Jason Whitlock = Fucked Buttholes: An Explanation.

I don't believe I'm giving some thinkpiece-defining hot take or making a novel/insightful observation by saying that shit is real right now.

Forreal forreal.

Political gamesmanship at the expense of communities of color, a rugged individualist society that collects guns like Taylor Swift collects participation awards of victimhood, and a country in which the promotion of state-owned media is buoyed by chants of 'fake news' just doesn't allow one to focus on the artisanal-grade fuckshit as one would otherwise. Which is why I'm officially endorsing the throwing of hot cheddar grits on anything Jason Whitlock has to say.

Scour local businesses to see which offer the best services regarding exorcising the opinions of a self-hating coon whose appearance would be more appropriate for a troll blocking the protagonist from crossing a bridge unless he can solve three riddles in a Disney cartoon.

Check your tv listings in anticipation of any one of his programs so that you have the forenotice to devour as much coffee, casserole, and Breyers ThickWhip Ice Cream so that when his program airs, you'll have the equivalent of a XXXtenTacion concert happening in your intestines and can drown out his nonsense with an unending stream of shit. I've tried this, and I guarantee you that you'd be hard pressed to discern a difference between the symphony of bowels hitting your toilet bowl and what this man is paid to say on a daily basis.

Attend the last thirty minutes of a 4th grade Social Studies lesson to attain a more functional working knowledge of the disruptive potential of using a highly visible public figure's platform for political protest. Once you've attained this knowledge, disregard it by filling a tube sock with frozen sweet potatoes and stand menacingly outside of ESPN's headquarters while swinging it in a counter clockwise motion.

I understand that some, if not all, of these suggestions border on the obscene if not felonious. Let me be clear: while this man's ideals merit no more compassion than a Cobra Kai in the dick allows, that is no endorsement of assaulting his physical person. The purpose of this piece is meant to illustrate the absolute intolerance of someone psychologically compelled to be White America's 'Black Friend.' So much so that you will go through comically inept lengths to invalidate, mock, and undermine an empirically capable athlete and human being's silent, peaceful protests that highlight a societal ill that has existed long before Whitlock's misinformed, unripe pomegranate shaped ass had something to say.

With that disclaimer out of the way, feel free to hack into all of his social media accounts and replace every picture, post, and video present with that of fucked buttholes, You know, as a visual metaphor for the origin of everything he says and thinks.

Melania & Muva Michelle: One Is A Victim. The Other Is Michelle Obama.

Corrected for accuracy, the Wikipedia page of Melania Trump would label her as the accessory a crime instead of the First Lady of the United States. She's as much of a 'victim' in much the same way Iggy Azalea is a 'victim' of 'mean' critics and others who consider her music to have all the appeal of listening to two arthritic penguins fuck on an air mattress. Melania was, is, and will continue to be a willing participant in a campaign cum administration more corrupt than the allegedly unscrupulous rapper whose actual pseudonym is, unironically, Kurupt. To characterize this woman as anything other a complicit accomplice in a democratically cheapening brand of fuckshit alchemy is both misleading and laden with bias. Misleading for the reasons so eloquently listed above, but biased because....hmm.

Biased because of... her stylish yet explicitly anti-egalitarian sense of style? Her perfectly symmetrical facial expressions of refined brooding? The fact that her natural speaking voice reminds you of the Slovenian concubine of a Suadi Prince whose only a blueprint-on-a-napkin away from making her escape?.

For the love of Topanga Lawrence, I'm at a loss. I can't figure out why America is so quick to heap oodles and noodles of sympathy onto a woman who, with even the most superficial of scrutiny, is wholly undeserving. It's almost as if the reaction to Mrs. Trump in her current position of First Meh is emblematic of some cultural instinct of ascribing sinlessness to...women whose lips are so thinly edged that every kiss ends in 46 paper cuts?

Fuck, this is hard.

As an avid reader of political columnists and a nationally recognized CVS Rewards gift card member, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed to admit that this blanket absolvement of an attractive caucasian has me absolutely stumped as to why I feel as if I've seen this movie before. Before you say anything, I recognize that it could very well be the plot of a Coen Brothers film I watched while drunk on sherry and pimento cheese, but I'm still bothered. I would assume this distress originates from watching the Obamas, specifically Michelle Obama, essentially regarded as America's Most Accomplished Aunt (That Just Finished Serving A Ten Year Bid In Rikers.) America proudly touted Michelle Obama. America publicly engaged in and organized events in distinct honor of Michelle Obama. More than a few publications regarded her arms as 'an inspiration.'

Yet that same regard for her had more terms and conditions than an Itunes sponsored Lager & Luger Family Shoot Out.

Chipotle bathrooms have seen less shit than what Michelle Obama had been subjected to during her tenure as the First Lady. This is a woman who is a graduate of Princeton University and earned her J.D. from Harvard Law School. An Associate at the Chicago office of the law firm Sidley & Austin, A woman so accomplished that even Jessie Spano would've applied for a mentorship under her. (Of course, when she wasn't high from caffeine pills, that is. My God, Jessie. Don't you know Adderall is WAY stronger?.)

The point is, Michelle Obama neither needs nor wants your sympathy. As far as I can surmise, she has never considered herself a victim of circumstance. All this, and she still found the #kween level-beast mode within herself to withstand the daily barrage of disrespect (and low key treasonous remarks) from constituents and lawmakers alike. Although, against this background, it makes sense why Melania has garnered such public compassion.

She's a bit delicate, you see. Not nearly as resilient as her predecessor

Though, still, for the life of me, I still cannot fathom the difference in superficial optics between these two women and why one is more deserving of consideration than the other.

At This Point In The Movie, Trump Should Either Be Arrested Or A Fugitive. Neither Has Happened And This Movie Sucks

I have neither the skill nor will to pretend I know exactly what brand of 'simple is as simple does,' Forever 21 at a suburban mall brand of underwhelming activities people like yourself engage in during your off time. That is, whenever your job or the kids you and your wife didn't exactly plan for but, fuck it, you already paid for their braces, aren't slowly murdering your hopes and dreams. Kind of like OJ, but instead of brutally killing philandering white women, they kill your potential for happiness.

Welp, anyways, I tend to enjoy movies.

And, surprisingly, not just movies that feature people performing acts that are guaranteed to give at least one of the participants lockjaw as well as a mean friction burn on the knees. Actual movies that feature dialogue, plot, inexplicably dancing minorities, etc. I eat that shit up like chopped hot dogs in mac and cheese, but, by far, my favorite genre of movies has to be crime. Especially crime films in which you can deduce, to the exact moment, when the long arm of the law unceremoniously inserts that arm firmly into the ne'er do well's figurative (and, regrettably, sometimes literal) asshole.

I like crime films because it reinforces the notion that while one may briefly elude the consequences of their actions, karma will inexorably bring the weight of their decisions and character flaws unsympathetically onto their heads. It also gives me the quick, BuzzFeed listicle equivalent of how to evade suspicion and outwit law enforcement agents in the most theatrical way possible. In that regard, I have two notes so far: 1: Speak in vague, obtuse riddles. 2: Be white. Aside from my own musings about the genre, I appreciate how it bolsters the concept of justice and the delineation of what is right and what is corrupt. Which is a funny word....

Cause Donny Trump is corrupt as fuck.

Corrupt like Boris and Natasha in charge of a moose and squirrel nature reserve.

Corrupt like Bing would be if it ever found itself holding a 40oz Big Gulp while standing next to the entirety of Google's servers.

Corrupt like your hard drive would be if you ever downloaded that Transylvanian foot fetish porn that pops up whenever you open your cart on Wayfair.com.

You get the point.

I guess what I’m trying to do is articulate my confusion as to why Trump hasn’t been Dillinger’ed in the last testicle he has that wasn’t taken by the Pimento Cancer I’ve been told he’s been battling since 1978. In fact, I can’t fathom a reason why he even got so far as to put his undercooked Papa Johns pizza of an ass in the actual Oval Office chair before he was abruptly put in cuffs and escorted out of the White House. At this point, as with most films depicting felonious fuck ups in the middle of a criminal enterprise, he has to be expecting it. You can’t be the principal actor in 2017’s A Serious of Treasonous Events and not expect the hammer (and/or sickle)to fall with the combined might of the United States’ Judicial System and some seriously nettled constituents. In case you’ve conveniently forgotten some of his more brazen exploits, allow me to list them with an undertone completely devoid of any and all irony:

Firing his National Security Advisor Michael Flynn amid reports that Flynn 'misled' the White House in regards to meetings he had with Russian officials.

News that both former acting United States Attorney General Sally Yates and even Lando Calrissian himself, Barack Obama, personally warned Trump of how Micael Flynn may be compromised yet Trump opted to wait an inappropiate and suspicious amount of time before taking action.

The mounting evidence supporting the claim of Russian interference in the 2016 Presidential Election.

The crude method in which FBI Director James Comey was fired. Especially considering the timing that had Comey leading an investigation into Trump and possible collusion with Russian officals during the 2016 Presidential Election.

Claiming Obama wiretapped his campaign headquarters and Trump Tower.

Accusing Obama administration of collecting information on Trump transition-team members.

The truly baffling amount of conflicts of interests and ethics violations that's piling up faster than crab legs at an all you can eat Crab Leg and Articles of Impeachment Buffet.


I mean Fuck.


Under what circumstances can we fast forward to the moment where a law enforcement agent is on the other side of the Applebees men’s bathroom stall that Trump has barricaded himself in, trying to negotiate the terms under which Donald would be willing to surrender himself? With words that are barely intelligible between tears and, of course, a mouthful of Cedar Grilled Lemon Chicken (limited availability at participating locations only), he confesses to the agent that while he isn’t exactly sorry for the smorgasbord of fuckshit he’s responsible for, he is sorry that America now has a less than pristine image of its golden-faced (showered?) demagogue.

Then he drowns himself in a toilet filled with exactly what you would expect an Applebee's toilet to be filled with. (i.e. fecal matter and failed expectations.)

The End.

I've Watched 4,271 Hours Of Romantic Comedies. I Want My Goddamned Keurig.

Let me start by saying that I am not a greedy man.

As an adult, I do not desire more than the things that I have earned by way of my own hand nor anything that is in excess of what I am owed. An adult such as myself should abide by the dogma of discipline as if it were scripture in regards to how they live their lives and I am confident in saying that I do. In this same vein, I would never live a life of ostentatious opulence or anything indicative of fiscal whimsy even if I did have the means to do so. To be succinct, my world is, by design, measured by what I've earned more so than what I want and I would not change any aspect of it for to do so would be akin to changing a much-loved part of myself. Which is why I'm afraid I must ask, with some insistence,.....

Where is my Keurig? Why haven't I received my Keurig yet? I was told all adults eventually get a Keurig and, as of 3:13 pm this afternoon; I have yet to receive my Keurig.

Where in the spectacular fuck is my Keurig?

I assure you that my inquiries are not without merit nor am I grasping blindly at something I wasn't all but assured would be mine once I've surmounted the jury duty summons and obligatory oral sex sierra of modern day adulthood. For years, I have been subjected to the testosterone deficit bowl of lukewarm porridge that is the non-threatening man in his early thirties with fashionable leather laptop bag and healthy supply of chamomile tea in his pantry (oh, and I have a fucking pantry!) appearing in romantic comedies and, confusingly, in that one porno I saw. Every time the camera would pan over to show the kitchen (which had all the decor and kitsch-like trappings of an impeccably elegant Victorian-era vagina. Think Mildred Pierce meets Love It or List It),it would show a conspicuous Keurig coffee maker sandwiched between a sleek stainless steel toaster and a food processor shaped like an emaciated Corgi's dick. This trope is in so many movies that even the Redbox 'Recently Divorced Middle-Aged Dad' section of DVD's has an entire list of recommendations featuring them. Due to constant conditioning, my expectations have evolved into a level of entitlement only possessed by wealthy murderers and white women named Catherine at Panera Bread. So let me ask again...

Who's Kwanzaa do I have to piss in to get my fucking Keurig?

I've painstakingly gone through every line item on the movie studio conglomerate checklist present in most contemporary cinema to meet the standard. Unwittingly ignite a romance through coincidence and palpable sexual tension even though I'm a self-admitted workaholic who will inevitably be forced to choose between love and career? Check. Walk solemnly along the sidewalk of a bridge while a generic acoustic song composed by a man-bun sporting Canadian for the sole purpose of fucking molly'd out groupies plays in the background? Check. Appear on a movie poster for a boilerplate rom-com while standing back to back with a woman leaving us looking like a pair of co-dependent, ideological opposites whose best case scenario is a murder-suicide in the honeymoon suite of a Days Inn? Sure, I did it. I've subjected myself to countless hours of tedious work at an indeterminate office firm and numerous rounds of unenthusiatic sex so bland that every time my partner made an unconvincing groan of pleasure Rachel Ray acquired another turtleneck. All of that effort surely must not have been in vain. So I'll ask once more....

How many 9/11s do I have to 9/11 to get a goddamn Keurig?

And I Thought Chlamydia Took A Long Time To Get Rid Of.

As of yesterday morning, The Wall Street Journal is reporting that man who almost certainly eats hand rolled tubes of deli meat and Sargento cheese alone over the sink, Bill O'Reily, is soon to be let go from perennial Four Loko-fueled blackout of American politics, Fox News. News of the impending termination of O'Reily comes amidst sexual harassment allegations from at least five women that Fox and O'Reily reportedly settled with for $13 million. Although fiscal responsibility and old-fashioned common courtesy would demand Scrooge McFuck relegated his impulses to only escorts and unattended H&M mannequins, he still does not know the difference between 'Good Touch, Bad Touch.' Though to be honest, I cannot find it within myself to blame Bill O'Reily in much the way I can't find it within myself to blame my uncle for stealing my lava lamp and the $40 I left on the coffee table to pay for crack and arthritic hand jobs.

It's in both of their nature to do so.

As much as O'Reily reprehensible body of work is indicative of the man's true nature in the context of his humanity or lack thereof, so is his constant need to affix his geriatric erection curved fingers to the body of women he works with. He proves himself to be someone who feels entitled to whatever or whoever is in front of his Campbell's New England Clam Chowder forgotten about in the microwave-like face. Whatever evidence and empirical fact that contradicts his worldview be damned because that is incongruous with the lifelong narrative arc that his life and privilege has crafted for him. A narrative that says nothing is beyond his reach for a man of his status and wealth. And keep in mind, O'Reily exists within the flexible definition of consent, date-rape as political mandate frat house that Roger Ailes built. The same Roger Ailes that was pushed out of his official position (but is still compensated immensely) following a lawsuit by Megan Kelly which alleged that Jabba The Pizza Hut would make untoward sexual comments and even once brazenly propositioned her which, I would imagine, be second only to wearing wet socks while watching an ISIS murder video on the lists of things that can fuck up my Tuesday.

However, none of these seemingly Drake style back-to-back sexual harassment allegations has done nothing to stymie the sanctimonious and pithy condescension that oozes out of the pores of Fox News anchors like alcohol and gas station brand concealer. Because White Supremacy is unsustainable when it is self-aware, and I dare yo to look at Bill O'Reily and tell me he's been aware of anything, least of all the fact that his dick only gets aroused when in the vicinity of women who've said no to him and black people who challenge his worldview.

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