So listen. I know everyone thinks being Ke … I mean “Ben” is awesome and all that. I have a killer body, great hair, fantastic smile, and a smokin’ hot girlfriend known the world over. Fame, fortune, good looks, I have it all, right? I mean seriously, even Brad Pitt hasn’t got shit on me. Yeah, he’s got Angelina and all, and taggin’ that shit day in and day out must have its advantages, but how many fuckin’ kids has she dragged back from Bophutswana or whereverthefuck and set up at the Casa de Brangelina? Christ lady you’re a movie star, not Old Mother Hubbard. Give it a rest.

But I digress. Let’s get back to what’s important here, and that’s me. You think I’ve got it all? Are you kidding me? I don’t care how many friends and dream houses and sports cars I may have, because all that shit? It’s nothing. Meaningless, materialistic bullshit. It means nothing to me. And I’d give every bit of it up in a heartbeat for just one thing.

Please, just give me a cock.

Seriously, this shit is fucked up. You know what sort of numbers I could rack up if I had a dick? I’m literally surrounded by hot-as-hell faker-than-shit chicks who think I’m, like, the only guy in the entire world. And in many ways that’s true. I mean, have you seen the crowd I hang around with? I swear, the chick:dude ratio is like 15:1. And most of the guys? Well, let’s just say that they really dig the chick’s accessories a bit more than the average horndog.

And maybe that’s a coping mechanism, you know? Because those guys? You guessed it: no dicks either. Although if they had them I swear they’d spend most of their time trying to figure out how to adjust their package so it didn’t fuck up the fit of their jeans.

But if I had a cock, I could lay some serious pipe. No competition at all.

Think about how fucked up this is. You’ve seen my body, right? Well, you don’t get stacked like that accidentally. I spend, on average, like 3 hours a day at the gym. And when my workout’s done and I hit the showers, it’s a bit awkward. I mean, everywhere I look, there’s guys. Naked guys. And they all have dicks except me. Me? No dick. And you think guys don’t check? Think again. Everybody checks. I can hear their snickers.

They call me “Mr. Smooth,” and claim it’s because I’m so slick with the ladies. But I know what they really mean.

So please, someone, help me out here. I’m not looking for anything outrageous. I don’t need some sort of Foot Long Jet Propelled Dream Schlong with Optional Kick Starter. I just want a basic, average size, functional ABS plastic cock. It’s not too much to ask. Please, help me become a real fake plastic man.

And while you’re at it, a pair of nipples wouldn’t suck either.

Four young men sit in a dimly lit room. A variety of brightly colored dice are visible on the tabletop. The smell of cheap pizza hangs in the air, spiked with a faint tang of stale sweat. At one end of the table sits Jim, a clean shaven young man in a polo shirt, an assortment of worn and weathered looking books laid out before him. Irregularly spaced around the table are Ben (Deathklok t-shirt, scruffy beard), Robbie (flannel button-up, goatee, wire-framed glasses), and Ed (muttonchops, Viking helmet, holding a plastic battle axe).

“As the rain falls softly on your cloaked shoulders,” says Jim, “you look upward and note the name of the tavern standing before you: The Wanton Wench.”

Ed leaps to his feet. “Aha! Sounds like the right sort of place for Slagathor to dip his wick!”

Ben and Robbie exhale in frustration, in perfect unison. “What?” says Ed.

“Dude, come on.  Not this shit again” Robbie answers. “Could we skip the whole ‘Ed tries to get Slagathor the Barbarian Laid’ episode tonight? I need to be home by 11:00.”

Ed shoots Robbie a challenging glance. “What can’st take precedence over Slagathor satisfying the pleasures of …”

“OH COME ON!” shouts Ben, slamming his fist on the tabletop. The dice rattle and bounce about.

“Dude, please,” continues Robbie. “Like you’d have a fuckin’ clue what to do. You haven’t touched a girl below the shoulder since you finished breastfeeding. Give it up already.”

Ed stands, brandishing his plastic battle axe menacingly. “MY LUSTS WILL NOT BE DENIED! SLAGATHOR WILL SPREAD HIS SEED, LEST…”

Ben throws his hands up is a gesture of surrender. “Dude, whatever. I’ll be in the kitchen eating Ho-Ho’s. Call me when this shit’s done.”

Jim looks up, concerned, and says in a conciliatory tone “Wait, Ben, what’s Melfollion doing while Slagathor…”

“Nothing!” answers Ben. “Drinking. Diddling my bunger with my wand. Anything to avoid this bullshit. Let me know when we can fight something.” With an exasperated sigh Ben turns and leaves the room.

Robbie eyes Ed with disdain. “Look, just make it fast, OK? And spare us the colorful details Jim. Parinofore will be hanging at the bar with Melfollion, trying not to catch a case of the Hyborean Clap from the stools.” With that he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and waits.

Ed eyes Jim haughtily. “I enter the Wanton Wench….” Robbie snickers, and Ed, ruffled, continues “Errr … I stride with brazen arrogance into the tavern. Tell’st me, good gamemaster, of the variety of harlots available to me.”

Jim rolls some dice and replies “There are three women. And one dude.”

“Describe the wenches to me, good sir.”

“They are all beautiful, aged 18-23, with ample bosoms, supple hips, and lips that look certain to taste of mead.” Rolling some dice, Jim continues “They are all uniformly uninterested in you.”

Robbie laughs. “Well, Ed, this sounds pretty familiar …”

“SHUT UP ROBBIE!  Errr … ummm … I mean quietest thou tongue, Parinofore, or I shall cut it out’st. I amble casually up to the first comely maiden and jingle my purse full of gold coins.”

Jim rolls the dice once more. “She continues to ignore you. However, the well built, handsome man beside her notices the sound though, and arches his eyebrow at you while licking his lips.”

Robbie whoops excitedly. ”Ben, get in here!  Slagathor’s gonna get cornholed!”

“ROBBIE, CUT THE SHIT! I tell the guy to back off. And come off of it, man: She’s a goddamn whore, I have money, she should be interested!”

“Ed, stay in character.”

Ed looks crestfallen. “Oh. Uhh, I say ‘Fair maiden, I have much gold. And the enormous purple headed beast of my ancestors dwelling in the demesne between my thighs…’”

Robbie stands, a look of disgust on his face. “Ohferchrissakes….” He turns and storms out of the room.

Ed continues, “Will thou’st take my coin … and my seed?”

Jim rolls some more dice. “She says ‘Sure.’ She leads you upstairs to a small room, with a filthy mattress, lit by a single candle.”

Ed eyes Jim with suspicion. “Jim, she’s not gonna be a succubus again, is she?”

Rolling the dice, Jim answers “Nope.”
“A vampire?”

More die rolls. “Nope.”

“She not gonna sprout talons and …”

From the kitchen  Robbie scream “DUDE SHE’S A FUCKIN’ CHICK. I KNOW YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS, BUT WOULD YOU JUST PRETEND TO KNOW WHAT TO DO SO WE CAN GET ON WITH THE FUCKIN’ GAME?”

“FINE!” shouts Ed. “I slowly unlace the back of her…”

The dice clatter on the table.  ”OK, she’s naked.”

Ed looks perturbed, but continues. “Oh. Err … OK. I caress her back and then slide my finger …”

Jim shoots Ed a warning glare. ”Dude, let’s just keep it to the basic stuff. You know, ‘I get on top of her,’ ‘I do my thing,’ and so on, OK? My mom’s right upstairs — I don’t need the ‘you boys were watching PORNOS weren’t you?’ stinkeye again.”

“Oh, OK. I … uhhh … ungird … my loins and begin to get on top of her.”

Dice click and Jim responds “She grunts.”

“Grunts? How? Is it a good grunt?”

“Dude, it’s a ‘You’re a 285 pound hairy barbarian who hasn’t bathed in a month’ grunt. Interpret that how you will.”

Ed looks nonplussed. “OK, I … start to … you know. Do my thing.”

Jim rolls the dice and, after a brief pause, replies “Oh …. heh.”

“What?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“DUDE! WHAT?”

With a grin, Jim says “She pats you on the back and says ‘OK, we’re done! 5 pieces of the coin of the realm, fine sir!” Jim struggles mightily to wipe the smirk from his own face. And fails mightily.

“Wait! I didn’t …”

“Well, yeah, you did. A bit quickly.”

Ed glances down at the table, then looks to Jim with hope. “Well, did I … you know … enter the gates?”

“Sorry buddy, not this time.”

To be continued-eth….

Listen, I’m just going to come right out and say this.  I love you.  We belong together.  Baby, please come back.

Come on, don’t give me that look.  You know we were great together.  I mean, we had some amazing times, didn’t we?  Think how great things were for us back then.  Duran Duran was huge. Asymmetrical haircuts were for cool club people, not mopey Emo douchebags. Women’s clothes had shoulder pads that would make the defensive line of the NY Giants jealous. Michael Jackson was alive and only vaguely creepy.

And cocaine!  Cocaine was everywhere!  You could barely walk by a bathroom stall without someone dragging you in to do a bump or two.  Cocaine was fucking awesome!

Oh, sorry.  I forgot you never liked the coke all that much.  And yeah, I admit I might have liked it a bit too much.  But I’m over that now.  And don’t go getting all superior now: when you left me and started hanging out with the 90’s what the hell did he do?  Mumble and scream a lot, dress in flannel, and get loaded on heroin, that’s what.  No fucking style.

Look, I know there are some things I can never undo, some mistakes I made that you might never be able to forgive.  I admit I’m sort of responsible for that humanoid herpes flareup Madonna.  Maybe infecting you the blueprint for the uber-cougar wasn’t such a great gift.  I wish there was a prescription that could clear that up for you, sweetie.  I really do.  And I guess the endless nuclear threat and the remnants of the Cold War kinda sucked, but at least we had Communists.  What do you guys have or be afraid of now?  Terrorists?  Carbon fucking dioxide? We had an entire nuclear power.  I mean, we made — and watched! — Red Dawn, we were so scared.

But look — I’m really sorry.  I am.  I’m sorry for putting you through Pauly Shore.  And The Brat Pack.  And Hair Metal.  If I could, I’d take them all back.  And I guess there’s no way to apologize for Huey Lewis.  Some things are just … too much to let go.  I can’t expect you to just let everything slide.

But I wish you’d try, baby.  You know we were awesome together.

Call me?  Please?

ESTATE SALE — Everything must go! Items offered include: beautiful home with workshop in rustic northern locale, sleigh, large bags, servants of small stature, assorted reindeer, enormous behaviorally defined database of people aged 1-92 (perfect for marketing/demographic research), hundreds of thousands of partially constructed toys.

The altercation, which occurred at Egg Shen’s Black Blood Cafe on Grant St., lasted approximately ten minutes. Injuries were reportedly minimal, although a significant amount of property damage was incurred.  William Chin and Samuel Chung, both residents of Chinatown, are being held for questioning in connection with the fracas.

According to eyewitness accounts, Chin and Chung entered the bar separately, each leading a group of noticeably unbathed men of Asian descent.  Shortly after the second of the groups arrived, Chin and Chung began kung fu fighting.

“At first I hardly realized they were fighting at all,” said Natalia Douglass, a frequent Black Blood patron who was enjoying a cocktail at the bar when the fight broke out. “They bowed and then just started swinging with their hands and kicking from their hips. Their movements were so lightning quick that at first we thought it was a show or act or something.”  But when the rest of the gang joined in the fray moments later, Douglass realized this was no show. “All of a sudden it was like everyone in the entire room was kung fu fighting.”

“It was,” Douglass added, “a little bit frightening, honestly.”

Another witness, who wished to remain anonymous, noted that the fighters stuck out in the crowd due to their unusually poor hygiene. “Those men smelled awful,” said one bystander. “I mean, Chinatown, like many congested urban areas, is known for its occasionally overwhelming aroma.  But those Chinamen were seriously funky.”

Once authorities were able to subdue Chin and Chung, the crowd dispersed.  Both suspects are currently being held awaiting arraignment.  According to a statement issued on Chin’s behalf by attorney Eddie Lee reports of the entire event have been overblown. “Despite appearances to the contrary, the sudden motions may have made lookers on’s (hearts) skip, but their expert timing practically guaranteed that none of those present were in any real danger.”  He instead alleges that the entire problem was caused by a local underworld figure known only as “The Big Boss.”

You know, every year it’s the same fucking thing.  I work like a dog all year getting piles of shit ready for you people.  Letter after letter from snot nosed little shits begging for piles of toys, games, bikes, puppies, you name it. Bust my ass for 11 months — I mean, the logistics of this shit are mind-boggling — and then pull a fucking all-nighter running all over the goddamn world dropping all your crap off.  All-nighters at my age!  What the fuck are you people thinking?

And what thanks do I get? A couple of stale snickerdoodles? Maybe a few carrots for the shit machines pulling the sleigh? Well, this year people, I got one thing to say:

Fuck that.  This year, Santa’s getting some.

That’s right motherfuckers, I’m fed up with this shit.  I bust my hump delivering tons of useless garbage to you people, and you think a few fucking Keebler’s are gonna balance the books?  You’re fucking delusional.  This year, it’s “Santa Baby” time.  That’s right:  if you want something sparkly from the fat man, you better believe you’re giving me a little something in return.

And we’re not talking baked goods.

You know, it ain’t easy being Santa. I mean, don’t get me wrong: it’s a steady gig, and given the way you people have fucked up the global economy that’s no small thing. But I’m talking work/life balance, here.  The hours are long and the benefits really kind of suck. Outside of the house I don’t really get much in the way of salary, and the medical plan barely covers the treatment for all the goddamn frostbite.  I mean, I get a hell of a dental plan, but what I really need is liposuction and a gym membership.  Have you seen my toes lately? Cause I sure as hell haven’t. The fucking gut I’m carrying around from eating all the shit you people leave out is so big I haven’t seen “Little Santa” since the 1800’s.

And wrangling the elves is no fucking picnic, believe me.  I mean, YOU try organizing a workforce composed entirely of coke fiends — it’s worse than dealing with advertising execs. What, you didn’t know?  Come on, wake the fuck up:  why do you think they’re so small and twitchy?  And the red noses aren’t from the cold: I mean, those little fuckers barely ever see the outside of the factory. With all the shit you people want, I gotta work ‘em 18 hours a day just to meet schedules, and that shit ain’t happening without loads of Bolivia’s finest export.  Let it snow, bitches, and line up as many rails as you can handle:  we got work to do.

Mrs. Clause?  Don’t get me started.  Naggin’ bitch shut me down decades ago: I haven’t hit that shit since Roosevelt was in office.  She just sits around watching her fucking stories and reading the fine print on my insurance premiums.  “Nobody wants a skinny Santa” my hairy ass:  fucking gold digger just wants my ticker to explode so she can sell the joint and move to Cabo with that man-whore Yukon Cornelius. Fuck her.

And fuck you. I mean that literally, ’cause Santa’s got a brand new bag, bitches. I got your brand new bag Right Fucking Here, and it’s loadedwith special Christmas jam, enough for all you fucking leeches.  So when Santa lands on your rooftop this year, you better believe we’re gonna be doing some good old fashioned bartering, motherfuckers. I got the goods, you got the services.  And Santa ain’t leavin’ till he’s been good and serviced.

What?  This sounds like “Bad Santa”? Give me a fucking break.  Thornton didn’t know shit about being bad.  I mean, he had the drinking part right: you can keep the fucking cookies and milk, give me bourbon and beer nuts.  But you wanna know what bad feels like?  Try 330 pounds of scraggly old man belly slapping against the small of your back at 3AM. That’s bad.

And that’s what I’m talking about here.

Just to be clear, I’m not talking about your kids: that shit would be seriously fucked up. Santa’s got a solid “age of consent” policy.  After all, being immortal comes with the red suit, so I can hang in there until your sweet little baby hits 18.  But after that, all bets are off.

And until then, you better believe that you’ll be picking up the slack for your little rug rats. Santa is on the prowl for some strange, and I ain’t doing shit for free no more.

And as for all you “good little boys” out there, don’t think you’re free and clear in this.  You ever listen to “Back Door Santa”?  Yeah, it’s a metaphor, and it shouldn’t take you geniuses much time to figure it out.  I’ll come down anyone’s chimney:  Santa’s not picky.  You want that new set of golf clubs this year?  Santa’s gonna play the back nine first.

So you better watch out.  You better not cry.  You better not fucking pout either:  I can’t stand that shit.  You want something under the tree this year, you get your ass in the air and take a number.  Santa Claus is comin’ to town.

(This piece marks post #400 since the NEW WSFB launched on 11/02/09)

Demonstrating once again her apparent complete inability to fail, those who have attended the appearances report that, while Winfrey may have a few glitches to work out in her act, on the whole they were completely satisfied with her very “Oprah” take on stand-up and could not wait to see her again.

At her recent 15-minute standup gig at the Monkey Shinez Laff Hutt, Winfrey began the show by saying that her primary goal is to “turn the misogynistic norms of comedy tropes in on themselves, creating a new kind of comedy that educates through laughter and respect. And, of course, to have a LOT of fun!”

Winfrey then launched into her act, demonstrating a sense of classicism by engaging the audience with a series of brief one-liners and one-two punch jokes more evocative of old vaudevillian structures than the more story-oriented norms of comedians today.

Standing stock-still, perhaps even appearing uncharacteristically nervous, Winfrey gazed out at the audience and spoke:  “What do you say to a woman with two black eyes?”

After a brief pregnant pause, she eliminated the tension deftly, dropping the punchline with expert timing:

“What can you say?  I mean, you’ve told her to leave that man twice already, and she keeps going back. You just need to give that girl a car and a house and move her to Chicago.”

Eschewing the standard rimshot that typically accompanies humor that is related in this manner, Oprah instead chose a tasteful cascade of chimes to indicate the end of the previous comic piece and the beginning of the next.

“How is a woman like a laxative?” she asked, amid a hushed series of gasps. Two beats later, she exclaims with hearty delight, “Because their nobility and inherent worth can cleanse you to your core, if you’ll just believe in them!”

Scattered applause emanated from tables close to the stage.

Witnesses say that much of the audience seemed confused, with one or two even attempting to heckle Ms. Winfrey before being silenced by the angry glares of other audience members.

After a brief interruption, in which Ms. Winfrey chose to distribute Books on CD by noted Spiritual Advisor Deepak Chopra as a way to “apply a salve to the angry spirits and deep emotional wounds so many of us carry,” Oprah wrapped up her brief segment with a few more comedic gems, including:

• “What’s long and hard and drives a woman wild?  The New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzle!  It takes me all day to finish that thing, and that’s with Stephen Hawking on my speed dial!”
• “How many women does it take to change a lightbulb?  Well, just one, unless she would like to bond and share the experience with another person.  Then Two women, Or even a woman and a man.”
• “What’s worse than a male chauvinist pig?  An emotionally damaged woman whose low self-esteem enables her to put up with that non-sense?  It just breaks my heart. AM I RIGHT GIRLS?”

As her scheduled time on the stage came to a close, Winfrey wrapped up by thanking Gail and Steadman, announced that her favorite thing for the night was small but generous piles of free cash, and then gave each audience member a small stack of tens and twenties.

Departing the stage with grace and dignity to riotous applause, Oprah promised to return soon. Her fans would not have it any other way.

Cook’s heavenly ascension occurred Monday night at approximately 11:36 PM, shortly following the completion of a scheduled appearance at Raleigh’s RBC Center.

According to eyewitness accounts, Cook was sipping a nationally available energy drink and preparing for an after party when he was engulfed in a heavenly glow.

As astonished onlookers watched, he rose gently from the floor and floated in mid-air briefly, raised his eyes to heaven, and then disappeared in a blinding burst of angelic fire, leaving behind only the faintest scent of Axe “Hot Fever” body spray to mark his passage into the ethereal realm.

Reports of Cook’s demeanor during his sudden deification varied. Rebekah Janslberg, who had been standing nearby Cook while sipping an Red Bull and vodka cocktail prior to the incident, claimed that Cook initially appeared alarmed at his unexpected ascension, but then “he just relaxed, and smiled. A sweet smile, like a little boy.”

However, Rebekah’s friend Chaz Djornol. contradicted her account stating, “Dude, he was totally not alarmed at all. He just was ice, dude, just like DAMN I’m floating and shit and then he was all WHOO! and then he shot the room a Su-Fi and the BAM! just disappeared yo.”

Reactions from Cook’s entertainment industry peers regarding his miraculous rise to divinity was equally divergent.

Actor/Director Mel Gibson reportedly has expressed interest in filming a biopic based on Cook’s life, chronicling his rise from obscurity to worldwide notoriety before his transformation into his purest essence and concurrent attainment of immortality, with Ryan Reynolds reportedly being courted to portray Cook in the film.

The Vatican had not yet released an official statement, but one source reached for comment noted that while Mr. Cook’s comedy was not necessarily to his liking the Judeo-Christian Lord is known to work in mysterious ways.

“Besides,” the source added, “there is currently no official Patron Saint of Popped Collars and/or Keg Stands” which could explain his “unexpected — but glorious nonetheless — recruitment.”

The Frank Erwin Center announced that it was unlikely that Cook will be appearing in corporeal form to perform his show – originally scheduled for Thursday the 12th – so soon following his glorious transubstantiation, and they will therefore be issuing refunds.

In their statement, Frank Erwin Center officials noted “Clearly, we can hardly expect Mr. Cook to just manifest in the physical realm on demand for our benefit. That said, we are hoping we can coax him to grace us with his beatific presence by booking a lineup of other comedians that were influenced by or benefited directly from Mr. Cook’s trailblazing comedic genius and benevolent works, including notable up-and-comers Louis C.K. and Joe Rogan, among others.”

Details regarding this event will be announced as information comes available.