meat” references are freakin’ me right the hell out).”

“If the woman is in her boudoir, in her house and if she’s wearing the veil and if she shows modesty, disasters don’t happen (Ike Turner’s Rule Number 127- If your bitch is kept inside the gate, another fella she cannot fellate).”

“Satan sees women as half his soldiers (Now you’re talking in my good ear again). You’re my messenger in necessity, Satan tells women you‘re my weapon to bring down any stubborn man (By “stubborn” you must mean “weak”). There are men that I fail with. But you’re the best of my weapons.”

“…The woman was behind Satan (I hope it was the standard four paces behind) playing a role when she disobeyed God and went out all dolled up and unveiled and made of herself palatable food that rakes and perverts would race for. She was the reason behind this sin taking place (I like the way you brought it back home here).”

Guest Editorial-

by former President Bill Clinton

There has been so much hoopla recently over Madeline Albright’s infamously chummy photo-op with North Korean leader Kim Jong Il, that I felt obligated to respond in her defense. Let me start by saying that it is in fact Secretary Albright in the picture, not Helen Thomas or Christopher Walken as many of you have suggested. Second, let me say that this is not what it appears to be. However, I can see why there has been so much confusion over this picture.

To the untrained eye, it seems that Secretary Albright is sharing a champagne toast with the evil dictator Kim Jong Il while his people take the clinking of the glasses as a signal to divert millions of dollars in U.S. food aid from starving North Korean citizens to that country’s military build-up, as they continue the uranium enrichment program that they pinkie-promised that they did not have, all while Jimmy Carter helps build missile silos that he was told were to be homes for orphaned North Korean children.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Secretary Albright was in North Korea on her own time for humanitarian purposes. Why did she do this? For the best of reasons. Secretary Albright and Kim Jong Il were collaborating on a cutting-edge line of beauty products that do not require animal testing. That’s right, what would seem to be glasses filled with Dom Perignon, are actually vials of animal-safe perfume.

Please do not be so quick to buy the propaganda that the right is selling. I sincerely hope this eliminates any confusion on the matter. And just remember, every time you see this picture, a kitten’s life was just saved.

Thank you.

H/T Flownover for the pic. Thanks to Dr. Sanity.

Guest Editorial-

by Kim Jong Il

I have been catching quite a bit of flak over the past few years, and in particular since yesterday, over our nuclear ambitions here in the Democratic Republic of North Korea. Apparently the nuclear test that we just held has greatly unsettled many in the world community and I am sensitive to that.

Furthermore, it appears that my harmless jokes to “annihilate the planet” and “make the rivers of the world flow with the blood of the round-eyes” have been taken seriously by some and for that I am deeply regretful.

I can understand that people are a bit uneasy over the prospect of a country like North Korea having nuclear weapons. I truly can. That is why I am here today to extend an olive branch to the rest of the world.

As of midnight tonight, North Korea will no longer have a nuclear weapons program. Not only that, North Korea will no longer have missiles of any kind. She will have neither a standing army nor any firearms of any make or model. She will not have knives, throwing stars or nu-chucks.

Many of you are likely asking yourselves, “How is this possible?” Simple. Because as of midnight tonight I am changing the name of the Democratic Republic of North Korea to “Kimjongillinois”. I have always been a Cubs fan anyways and I figure I’d kill two birds with one stone. So any-hoo…

Ha ha! Gotcha! Did you really think you could push Kim Jong Il around? Did you really think that I’d let you ignore me just because it’s an election year? Did you really think I wouldn’t remember that f***ing Team America movie? Think again.

Our demands remain the same:

• every last green M&M on the planet
• Elvis’s remains
• the Colonel’s secret recipe
• a tuft of Madeline Albright’s chest hair
• some Mark Foley bukake pictures

See you in hell c***-suckers! 

Editorial-

As regular readers of TNOYF know, I have been atypically slow to react to the untimely and tragic death of Steve “The Crocodile Hunter” Irwin. I have been waiting to see what the reaction would be from the stingray community on this violent and cowardly act but as of yet I have heard nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Where are all of the “moderate” stingrays that I keep hearing about in the press? Just one stingray speaking out against the crime would hold more weight than the dozens of liberal stingray apologists who have taken up their cause.

I keep hearing marine biologists and other oceanic experts repeat the same talking points over and over: “It is extremely rare for stingrays to kill people“, “Stingrays just want to live in peace“, “Most stingrays disagree with what happened.”

Balderdash. I have heard of exactly one encounter between a stingray and a human, a well-trained and very experienced wild animal expert at that, which literally ended in cold-blooded murder. I am no mathematician, but that is almost a 90% kill ratio for these swift-swimming agents of death.

So today I issue a challenge to the “moderate” stingray community if they exist: Stand up (or hop out of the water or whatever it is that you do) and speak out against this terrible hate crime or face being lumped in with the rest of your murderous breed.   

And to the oceans, reefs and lagoons that provide safe harbor for these killers I say this: Do not shelter these creatures. Do not give them comfort. Do not let them do stingrayish things within your borders. Remember, you are either with us or you are with the Oceanic Fascists.

Guest Editorial-

by Ike Turner

Cindy Sheehan, Cindy Sheehan, Cindy Sheehan. Everywhere I turn it’s Cindy Mother-f—ing Sheehan with her loud mouth and big hunger striking ass. Who gave this trick a microphone and media access? Better yet, who’s been slipping her the feed bag filled with gravy-soaked bacon double cheeseburgers?

A hunger strike? I ain’t never seen a hunger strike have the sort of effect on a woman like Cindy’s has had on her. If she wasn’t able to explain away those propeller marks on her back as a childhood incident that occurred when her daddy ‘accidentally’ threw her under an outboard motor, I’d swear to God she was a manatee. I’m still suspicious about that alibi. Girl, a little more fasting and I can get you some work as a stunt double in the Fahrenheit 9/11 sequel. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love a nice thick woman, but I’d have to put an end to all that yapping pronto. I know it’s supposedly a ‘new era’ where women are allowed to speak their minds and learn things, and all that junk, and I think that’s sort of cute. In small doses.

Believe me when I tell you, if she was my woman, I’d have her in check. No travelling around the country to protest the president (last time I checked, the president is a man and where I come from ain’t no woman gonna protest a man). No more going on television and giving her opinion on foreign affairs, politics or anything else. Period.

However, just to show her that I am somewhat of an enlightened individual, I am willing to make some concessions. She can still pitch a tent in the back yard of the house and invite her lady friends to sleep over. As many as she’d like and as often as she’d like. Provided, of course, that they get on the Cindy Diet and not Saddam’s version (he’s still my man, but the boy is starting to look a bit gaunt).

Thanks to: Point Five, Wizbang, Samantha Burns

Technorati tags: Cindy Sheehan, hunger strike, Saddam Hussein, conservative, satire, humor