Sexual harassment: it’s not always as bad as it sounds.

Sometimes it’s better than bad — it’s great! And you can’t spell “harassment” without “ass,” so there’s a Freudian tell for you.

I’m not talking the creepy, stalky, lawsuit-filing kind. I mean the ass-slapping “Uuuuh! Looking good, baby!” sort we all either have to keep ourselves from indulging in or secretly wish would happen to us. The Eric Massa scandal kind of started out rather cheeky and funny in several respects, but as it’s grown increasingly ugly, it’s clear how some things should stay grounded in the windmills of the mind and consequence-free porn plotting. If we lived in a world wherein all employers were hot as hell, sex carried no problematic implications, and there were no Bible-happy buzzkill co-workers, we wouldn’t need GLAAD or the ACLU because we’d all just gleefully fuck our way to the top.

So who suffers the worst? You’d think it would be the ladies infiltrating the workforce and getting paid less while having to fend off skirt-chasing churls with wives at home, a Mad Men boys’ club mentality, and lecherous superiors wanting to coerce them into doling out sexual favors if they want to ascend the career ladder. You’d think old world machismo is the problem.

But no. It’s the Muscle Heads — they of the trademark mandanas, douchey tattoos, Ed Hardy attire, porcupine quill hair styles, and jacked-up roid racks — who are the real victims of our culture of lust politics. Their opponents: the queers with their perpetually roving eyes and inability to keep it in their pants. Their battleground: the locker room. Forget the Lilly Ledbetter Act. This misunderstood minority needs a Donny Dumbbell Act mach schnell. (read the full article)

Rugged Everyman Rush Limbaugh’s Fifth Ave. double-wide is on the market. For a mere $13,950,000, you too can now live like a fucking fairytale emperor in a ten-room palace and bitch endlessly about Blue State excess while you enjoy all the homespun high end boutiques, five star restaurants, spas, salons, art galleries, and gourmet markets the Big Apple has to offer:

Pre-War Penthouse Condominium with Fifth Avenue address. This full floor pristine 10-room residence features expansive Central Park and Reservoir views, four terraces; two of which face the park. This is a grand and gracious apartment with direct elevator entry to the central foyer. The expansive public rooms encompass the west wing. A double living room w/ fireplace and flawless views of park and reservoir; a wood paneled library; large media room w/western terrace; kitchen w/breakfast room and reservoir views; large dining room with 2 terraces. The eastern wing is comprised of 4 bedrooms, all w/en-suite bathrooms, one with terrace. His and hers dressing rooms and baths (each with oversized tub and stall/steam shower). Enormous picture windows throughout enhance the views and provide abundant light. Renowned artist Richard Smith has hand painted mural ceilings and walls throughout. Moldings are hand painted gold leaf. Floors are herringbone mahogany, foyer entry floor is patterned Italian hand-cut marble, and walls are upholstered in silk Damask. There is a separate windowed maid’s room w/bath on the third floor and additional private storage in the basement.

Because like divorce, drugs, gay sex, and wealth, effete superfluity is wrong only when Liberals do it.

It sounds so dated now, like Trickle-down Economics.

You know, because they both involve pissing on someone you think is beneath you.

“What is being black? It’s making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that’s seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you’ll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude’s….I don’t think I open myself to it.”

“All of a sudden I thought, I can outgay this guy right now. I grabbed him and gave him the dirtiest, tongue-iest kiss I have ever put on anybody—almost as if I hated fags. I don’t think my mouth was even touching when I was tongue kissing him, that’s how disgusting this kiss was. I’m a little ashamed. I think it lasted about half a minute. I really think it went on too long.”

The ladies’ favorite ride, John Mayer — he of the vacuously solipsistic self-ruminations, tendency to overshare his personal battle with compulsive masturbation, songs we thankfully only ever have to hear while in Pottery Barn, and that dead sexy dysentery-rabbit-punching-my-colon face he makes while crooning — in a recent interview with Playboy.

My Guidodom obsession is well-chronicled and sprawlingly elaborate. Yet still I go unfulfilled.

Though MTV has yet again mined the depths of human materialistic depravity in its latest semi-verite house of horrors entry Jersey Shore — featuring a roster of roided-out, leather-skinned dry humps who gave me instant roddage — why in Hell didn’t the network opt to have them co-habitate with Manhattan sophisticates in order to achieve maximum culture clash? This is one slice of shameless exploitation I would actually want to be part of. Only then can my fantasy of being adopted into this self-worshiping tribe as a symbolically conspicuous outsider a la Sheena at last come to fruition.

The plot lines are endless. First, I’m curiously pawed at for my far-flung customs called “modesty,” “eloquence,” and “poise”, which are totally unknown to them. While the males slowly come to acclimate themselves to my ability to completely pronounce the continuous present tense of verbs, the females will show me how to best accessorize Forever 21 or Juicy Couture, and when to beat a bitch who gets mouthy.

Finally, after much mutual learning, the group’s alpha male develops a worlds-apart love for me, which triggers a power vacuum and results in he and his challengers throwing down at a club called — I’ll go with — Pandorium. He emerges victorious, and together we fist pump (it’s their form of interpretive dance) in celebration as we become the progenitors of a new people. Toss in some vaguely emotive Top 40 songs, some pre-scripted confessional transitions, and somebody getting bitten, and I just wrote the entire first season.

A dream deferred is a dream denied.