I Love Occupying Wall Street

While I've been making coffee and watching "Keeping up with the Kardashians," I guess a bunch of folks stormed NYC's financial district in hopes to #OccupyWallStreet, and by occupy I mean "block traffic and get beat by police" on Wall Street.

So far, the peaceful demonstration seems to be going well. There's a lot of clever chanting and marching, which I'm sure is really pissing of those corporate pigs. I bet they're breaking out their copy of "The Communist Manifesto," and crying into their $100 bills, while Marx waxes poetically about the class struggle between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie.

Yeah, we're showing those fuckers. 

Wait ... what happened?

Oh. No. They. Didn't. 

It's time to bring some hood to Lower Manhattan.

#FuckUpWallStreet

 #ThenDrinkTheirChampagne

#ThenPissOnThatBull

I Love Twitter Relationships that will Ultimately End in Domestic Violence

For those of you who have lives and don't care about Twitter, you might be surprised to hear that many a relationship begins on the social networking site. Yep, something about that little blue bird makes people want to take their pants off (remember former Congressman Wiener's boxer-brief fiasco).

Well, the Twitter bird is at it again, and this time it's between Chris "I'm-gonna-knock-you-out" Brown and Lindsay "My-father-doesn't-love-me" Lohan.

Sunday night at the VMAs, while Brown tried to dance his way into making people forget he beat the shit out of Rihanna, Lilo was all but throwing her freckled vag at him. Okay. Fine. She just asked if he would like to meet her, but come on what are they going to talk about... an exit strategy for Afghanistan? No, they are going to bone.

Personally, I can't wait for these two nutjobs to fall in love. Because we all know that Lindsay would eventually go into a coke-fueled rage and bludgeon him to near death with a tire iron.

That's called karma, bitch.

I Love Super-Straight Marcus Bachmann

Marcus Bachmann is a straight man.

I would be willing to bet that he goes home every night and makes love to his crazy-eyed wife, presidential-hopeful Michele Bachmann.

Sure he cries afterward, but it has nothing to do with the fact that vaginas repulse him or that he misses his college roommate, Claudio.

After totally-hot sex with his wife, Mr. Bachmann heads to dreamland. And you know what he dreams about?

Yep, you guessed it, Jesus. No, not his sweaty, 6'5, Hispanic pool boy-- Jesus, the son of God.

After a restful eight hours, where he doesn't have even one dream about performing in a Village-People cover band, he gets up and goes to work at his Christian-counseling clinic.

Now let me make this clear, this clinic is absolutely not a gay-to-straight camp. Mr. Bachmann knows that people can't pray away the gay, they have to shove it in the nearest closet behind a pair of size-12 stilettos and some back copies of the magazine, Uncut.

After a long day's work, Mr. Bachmann goes home and hops in the shower, eager to wash all his problems away. While he's in there, he does what every normal person does, he sings. But he is definitely not singing Abba's "Dancing Queen."

After a shower and some dinner, Mr. Bachmann finds himself back in the embrace of his loving wife, Michele. He looks at her with passion in his eyes and asks if she would mind watching Spartacus while they consummate they're totally real marriage.

Post-coitus, Mr. Bachmann pulls a Marlboro Ultra-Light from a bejeweled cigarette case. He puffs it slowly, drawing the smoke into his throat like Claudio taught him all those years ago. Some may call this display almost homoerotic, but they would be wrong.

Because Marcus Bachmann is a super-straight man.