“After getting caught in the Ashley Madison leak, Josh Duggar has issued three revised statements … and counting.” – People.com, 8/21/15
I have been the biggest hypocrite ever. While espousing faith and family values, I have secretly over the last several years been viewing pornography on the internet and this became a secret addiction and I became unfaithful to my wife.
While this is painful and humiliating to admit, especially coming so soon after my last public apology for sexually abusing children including two of my younger sisters, it is only the tip of the iceberg of my moral transgressions. So in the Christian spirit of contrition, and on the exasperated direction of our family’s publicist, please also accept my apologies for the following:
- I pee in the shower.
- I use the confessional booth dad built in the garage for my own personal vaping den.
- I’m a fiend for Cosmopolitans, the pinker the better.
- That snappy collection of leather belts from the Gap aren’t just for holding my Dockers up; they also come in handy for autoerotic asphyxiation.
- I’m into anal play.
- I’m into model trains.
- I’m into anal play with model trains.
- I herniated a disc while attempting a particularly tricky self-fellation maneuver.
- I have played “hide the salami” with an actual salami.
- I never miss an episode of Fresh Air.
- I regularly diddle Peanut, the family Labradoodle. In my defense, Peanut is the age of consent if you’re counting in dog years. Judging by the waggly tail, he also appears to enjoy it.
- I Snapchat naked selfies to Harry Styles.
- Though I stand accused by my family and have staunchly maintained my innocence, the time has finally come for me to reveal the truth: I did, in fact, fuck the Thanksgiving turkey. And the candied yams.
In short, my depravity knows no bounds.
I am so ashamed of the double life that I have been living and am grieved for the hurt, pain and disgrace my sin has caused my wife and family and Peanut and Jesus, and most of all Harry Styles and all those who profess faith in Him.
The last few years, while publicly stating I was fighting against immorality in our country, I was hiding my own personal failings, along with my Girls Gone Wild DVD collection, and the aforementioned salami.
As I am learning the hard way, we have the freedom to choose our actions, but we do not get to choose our consequences. I deeply regret all hurt I have caused so many by being such a bad example, as well as the cancellation of our family’s television show, which has put a serious crimp in finances and made it so I can no longer afford my weekly sensual massage (ps – I miss you, Sumiko!).
I humbly ask for your forgiveness. Please pray for my precious wife Anna and our family during this time.
Ring and run.
Steal homeowner’s Apple ID, delete their iTunes music library, fill instead with entire collection of 26 Kidz Bop albums.
Toilet paper a tree.
Photoshop homeowner’s face on naked selfies of disgraced New York congressman Anthony Weiner. Snapchat to all area middle school friends, plus local and regional news organizations.
Egging a house.
Hack homeowner’s Facebook. Share Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” video repeatedly. Frequently comment on other people’s posts using nothing but stickers. Retroactively “like” every James Franco post ever. Thoroughly alienate family and friends.
Phish homeowner’s online banking password. Launder their life savings through shadowy offshore accounts. Use money to buy a shitload of Xbox games.
Shaving cream attack
Remote-activate homeowner’s webcam. Secretly record hours and hours of video featuring homeowner in embarrassing, unguarded moments. Launch most successful YouTube channel ever.
Flaming bag of poo.
Flaming bag of poo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky,
Well, more like early evening actually,
My mom wants me home before nine;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
Upon our Huffys with banana seats,
And bitchin’ ape hanger handlebars;
Streets that lead down to the beach,
To a place called the Wianno Club
Where they’re having a kids’ dance tonight;
There’s a girl there who I want to see…
Oh, do not ask, “Who is it?”
Let us go and pay a visit.
In the room the children come and go
Talking of Mork & Mindy, their favorite show.
The light fog that settles on the ocean,
And curls like smoke over the beach,
Conceals a shark the size of a school bus;
Have you seen the movie Jaws?
Based on a true story, right here on Cape Cod;
There’s a lady skinny dipping on the poster,
About to be eaten by a shark;
You can see her boobs and everything!
I want one for my bedroom.
And indeed there will be time
For the light fog that settles on the ocean,
And the shark that eats the naked lady,
And for me to figure out how to get one of those posters;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
They’ll recognize us, some of them anyway,
The ones from our fifth grade class, for sure;
Time for you and time for me
To put on our disguises,
Our sunglasses and fake moustaches;
What do you mean, you forgot them?!
You are the worst wingman ever.
In the room the children come and go
Talking of Welcome Back, Kotter, their other favorite show
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?”
Do I dare ask her to dance?
What if everybody stares?
(They will say: “Look at his greasy hair!)
My cut-off corduroys, my “Keep on Truckin’” tee,
My tube socks not quite covering the scabs upon my knees,
(They will say: “How can he be so skinny?!”)
Do I dare
Ask her out on a date?
In a minute there is time,
Although maybe we should turn around. It’s getting kind of late.
For I have known them all already, know them all:
Every episode of Gilligan’s Island, and The Monkees, too;
I have measured out my life with Mountain Dew;
Have known the boring summer days on end,
Have driven my bike by her house a thousand times,
Though she never comes out, it’s true,
What else is a sixth grade boy to do?
And how should I presume?
Shall I say things to impress her,
Say I’ve seen Star Wars 27 times, and draw cartoons?
Shall I say I found a diamond ring in a box of Cracker Jacks,
And once I ate three dozen macaroons?
I should have been a hermit crab
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas,
Either that or shark food.
Here we are, Wianno,
Country club for the well-to-do,
Tennis whites and golf caddies, blue blazers in the dining room;
Do you hear that music blaring?
Blondie’s Heart of Glass;
Do you see those boys in chinos and collared shirts,
And girls in bright sundresses?
Do you think they’ll let us past?
(They will say: “Not so fast.”)
Should I, after coming all this way,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
Should I demand they let us in?
I have no idea what I would say;
We would be shunned forever
For our ruinous etiquette;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
I have seen that snotty kid Brad in the tasseled loafers snicker,
And in short, I’m reconsidering.
Let’s stay here for a while on our bikes,
Let’s keep our distance,
You keep watch, see if she comes out,
While I practice popping wheelies.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
If she had met me at the door with a wave and a smile,
And after some small chat,
She called me “Steve”?
That is not my name at all. That is not it at all.
No! I am not Steve, nor was meant to be;
I am Sean; from school,
Quiet, shy, the one they call “four eyes”,
The one who brings his lunch every day
In a greasy paper bag,
The one who cannot climb the rope in gym,
“Sean, Sean, the leprechaun,
Went to school with nothing on,”
At times almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, a fool.
I grow old…I grow old…
I wear the bottoms of my Toughskins rolled,
Because my mom buys them too long.
Should I wash my hair more frequently?
Should I lose the “Keep on Truckin’” tee?
I could dress in Lacoste and Bermuda shorts, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the rich girls singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
It’s getting late,
The sky above the ocean’s turning red,
If we leave now we can make it home
To catch the end of What’s Happening!!
And then it’s time for bed.
- I am the Lord your God. Thou shall have no other gods before me. Unless it’s Tom Waits.
- Thou shalt not make thyself an idol. Look what happened to poor Taylor Hicks, playing county fairs and weddings at the Elks.
- Do not take the name of the Lord in vain, for chrissakes.
- Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. Especially Iron Man.
- Honor thy father and thy mother, otherwise they’ll be dicks when you ask them for money.
- Thou shalt not kill or murder, unless it’s a cow, chicken, or other tasty barnyard animal and it represents thy dinner. Free pass if thou art vegetarian. Then you’re just killing plants.
- Thou shalt not commit adultery. Exceptions include extramarital sex with preordained celebrities whose names must appear on a laminated card, notarized by thy spouse and kept in thy purse or wallet at all times.
- Thou shalt not steal. Burning friends’ CDs or downloading from bittorrent sites doesn’t count. That’s called SHARING, a kindly behavior encouraged in kindergartens around the world.
- Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. Also, don’t bear thy soul or thy private parts to thy neighbor. You’ve got to live next door to that person, for chrissakes.
- Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. This commandment is no problem for me, since my neighbor’s wife is a horror show.
“One of the (Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation) projects listed on the group’s website Tuesday calls for submissions to ‘develop the next generation of condom’. The foundation is offering $100,000 in grant money to fund any group that can come up with a prototype ‘that significantly preserves or enhances pleasure, in order to improve uptake and regular use.” – CBC News, March 26th, 2013
Smoker King – Incorporates authentic, barbeque-style “ribbing” for greater pleasure and post-coital snacking. Could be a contender. Legal has expressed some concern over liability for soiled sheets.
The TARDIS – This condom appears commonplace when removed from its foil pack, but slip inside and users discover a sprawling, tropical vacation resort complete with Infinity pools, free drink coupons and a lifetime supply of Bain de Soleil. A clear front-runner, though we’re still searching for one research participant who defected during usability testing.
Hoover Dam – Talk about a reservoir tip – this one has room for recreational boating. The extra latex costs alone make this a non-starter.
Lube and Go – Lubricated inside and out, this condom is greasier than fried dough at a carnival. Residual benefits include a free, 10-minute oil change for your motor vehicle. Throw in a complimentary radiator flush and this could be the “dark horse” favorite.
Knotty-by-Nature – Misspelling of “naughty” was apparently deliberate; Steve from R&D now hospitalized with penis tied in sheepshank.
Microsoft – Odd “Windows” –style tip makes glans look like Cyclops pressing face against plastic wrap. “Safe to Remove Hardware” message keeps popping up in the middle of intercourse. Orgasms followed by “blue screen of death”. Disqualified.
Jeeves – This condom also serves as a personal butler, capably handling light housework, meal preparation and general accounting. Patented “White Glove” design is a clever feature, though four extra sheaths make user look like a cow and considerably impede sexual congress.
Red Eye Willy – Designed for hot sauce enthusiasts, this condom substitutes habanero pepper for spermicide. Rockets straight past “warming sensations” all the way up to “penis melting” on the Scoville Heat Units scale. Cool package design, but target market is way too niche-y.
Morning Wood – Strong value proposition – “Enjoy morning sex and still be on time for work!” Product features are very intriguing: prevents STDs and unwanted pregnancy, brews coffee, fixes breakfast, shaves your face and freshens your breath with a minty fluoride rinse. However, baggy fit reminds us of old pajama bottoms, and our English muffin was burnt on the bottom. Pass.
Ten-foot Pole – Potential customer base consists of one guy named Stanislaw living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Investigation confirms he’s been married 22 years, with three teen-aged kids and a vasectomy. Market penetration could be a problem.
Puds n’ Suds – A condom that provides reliable protection while also pressing shirts, Woolite-ing delicates and de-pilling your sweaters? Looks like a winner! Careful to not mix lights with dark colors or your junk will get all streaky.
Yes, Mr. Zuckerberg wears a hoodie – the same hoodie, every day, rarely laundered. Every news story written about the guy mentions the hoodie. It’s a journalistic obligation.
And because the traditionally hidebound Business Journalists of America are sworn by oath to only associate hoodies with shiftless, irresponsible teenagers, Zuckerberg’s hoodie clearly signifies his immaturity and ill-preparedness to run a successful public company. Some even go so far as to blame Facebook’s disastrous I.P.O. on the hoodie.
It’s unfortunate, really, that a simple, sporty cotton garment should be so publicly vilified. I mean, it’s not like Zuckerberg wears a trench coat. That would really be stupid and unsettling. But here we are, left to ponder the fashion accessories that reside in the closets of other wildly successful business leaders. And turn them into a fun and educational matching game. Concerned neo-socialists will print this out and post it on their very expensive refrigerators.
You’ve probably heard of the “Fiscal Cliff,” a popular term used to describe the forthcoming expiration of tax breaks and implementation of spending cuts that could plunge our economy off the proverbial precipice and into another devastating recession.
Catchy phrase, catastrophic implications – it’s nothing new. There’s a grand, old tradition employing features of the landscape as metaphors to describe pivotal turning points in America’s political history.
The Internal Revenue Code Root Wad
When the 83rd United States Congress sought to reorder and expand the country’s tax system, they sagely hired Dutch graphic artist M.C. Escher to do the job. The result was the Internal Revenue Code of 1954, a clusterfuck extraordinaire of chapters and subchapters, paragraphs and subparagraphs, annotated punctuation marks and tessellating footnotes and provisions addressing trusts and estates, capital gains, estate and excise taxes, reorganizations, liquidations, lobotomies, prostate exams and Ben Franklin’s porn stash. So harrowing was the outline, Escher exhausted every conceivable combination of letters and numbers known to man in its organizing and was forced to identify the Code’s later sections and provisions using a byzantine system of saucy-seeming hand gestures, covert winks and tongue clicks.
The outcome essentially guaranteed that people who could afford big, fancy lawyers and personal accountants would prosper greatly at the expense of people who could not. Congress of course loved it and wasted no time signing it into law.
The Environmental Protection Hedgerow
Seldom heard tapes archived in the Nixon Library capture the erstwhile president carping to advisors, “Nuke the fuckers!!” Historians believe he was referring to a chemical manufacturing plant situated upwind from La Casa Pacifica, Nixon’s presidential hideaway in San Clemente, California.
With a blight threatening to kill his prized shrubbery and all conventional, pesticidal treatments exhausted to no avail, Nixon determined that pollutants from the nearby company were to blame. Dismayed to learn his executive privileges excluded the authority to personally incinerate their production facility with a nuclear bomb, Nixon pulled out all the stops and ordered the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency instead, thereby establishing the federal authority to regulate and enforce laws that protect the environment.
The offending chemical manufacturer was subsequently shuttered and the San Clemente shrubberies temporarily saved, only to succumb a few years later to a prolonged bout of negligent watering.
The Mideast Peace Monadnock Hump
On September 17, 1978, U.S. President Jimmy Carter, Egyptian President Anwar Sadat, and Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin emerged from 13 days of secret negotiations at Camp David to announce their successful agreement on the framework for what would later become the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty. The meetings at Camp David would have wrapped up in half that time were it not for a foreign policy blunder that threatened to undo the fragile accord.
While on a bathroom break and sequestered in a men’s room stall, Prime Minister Begin overheard an aide to the U.S. diplomacy team confuse the Temple Mount, a holy site situated in disputed territory and a flashpoint of Mideast tension, with a position he’d seen in his wife’s dog-eared copy of The Joy of Sex.
Carter is credited with salvaging the peace treaty, wielding his resolve and an endless supply of peanut-based confections like a cudgel of unity. It also helped that he hid Begin and Sadat’s car keys, preventing them from leaving until agreement had been reached
The North American Free Trade Glory Hole
The 1992 campaign for the U.S. presidency was a hotly contested and bitterly fought, three-party affair. One of the central issues of debate was international trade, specifically the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), and whether it would help or hurt the American economy. In early campaigning, independent candidate and Texas billionaire Ross Perot employed some colorful verbiage cribbed from the oil industry of his home state, whipping up supporters with the rallying cry “WE WILL NOT BE MEXICO’S GLORY HOLE!” His intended message – that Mexico would siphon jobs from the U.S. in the same way an oil company siphons petroleum from a well (aka, a “glory hole”) – was muddied by the metaphor’s raunchier meaning, as Democratic presidential candidate Bill Clinton smugly pointed out in a televised debate when he said , “I know glory holes, I’ve worked with glory holes. Mr. Perot, the United States is no glory hole.”
The Judicial Beaver Dam
In January 2010, the Supreme Court handed down its 5-4 ruling in the case of Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission, upholding the constitutional right of corporations to spend embarrassing sums of money in the interest of swaying political campaigns. So galled were the dissenting minority, Justices Stevens, Ginsburg, Breyer and Sotomayor took refuge in the Court’s Chamber, walling themselves behind an impregnable barricade of antique furniture and marble busts. When they finally emerged three days later they were, to a person, characteristically professional and discreet; however, the vehemence of their closed-door protest was more than hinted at by the indelible marks of gnawing teeth which permanently marred Chief Justice John Roberts’ seat at the Court’s raised, mahogany bench.