Thorny Misgivings: An Open Letter to Bret Michaels

Thorny Misgivings: An Open Letter to Bret Michaels

In your prime as front man for the legendary L.A. hairspray band, Poison, I thought of you, Mr. Brett Michaels, as the venerable sage and poet laureate of the 80s Glam Rock world. I marveled at your deftness and flair for capturing the human condition with your poignant, evocative songs, none more so than when you penned the power ballad masterpiece in which you claimed, “every rose has its thorn.”


Now I'm no expert on roses and have less than a layman's concept for the intricacy and nuance of horticulture. Further, the few times that I have handled roses, in my memory, involved navigating prickly little thorns. So, it is no wonder that upon first hearing your rock opus circa 1989, I was moved to agree with your thesis—yes, indeed, every rose does have its thorn.

Unfortunately, once I examined more deeply your baseless, dishonest analogy regarding cowboys and emphatic, repetitive, and ultimately rhetorically flawed use of "every," your argument, Mr. Michaels, sir, fell shamefully apart, thus calling into question the very premise of this song.

And I quote: "just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song, every rose has its thorn." Well, let me assure you, dear reader, not every cowboy sings a sad, sad song. In fact, cowboys have a rich, layered tradition of musicianship that explores a wide array of emotions well beyond the morose, including songs about being home on the range or rockabying sweet baby James or visiting towns in west Texas (El Paso, to be exact) where you can fall in love with Mexican girls.

Thus, the fact that every cowboy does not necessarily sing a sad, sad song, I submit, undermines your assertion that every rose has a thorn. We cannot say with any degree of certainty whether every rose does or does not have its thorn, and so I feel it necessary to call into question the integrity of your thesis and am left to wonder where else you, sir, have led us astray:

Maybe the unskinny bop doesn't just blow you away. Do you really want us to give you something to believe in? I now sincerely doubt that you don't need nothing but a good time or that you won't forget me, baby. We're left to take you at your word, and I want to believe you, Mr. Michaels, sir, but right now your word isn't worth the paper it is written on.

I wouldn’t fuck you with Anne Coulter’s dick

I wouldn’t fuck you with Anne Coulter’s dick:
Senator John Edwards

Last year, former North Carolina Senator John Edwards was exposed as having an extramarital affair with filmmaker Rielle Hunter during his most recent presidential bid. After repeatedly denying allegations and engineering a massive cover up to avoid scandal, Edwards recently admitted to fathering a child with Hunter, his former campaign videographer, conceiving their love child while his soon-to-be-ex-wife Elizabeth Edwards was undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer.
Normally it’s hard for me to get worked up over a little extracurricular marital fling, especially at the risk of simplifying such behavior by labeling it “wrong” or “weak,” or perpetuating our culture’s puritanical, obsessive attempts to pathologize human sexuality. Further, I don’t blame any person for trying to cover up private carnal exploits, knowing how unforgiving the public can be.
But, tonight, a few Wild Turkey shots and PBR chasers deep, I find myself in the mood to, ahem, lay some pipe. To take a stand. To hold you accountable, Senator, for your irresponsible actions.
Let me be clear, sir. Fuck whomever you want, whenever you want, however you want. You needed a little loving, maybe blow off some steam during a grueling pressure cooker of a presidential primary? I understand. You lied to protect your image and shelter your family or the Democratic Party from negative publicity? I get it. You even allegedly filmed a sex movie with Hunter, who was noticeably pregnant in the video—hell, I’d vote for that.
I do have one simple request, sir: Wear a fucking condom!
Bare-dicking? Really? In this day and age? With an exploding population moving towards critical mass and all kinds of funky venereal diseases floating out there? You have to be fucking kidding me. What kind of example are you setting, sir? Did your parents not sign the permission slip for your junior high sex ed. class? (Or, perhaps they taught abstinence-only in the bible-belted southern community of your youth?)
I’m sure Hunter wasn’t the only woman you slipped the high hard one while on the campaign trail. Did you bare-dick them, too, sir? I shutter to think of the crusty, viral stalagmites growing on the shaft of your manhood. C’mon, Senator. Too rich and powerful to get a venereal disease? You play with fire, you’re gonna get burned—at least when you pee. If you don’t care about your own health, bag it for the sake of the planet—or at the very least, pull out.
Frankly, Senator Edwards, I wouldn’t fuck you with Anne Coulter’s dick.

NASA Confirms Mars Potentially Suitable for Future Habitation. Elton John Outraged.

NASA Confirms Mars Potentially Suitable for Future Habitation. Elton John Outraged.

According to a team of NASA and University of California scientists, the recent definitive detection of methane in the atmosphere of Mars indicates the planet is still alive, in either a biologic or geologic sense, prompting immediate speculation within the aeronautics community that the Red Planet may one day prove hospitable for future generations of humans.
Elton John, however, is having none of this.
In a tersely worded, yet melodic, statement released in anticipation of these findings, the five-time Grammy Award winner cited a general lack of community-based resources and frequent inclement weather as reasons to question the use of discretionary funds to pursue the matter during difficult economic times.
“Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids,” argued the self-described “Rocket Man” and 1994 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee. “In fact, it’s cold as hell.”
Independent research confirmed the singer-songwriter’s latter point: the temperature on Mars drops to -220 F in the winter, though it does reach +80 F in the summer, making it an ideal vacation spot.
John, a 2004 Kennedy Center honoree who has sold more than 250 million records career during a career spanning over 40 years, also wondered if irregular access to family-oriented supervision and recreational care would cause concern for parents should they decide to migrate to Mars.
“There’s [just] no one there to raise them if you did,” said the longtime LGBT champion and AIDS activist.
In response, NASA experts called John’s credentials into question, a fact the one-time drug-addled Crocodile Rocker conceded, “All the science, I don’t understand. It’s just my job five days a week.”
NASA experts stood by the findings, calling them “revolutionary” and “ground breaking”; however no one would offer a definitive timeline for when humans could begin the immigration process. When asked to comment on a potential schedule, U.C. astrophysicist Dr. Leroy Goldman said, “I think it’s going to be a long, long time.”

Down’s Syndrome Man Strikes Familiar Chord

Down’s Syndrome Man Strikes Familiar Chord
Although Gary Quintano transferred to the Sonora Wal-Mart less than three weeks ago, local residents claim to find something very familiar about the 24-year-old shopping cart specialist born with Down’s Syndrome.
“It’s something about him, something in his eyes and face,” says Starbucks barista David Germaine. “The first time I saw him, I felt like I knew him from somewhere.”
Germaine is hardly alone.
“I guess he just has one of those faces,” confirms Seamus de Leon. In fact, when he first saw Quintano last Thursday while the latter was towing a row of carts through the Wal-Mart parking lot, de Leon ran up from behind to give him a friendly bear hug only to find himself in an altercation.
“Hey, what the fuck? It’s me, Seamus. You don’t remember me?” said de Leon, describing the encounter with Quintano that left the 19-year-old stay-at-home dad scratched, bitten, and more than a little confused. “Fucker is strong. Like retard strong.”
Quintano, who despite a surplus of 21st chromosomes lives a comfortable, fulfilling life, would not comment on the encounter.
When told of Quintano’s condition, de Leon remained skeptical, “Then he must have a twin brother, or something, that busses tables at the Straw Hat Pizza in Twain Harte. I swear it’s, like, his fucking doppelganger.”

Violent Drunk Really a Sweetheart

Violent Drunk Really a Sweetheart
Patrons at Stuckey’s Tavern on 4th and El Centro wouldn’t know it, but Steve Rossi is actually an easy-going guy most of the time. It seems that every time Rossi visits the local bar and has a few drinks, the liquor unleashes his devil inside, and all hell breaks loose.
“We were just sipping at the bar, watching the Warriors choke on another fat cock of a basketball game, laughing and having a fucking blast, and then out of nowhere, the guy turns into a total crazy asshole,” said Stuckey’s regular, Aaron Jeffries, when asked to describe Rossi’s latest episode of seething molten rage and loathing that spewed forth last Tuesday from the normally soft-spoken, light-hearted substitute teacher. “It’s like a switch gets flipped, and he just starts swinging for no reason.”
Those close to Rossi, however, paint a different picture of a gentle, humorous man who loves to bake and volunteers at the neighborhood adult literacy program.
“The guy is really a doll, just an angel,” said housemate Molly Berman. “He’s really helpful around the house. Cleans up after himself. My moms just love him.”
“He’s actually a real softie once you get to know him,” best friend Jerry Stahley said. “Pussy cried at Avatar.”