‘Judge Walker’s ruling raises a shocking notion that a single federal judge can nullify the votes of more than 7 million California voters, binding Supreme Court precedent, and several millennia-worth of evidence that children need both a mom and a dad. During these legal proceedings, the millions of California residents who supported Prop 8 have been wrongfully accused of being bigots and haters. Nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, they are concerned citizens, moms and dads who simply wanted to restore to California the long-standing understanding that marriage is between one woman and one man ” a common-sense position that was taken away by the actions of another out-of-control state court in May 2008.”

– the sore asses at Focus On The Family, staunchly defending the morality of a majority limiting the rights of a minority while simultaneously crying foul when one lone gay person takes down Goliath.

We can do Biblical references too.

This is some generic actor from some lame vampire franchise that I haven’t seen and avert my eyes from any mention of because it was much cooler when it was called Dark Shadows, Forever Knight, Buffy, or Angel.

I’ll call him Dakota Hammer.

Clearly graduating from the Josh Hartnett school of forehead furrowing = emoting, Dakota assures us that his employer Men’s Health has “great articles to read” — We know! We’ve read all five of them! — and so you know he’s a filthy, lying man-whore who’ll say anything for cash. His tell? He glances for a moment offscreen as if to query, “Wait? Am I telling a not-truth? For realz?” After he postures and flaunts it for the camera, he opines “It’s a great men’s…magazine…,” and while the too-practiced cock of his eyebrow makes him seem confident of that fact, the rising inflection of his voice makes it instead play interrogatively.

“It’s a great men’s…magazine?” (read the full article)

What would Jesus do?

The question has, fittingly, become something of an inane T-shirt slogan along the lines of “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” or “No Fat Chicks.” If he was real — he still falls into the same category as Robin Hood or King Arthur for me — then why the hell would he want anything to do with the lovely cross section of humanity that’s turned him into a QVC tchotchke, much more sit by idly as his followers arrogantly put words in his mouth?

If you’re looking for the perfect embodiment of the dissonance between what a bearded, down-at-heel hippy and the star-spangled superpatriots among us would do, then thankfully there’s Tea Party Jesus, a site devoted to literally using Big J as the puppet through which the very worst Tea Bagger illogic is funneled to wince-inducing effect. Yes, somehow our savior was able to anticipate such events as financial reform, gays in the military, and the turbulent 1960s. Simply click on a captioned picture to reveal which God Wad said what jaw-droppingly heinous pontification about which apocalyptic social development/hated class of people. (read the full article)

“I’m sorry, but your child suffers from chronic nepotism. It’s a potentially crippling condition, as of yet, there is no known cure.”

I know, nepotism isn’t a disease per se, but when you really think about it, it is pervasive, often debilitating, and it does make me sick.

It’s the product of dynasties after all, wherein you don’t necessarily need talent or drive, just the right last name and enough backing from Mom’s and Dad’s end. We’ve all come up against the boss’s kid who really believes that he or she got where they are because of merit, and my primal Id’s response is to slap the bitch up — palm first, then back with the knuckles for making me go to the trouble.

Every culture has it, but America has a special sort: a flash-the-cash, suffer-the-brat, pull-the-strings kind of fail-forwardism that’s permeated every sector where prestige abounds, from business and the military, to Hollywood and the Presidency itself. For those who have skill and may’ve coasted on the family rep just a little, I’ll forgive your trespasses. For the rest — the hapless, the helpless, the hopeless — it’s a testament to humans’ too-secure position on the food chain that you haven’t been picked off from the herd by now. (read the full article)

Photos from the classy, refined, and Jesus-approved “real” prom staged off campus by Fulton Mississippi’s Itawamba Agricultural High School, one from which lesbian student Constance McMillen and five others — including, coincidentally, two special needs students — were effectively decoyed thanks to collusion between the student body and their concerned parents. If you think it all sounds like some sort of horrible plot line culled from a Revenge of The Nerds-style ’80s comedy — or, candidly, a justification for everything that takes place in Heathers — then you’re not alone. Also, keep in mind that while the face of Good Ol’ Boy and Down Home Girl entitlement may get younger, douchier, an more orange, its M.O. just never gets old: the very same ruse was used against the first black student at Jones Valley High in Birmingham in 1965 when she attempted to attend the prom.

We’ll let Prom Night 2‘s heroine voice our collective sentiment on the matter: (read the full article)

If you A) hate Disney, and B) would skim through Reader’s Digest or Cat Fancy before you would even think of touching People, then you can’t be blamed for missing Jake Gyllenhaal‘s self-stroking, content-free interview which officially takes the tiara as the most unintenionally homoerotic “I didn’t get juiced for a part I was ethnically miscast for in the first place!” deflection ever put on record: (read the full article)

Back when I penned a paean to my knee, um, jerk yen for Guidos, I both anticipated and begged for a Guido-related porn subgenre to emerge. West Hollywood and Eastern Europe have been mined to death, and I’m not so smitten with the umpteenth guy named Tad or Skylar, so when the Jersey Shore straight porno parody hit, I knew a gay-themed entry full of spray tans, sports bands, Ed Hardy wear, gold chains, and blowouts had to be imminent. I mean, what better way to spend my hard-earned porn screed cash than delighting to the sights of hairless man-children tenderizing each other’s steroid asses while adding a superfluous z-sound to “you” or “they”?

Now it is upon us. (read the full article)

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. (read the full article)

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

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

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.