Ann Coulter: The End is Near, the Olympic fiasco, and a singing Dachshund.

Last Sunday, E.E. Grimshaw called me horrified over the latest Ann Coulter column. A few days before, Ann stunned her conservative party by refering to Muslims as "ragheads" at the Conservative Political Action Conference. She stated, regarding homeland security policies, "I think our motto should be post-9-11, 'raghead talks tough, raghead faces consequences.'" Now, I of course laughed my fucking ass off. Go Ann. The thing is though, I read Ann for comedy and don't really know what the hell else is going on in the world. I quit my journalism major for a reason.




What E.E. Grimshaw called in response to was a snippet of her February 15 column, entitled "Muslim Bites Dog." Ann wrote:

Or, as I believe our motto should be after 9/11: Jihad monkey talks tough; jihad monkey takes the consequences. Sorry, I realize that's offensive. How about "camel jockey"? What? Now what'd I say? Boy, you tent merchants sure are touchy. Grow up, would you?

We considered this rash exaggeration of Ann's previous statement, her blatant disregard for personal safety and turn from smart, political wit to wildly jabbing fiend... and reached these conclusions.

Either.
A. She's a Democrat. An insanely powerful, intelligent, manipulative Democrat destroying the Republican party from within.
or
B. She's gone batshit insane.

Anyway, I was surfing one of my guilty pleasure blogs when I came across another story about Ann. During a lecture at IU, some kid asked her if she didn't like Democrats, wouldn't it just be better to have a dictatorship? Apparently, the kid had a girly little voice, and Ann said,

"You don't want the Republicans in power, does that mean you want a dictatorship, gay boy?"

Then, the president of College Republicans said, in her defense, "If you are going to talk like you are gay, then Ann Coulter is going to call you gay."

Personally, I feel this says it all.

In other news, I feel we at Weenie Enema should take a moment for Sasha Cohen. I'm not going to make any closing remarks. I'm not going to praise or criticize or cry. I am going to point out the fact that she's wearing one of those red Kaballah things, though I believe it may be some sort of Russian charm.



Let's just try and remember the short program.



Oh, and here's the dog. His name is Tobey.

When HarryEmma Met SallyFitty, And Other Stories.

Clearly, it was only a matter of time before I dedicated an entry to the celebrity refuse who have had the distinct misfortune of wandering into my path at some point in the last several years. As you will see, every single one of these creatures had something horrible happen to them after they ran into me. There's absolutely no way that's a coincidence.

The Weenie Enema Top Celebrity Encounters, Basically Ever.

1. Mandy Moore.

August of 2002. I am in an insanely introverted phase, more so than usual. Since I've only been at college for three days, my friends are composed of Kunal and Big Bear, and Kunal has already gone back home to visit his Indian family. As many already know, I was stationed in the Weinstein prison cells, and I was not particularly pleased that my living quarters were smaller than the average homeless guy's cardboard box. I persevered to become the badass I am today. At any rate, it was around 8 or 9 at night, and I was sitting in the hallway reading "'Tis" by Frank McCourt. The elevator door opens about 20 feet away...and Mandy Moore walks out. I almost didn't recoginze her because she had apparently cut her hair and dyed it dark a few days before. (I know, most of us have completely forgotten that our introduction to her involved that Candy video with the blond hair and the incredible blue swirly Discman thingy that I looked in 40 stores for and finally came to the conclusion that it was specially made for Mandy Moore. Sigh.) She was with two other girls, both of whom were significantly prettier than her. Since they were gabbing incoherently, Mandy didn't see me until she almost tripped over my Chuckies. The following is a completely accurate transcription:
Mandy Moore: Oh! Hi, what are you reading?
[holds up 'Tis]
Mandy: Oh! Cool!
End scene.
What makes this scene even more peculiar is that after she almost fell on me and impregnated me with her teeny bopper seed, she went down the stairwell with her Mandy posse. So she was on my floor for really no reason at all, except to have that weird awkward exchange with me, when, if the stars has been in perfectly alignment, I would have been reading A Walk to Remember. You have no idea how many times I wished that I had been going through a Nicholas Sparks phase at that point. Regrets dot net.

If only I had NO taste in books.
As for my celebrity misfortune Emma theory -

She died of cancer.
And I haven't seen her in a while, so I assume her career is dealing with the same affliction.

2. Britney Spears.

This is also called the Celebrity Encounter Malsta Could Have Had Too, But She Was Going Through Some Weird Rebel Complex and Voluntarily Wandered Away. In February of 2003, the Malsta made me go to that health food store place on University that closed down a while ago. Back in the day, they made some of the most intense Oreo Vegan cakes ever. RIP. On our way back home, we ran into about four or five girls, huddled together in front of the lingerie shop, I think between 10th and 9th. They looked completely batshit, and they were all darting weird looks into the windows of the store and whispering hysterical sweet nothings into each other's ears. We sauntered (because we were cool cats) over and asked them what the hell they were doing. "BRITNEY's in there!' screeched one with stringy hair and one of those really REALLY embarrassing NYU hoodies on. Not the kind I have. An uncool one. Within seconds, Malsta was gone, muttering anti-Britney sentiments under her breath. I stayed, partially because I thought they were all insane and had probably seen someone singing 'Baby, One More Time,' and had just assumed it had to be her. The stringy-haired wonder directed my attention to a big black guy standing pretty close to the door. "That's her BODYGUARD," she breathed excitedly. I cooly nodded, thinking that there must be 50 million fat black guys in New York. There WAS a girl a few feet away from him that was probably about the right size to be Britney, but there was just no way to tell unless she turned around or left the store.
I was about to run after Mal when one of the stalkers shrieked, "She's coming out!" I turned. It was Britney. Britney with a bad bad skin day. Her face was blotchy, she had no make-up on, and she looked like the thought of having to spend one more second in front of orgasming NYU girls was the last thing on her agenda. On the plus side, she appeared to have a lovely selection of undergarments to bring back with her. She smiled nervously. All of those crazy girls screaming outside while she was shopping? Silent. Finally, she said hello to each of us and asked how we all were. Someone muttered, "Fine." It was ridiculous. Britney had had enough. She hopped into the SUV parked next to the curb and drove out of my life. I trudged home to face the scornful derision of the vegan who had known better.
Britney's bad luck?

Prediction of the day: Papozao will become an official word for 'fucked and knocked up by white trash.'

3. Fifty Cent.

Gee. I wonder what Fitty's doing in THAT picture?
This is probably the weirdest encounter because I lived through it and I don't have a fucking clue what happened. In July of 2005, I decided to go to the Burger King on Fulton St. for lunch one day. For those that don't know, it is the best NYC Burger King ever, and I've been to all of them, even that crazy Polish one on 23rd. They "get" bovine, and that's the most important quality.
So I wander in around 11:30 or so, and there's a fairly sizable crowd by the register. I think it's a little weird, since I deliberately went for an early lunch so I wouldn't have to deal with shizzle/people. One black guy is at the counter loudly talking the cashier. He appears to be holding up a penny. "Do you see this penny?" he asks the cashier. She nods. "Do you see whose HEAD is on this penny??" he asks. She nods and says, "Lincoln." He vehemently shakes his head. "No, no, no! The OTHER head! Look closer." He extends his arm so she can see the penny more closely. She peers at it and goes, "Ohhh, yes, I see it." "Yeah, that's right. That man is persecuted against society! He's been shafted!" The woman keeps nodding, and the guy settles down and waits for his meal. That's when I notice he's flanked by two other beefier guys. It's Fitty in the flesh, and he's in a BK. Not only that, but my encounter with Fifty Cent involved currency. That HAS to mean something.
Within a minute or two, Fifty got his whopper and his people went outside, presumably to yet another celebrity SUV, and drove off into the sunset. For the life of me, I can't figure out whose head was on that damn penny besides Lincoln's.

I think it's rather moot to cite any possible Fitty misfortune. The guy has more lead in him than the pencil the crazy Ukranian boy has used to try to kill me 20, or, dare i say it, fitty, times.
Perhaps tomorrow I will continue this list, since I haven't mentioned the 92nd St. Y escapade of 2004 or the Moby incident of 2003.

Jeffrey Grimshaw?

I'm Sorry. I like the O.C. Eat Me.

Before I forget, I must include a brief tribute to the Best Commercial Ever. Now, I really don't know what went down at that Super Bowl last night. I know that the Steelers won and that some guy on their team looked like Fitty Cent. I think his name was Joey.

'Been hit wid a few shells, but I don't walk wid a limp.'
I am. So. Black.

My loyal Filipino Pre-Med Comrade (I know, I have Russians, vegans, legit crazies, Jocelyns, weenies, and bears just wandering around here. My social life is the answer to the question, 'What does Andy Dick hump to convince people that he's bi, rather than a raging buttoholic?') suffered through some weirdo MCAT thingy and then trooped uptown to rate commercials with me. It started out promisingly with this guy dressed like a hamster talking to Ronald McDonald. I have no clue how that commercial was supposed to convince people to eat those nasty heart attack sandwiches, but that's what you have to realize about Super Bowl commercials - they absolutely don't have to make sense AT ALL. Lets say you're walking down the street and a gorilla in a shit-encrusted diaper runs by singing 'Everybody (Backstreet's Back).'Think about the face you would make at that. Your eyes would bug out, you'd momentarily lose muscle control around your mouth, and your overall facial expression would be teetering on the edge of hysteria. THAT'S the look a successful Super Bowl commercial should bring out in the minions.

God, you were SO looking for the diaper. Sick bitch.

That said, I was mildly entertained by several commercials before...
my life took on additional meaning.
Budweiser had about six or seven commercials last night, all of them fairly adequate. Nothing prepared me for the amazingness that was...the sheep streaker.
Now, it doesn't take much to get me going. All I need is some anthropomorphic goodness where some animals shake their shaved ass and leer at the camera, and I'm pretty much set for all eternity. Budweiser fulfilled all of that and then some. If you go to the official site and click on the icon for Super Bowl commercials, you can see this majesty under the clip 'Super Fan.' Jesus. I have watched it 10 times already, and I basically have a six pack slash no control over any part of my lower extremities. Tomorrow, in honor of Tuesday, I will be doing a top 10 list of my best celebrity encounters since I arrived in this grimy cesspool in August of 2002. Expect to see both Moby and Bob Saget on the list.

Lets see...we have two anorexics, both of whom may be snorting lines of non-carbonated Coke, a meth head, and Dave Coulier, the singularly unfunniest man in the history of all things. Bob, how did you score this family? I think Bobby Brown has a better track record. He just hits his wife.

"Republicans are desperately trying to convince themselves that Roberts will be different because they want to believe Bush wouldn't let us down on the Supreme Court. Somewhere in America a woman is desperately trying to convince herself that her husband won't hit her again because he told her "things are going to be different this time." (And yes, that woman's name is Whitney Houston.)"