"Totally coup, yo."

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Green Party to ditch alt-med idiocy?

Mar

07

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National Committee to vote on platform change

So a while back, my buddy Rebecca Watson was out in San Francisco doing her skeptical thang, and she bumped into a guy called Jesse Townley. He runs Alternative Tentacles Records, which is owned by Jello Biafra. And, though it’s slightly less awesome, he’s also an elected Green on Berkeley’s Rent Stabilization Board. So Watson mentioned me.

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The Piss Cup Caper

Mar

07

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Baseball star’s steroid-filled pee tossed out by arbitrator 

In the early 2000s, we found out that nearly every relevant baseball player of the 80s and 90s was on steroids. America collectively agreed that they were irredeemable pieces of shit for jamming drugs in their asses so that baseball would be something approaching entertaining. Granted, this had more to do with the fact that sports writers make their living obsessing over things most people don’t care about beyond the age of twelve. But we listened to them anyway.

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@AndrewBreitbart: Bereave Yourself!

Mar

05

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"Behaaave yourselves!!!"
I drew this crude sketch of Breitbart. Thirteen days later, he was dead. Because I am a fucking space warlock.

War has been described something like this: unbearable tedium, punctuated by short bursts of absolute terror. Which is a microcosm of life itself, if you think too hard about it. Both are at once unpredictable and tiresome, and both stir armchair assassins full of empty (laughable) bravado who wave their doughy fists at evils safely on other continents—men whom it would be an unpleasant chore to envision running more than ten feet without gasping like goldfish. All their energy is spent barking, their voices probing hoarsely where their pale, enfeebled bodies dare not. Through this phenomenon, we endured the sleaze, contrivance (and physical threats!) of an effeminate, sneering attack dog for corporate scum, who maintained the personality—and water retention—of an oppressed midwestern woman permanently on the rag. Occasionally, life throws us a bone. Or some bones—in this case, the skeleton of the marshmallow man himself, which will soon be supporting so much melted blubber.

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Pig Journalism

Mar

05

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My encounters with Andrew Breitbart, and why his death is both incredibly hilarious and a little sad

When I heard that talking colostomy bag Andrew Breitbart had died, I lol’d until I cried. I don’t need to explain why the image of him clutching his chest, lifelessly keeling over, and smashing his dumb face into the sidewalk is funny. But my tears of joy unexpectedly turned into tears of sadness. And that requires some explanation.

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TWiC #9: David Icke's 5 Most Hilarious Fantasies

Mar

02

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So I’ve almost got to the double digits of this column about crackpots and craziness without even having addressed David Icke. He’s probably best known for spreading the idea that European royalty and other powerful elites like George Bush and Boxcar Willie are secretly the descendants of reptilian shape-shifters from another planet who interbred with humans in ancient times to create special bloodlines… Bloodlines of evil! And they eat babies! And stuff. It’s an extension of the Ancient Aliens hypotheses you get from guys like Zecharia Sitchin and Giorgio A. Tsoukalos (who I hear is actually a really nice guy, for what it’s worth) with a little interplanetary erotica thrown in for fun.

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Life is Pretty Swell

Mar

02

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A Pro-Life BEAST Editorial

Unless you were cloned in a lab, a series of highly improbable events led to your birth. Millions of sperm rushed to fertilize an egg inside your mother’s body. Only one of those would lead to your birth. And against all odds, fetal development continued until you were born. Unlike most pregnancies, your’s wasn’t terminated by natural causes, resulting in what we call a miscarriage. Just being able to take those first few breaths of air after birth is an opportunity so unlikely that it makes winning the lottery seem plausible. Me, I appreciate having beaten those odds. I embrace being alive.

Others don’t. Or at least, they can’t. They can’t because they’re dead. Dead like Andrew Breitbart.

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