It’s been a big month for disasters so far. I’m not just talking about the cyclone in Burma and the Chinese earthquake, though those are certainly impressive in the pyrotechnics-and-body-count sense. I just wish they’d been closer to home, say, maybe John Hagee’s attic and wherever they keep Dick Cheney’s coffin full of consecrated earth.

I don’t mean to sound callous or cruel or heartless or unsympathetic, but I am so get over it. Y’see, I’m not all that enamored of humans as a species. I think Bill Hicks was spot-on when he described us as “a virus with shoes.” If I could snap my fingers and erase mankind in toto along with all evidence we’d ever existed, believe me the last thing you’d ever hear would be a clicking sound.

But I can’t. So I have to revel quietly when the Earth shakes off a few of the fleas that plague it. And while 150,000 is just a pittance when weighed against the global population of nearly 6.7billion, as the old joke goes, “What do you call 500 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? An excellent start.”

But, no, I’m talking about other disasters. West Virginia provided a disastrous reminder to the rest of the world that the real core American values are racisim, intolerance, bigotry and deeply-held pride that you’re rock-stupid.

Disaster struck Hollywood in the form of Speed Racer, and the trailers for The Love Guru and You Don’t Mess With the Zohan, both of which were so incredibly, execrably foul I literally couldn’t close my jaw. Have things really gotten this bad?!?

A similar disaster struck London with the premiere of the Sex in the City movie. Personally, not being a forty-something woman with no sense of style, taste, humor or reality, and not being a gay man of any age or sensibility, I found this tragedy particularly entertaining. I’m hard-pressed to think of something less appealing that sitting through this movie.

A root canal would take less time, be far less painful, heal more quickly, and would, presumably, have a point. Getting the Bill of Rights tattooed on my cock (oh yes I COULD!) would at least result in something I wasn’t ashamed to admit I’d done, and might prove useful if things continue the way they’re headed in this country. Dangerous as it is, oil wrestling Oprah for a cheeseburger would yield a great story providing I survived the experience.

Sex in the City? I’d rather move to Burma.

On the bright side, I read that FEMA has emergency relief crews set to revive unsuspecting husbands with hours of recorded ESPN highlights, Girls Gone Wild DVDs, and several episodes ofWeapons of War. And perhaps, when all is said and done, we’ll finally be rid of Carrie… and… the rest. I dunno. Twatchy, Slutty and Cunty. Whatever their fuckin’ names are. And maybe Kim Cattrall can finally give her poor, plastic face a rest.

Israel celebrated its 60th birthday, which was a disaster for the Palestinians, and the Retard-in-Chief opened his mouth in a foreign country which is disaster for everyone except al Quaeda.

All this and May’s only half over. Next thing you know, we’ll find out that Marvel Films pissed all the Iron Man goodwill down their leg by casting someone completely batshit wrong as Captain America. Like, oh, I dunno… Matthew McConaughy or somebody. I know, it’s a ludicrous suggestion. They would never be that


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