Do It In Private & Wash Your Hands Afterwards

do it in private & wash your hands afterwards

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When Does a Bed Become a Deathbed?

Media report that Fred Phelps, founder of the Westboro Baptist Church, best-known for picketing the funerals of U.S. veterans and the ubiquitous “God Hates Fags” placards, is “on his deathbed.” (March 16, 2014)

When does a bed become a deathbed?

A bed becomes a sickbed when you’re sick. A bed become a deathbed before you’re dead.

Like: “Ned went to see Ted on his deathbed.”

No point going to visit someone when they’re dead.  Although you would get a firm handshake.

Plus you wouldn’t want to keep a dead Ted in his deathbed long enough for Ned to make the trip.  

Once that smell hit him — holy crap.  Ned would turn around and get out of there.

Bed of the Ball

I guess every bed is a potential deathbed.  If you, y’know, die in it.

Once I was living with this girl, we were pretty serious — she had an amazing deathbed.  

Antique, ornate headboard, footboard — what might’ve been, one day, our deathbed.

Then she goes to IKEA and buys a new deathbed.  This lime-green, post-modern, semi-oval — it looked like a partially chewed gumdrop.

So I broke up with her.

No way I wanted that to be my deathbed.

Get the Bed Out

I suppose you always buy a new deathbed.

Can’t sell an used one.  I don’t want Ted’s deathbed.  I’d never fall asleep again.  I mean — it’s a deathbed NOW.

If you can’t get cumstains out of a mattress, I’ll bet death settles right down in there.

You wouldn’t even need one of those freaky purple flashlights on CSI to imagine yourself, dozing ever so lightly, on a great big skull-and-crossbones.

Caught ‘im Bed to Rights

I saw a guy in the news shotgunned on a waterbed.

Poor dude didn’t even get a deathbed.

He died in a shallow puddle on a deflated rubber… thing.

Hey — no water, no bed.  I don’t make the rules.

I’m going to buy some bunk beds.  I never heard of a death bunk bed.  I’d probably live forever.

Filed under deathbed humor humour comedy fred phelps wbc westboro westboro baptist church gay lgbt lgbti lgbtq gay marriage same sex marriage funny

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The Channel 4 Gay Weather Forecast


God caused Hurricane Katrina to wipe out New Orleans because it had a gay pride parade the week before and was filled with sexual sin. (Pastor John Haggee of San Antonio, Texas)

If anybody looks at the news and has just seen what’s been happening recently with the floods, the fires, the…

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Happy Holidays! And Stop Saying “Happy Holidays!”

Happy Holidays! And Stop Saying “Happy Holidays!”

Stop saying “Happy Holidays!”  Just stop.

It’s that time of year again — you know, the one full of polite euphemisms for that time of year.

Happy Holidays!

Season’s Greetings!

ATTN PARENTS: Schools are closed for the winter holidays.

There are more euphemisms for this time of year than That Time of the Month.

So don’t say “Happy Holidays!”  If you want to wish me well, say what’s on your mind.

Be specific in your well-wishing. Say “Merry Christmas!” or “Happy Hanukkah!” or “Snoop Kwaanza, yo!”

Merry Christmas!

If you celebrate Christmas, no matter how lapsed or wobbly in your faith in a magic baby whose belly button cast a star in the East like the Bat Signal, say “Merry Christmas!”

It’s your wish, after all, even if it’s for your Jewish or Wiccan or pagan or atheist or Satanist or even Methodist friend.

Express your comfort and joy with “Merry Christmas!”  And for 25 days a year, give or take, the rest of us all agree to forget about the Crusades, the Inquisition, the Holocaust, and Kirk Cameron’s carefully considered opinions about anything.

SHOPPING TIP! Even a small list of atrocities committed in the name of Christianity over 2,000 years makes a great stocking stuffer!

Happy Hanukkah!

If you have a Jewish friend — and who doesn’t these days, they’re everywhere, it’s like they can roam free without having to show their papers or something — you can say “Happy Hanukkah!” even though you personally celebrate Christmas.

Respect your friend’s culture with a faith-appropriate wish.  Jesus will not send you screaming straight to Hell. Like Mel Gibson, Lars von Trier, or John Paul Galliano, you can always say it was just a joke.

Jesus would be cool with that.  Any guy who thought he could kick the money changers out of religion has got to have a sense of humor!

If you celebrate Hanukkah, celebrate Hanukkah!  Say “Happy Hanukkah!”  Don’t say “We OBSERVE Hanukkah” like it’s a mental patient on suicide watch.

Light those candles!  Spin those dreidels!  Plant a tree in Israel!  I say let’s combine Arbor Day with Hanukkah and call it Harmonica!

Happy Ramadan! (Not Now, Though)

If you have a Muslim friend, report him or her to the Department of Homeland Security immediately.  202-282-8000 or  Do it now.

I’m kidding. You can wait till the end of this blog post.

Happy Nothing!

If you want to wish your friend well, but you are unsure of his or her religious affiliation, and you have none yourself, try this: “Hello!”  Or “Goodbye!”

That’s it.  That’s the whole menu.  Thank you for thinking of me enough to draw breath and exhale.

I don’t want your bogus “Happy Holidays!” because you’re worried that the law firm of Rosenberg, Rosenstein, and Rosenwicz will take you to court for a hate crime.

Season’s Greetings!

And keep “Season’s Greetings!” to yourself, too.  Winter is a season, but winter can’t greet me, because a season can’t talk.

If it could talk, winter would complain about how hot it is because of climate change.  And that would be — let’s face it — a little Jewish.

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No Props for Prop 8: California’s Gay Marriage Ban

Written on the occasion of the passage of Prop 8 banning same-sex marriage in California, at the same time voters approved a sci-fi train from Los Angeles to San Francisco:

Seems Californians are a clique of middle-school cockteases.  They voted to eliminate same-sex marriage, which wasn’t costing them a dime, but supported a $20 billion bullet train straight to ASS!-a-Roni!, the San Francisco treat! 

So, gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgenders — we disapprove of your profligate ways, but you can’t settle down and get married. 

Have all the cock-waving, labia-quivering, hot-butt-nekkid sex you want — but do it out of town. 

Not only will we forego the disposable income you’d prefer to drop into your local economy, but we’ll fork out the dough to build a monorail to Disney’s Gay Adventure.

A nation is a human thing.  It does what we do for our reasons.  Surely, if we’re civilized, we can put away the knives.  We can make peace.  We have it in our hands.

Henry II in The Lion in Winter, screenplay by James Goldman, based on his play

I love gay marriage.  LOVE it. 

I want to see a boom in florists, caterers, dressmakers, tailors, crappy tribute bands who play all the gay techno-synth-shit songs from the 80s, pastry chefs, honeymoon vacations, and scratch-n-sniff vajayjay party favors. 

I want to see Muffy Van Whosiwhatsit’s Big Daddy in Orange County spend ginormous cash to out-flamboyant a gay man’s wedding and reception.  I mean — there ain’t enough taffeta in the world, jack. 

I want revenues for rentals of lesbian chapels in Home Depot, Lowe’s, and other locations where fine power tools are sold. 

I want gay marriages, gay divorces, gay pre-nups, gay adoption, gay property disputes — briarpatches of new law that can unspool for fuckin’ years

Clothes on the lawn, furniture tossed out of windows, your $5,000 sybian machine dropped off at the local Rite Aid so kids out front can pay a quarter to ride the funny pony — a gay couple can display more outrage and you-never-really-loved-ME! passion, breaking up after being together only 10 hours, than a straight couple after 10 years. 

Give me vast frontiers of legal flimflammery so that generations of lawyers now in law school will have someone else to fuck in the ass instead of me.

California’s black and Latino voters provided key support in favor of the state’s same-sex marriage ban. Seven in 10 (70%) black voters backed Proposition 8, along with more half of Latino voters, while whites were split.

Of the seven in 10 (70%) voters who described themselves as Christian, two-thirds (66%) backed the initiative. Married voters, along with voters with children, strongly supported Prop 8. Unmarried voters were heavily opposed.

figures from the Associated Press

Many black people — as well as other minorities that benefited from the civil rights movement of the 60s, including but not limited to, y’know, all of ‘em — don’t see gay marriage as similar social justice. 

You choose to be gay, they say.  You don’t choose to be black or Mexican or Chinese.

What they mean, I think, is that gay people choose to fuck.

You can be gay all you want, but I don’t want to see it and keep it to yourself.  Love the sinner, hate the sin, goo goo goo joob.

We’ll tolerate your identity, but don’t express that identity.

If we applied this principle to minorities across the board, we’d have a nation of citizens covered up in Haz-Mat suits so natural-born white folks wouldn’t have to see or hear ‘em.

(And while we’re at it, I hate the word tolerate here.  I tolerate a hangnail till I can cut it off.  I tolerate some dimwit couple babbling at the movies because they’re talking so fast, they’re clearly off their meds and might stab me with a knitting needle.  These things have a tangible effect on my immediate quality of life.  If you don’t want to see a gay couple kissing, look away.  If you don’t want to see two hot chicks wrestling in a wading pool of tapioca, then get the hell out of my house on Dessert Night.)

Why do they hate us so much? my friend asks.  And I tell him, When you try to give an irrational question a rational answer, you wind up in the straitjacket with them.

Oh, the God question, right.

God is an infinite presence of infinite knowledge and infinite power, but He really cares about your asshole and what goes into it.  It takes up hours of His day.

  • 6 a.m. — Breakfast with the Seraphim
  • 6:30 a.m. — Thinkin’ ‘Bout Some Assholes
  • 7:30 a.m. — I Really Like Stars, I Made So Many of ‘Em, So Why, If I Don’t Like Assholes, Did I Make ‘Em Shaped like This (  *  )?
  • 9:30 a.m. — Damn You, Assholes!

A fairy-tale figure in the sky shouldn’t influence what we deem to be human rights or public policy. 

The U.S. Department of Agriculture, after all, does not set its course by Jack and the Beanstalk.

Filed under gay gay marriage same sex marriage homosexual lgbt doma scotus supreme court prop 8 proposition 8 california religion god christian christians christianity

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Why Gay Marriage Isn’t Real Marriage: from the California Supreme Court

Recently the Obama Administration urged the Supreme Court to strike down California’s ban on same-sex marriage as unconstitutional.

The ban emerged as a result of “Proposition 8,” or Prop 8, when put to a statewide popular vote.

The Department of Justice hopes that the Supreme Court will grant “full faith and credit” to same-sex marriages and thus forbid state-by-state banning of them.

What follows are excerpts from the California State Supreme Court’s ruling upholding the ban:

On Proposition 8 as a constitutional amendment:

It is not our role to pass judgment on the wisdom or relative merit of the current provisions of the California Constitution governing the means by which our state Constitution may be altered. We mean — Jesus, Kindergarten Cop was our goddamn governor, fer Chrissakes. We don’t know what the fuck’s going on up in this motherfucker.

Still, it is the finding of this Court, as a statement of fact rather than a legal position, that gay marriage isn’t real marriage, to wit:
•    If you’re a dude, you still get blowjobs.
•    If you’re a chick, you still get your pussy licked. You continue to go out on dates. To Home Depot and Plumbers Warehouse, but still.
•    Lesbian couples never fight about leaving the toilet seat up.
•    You have a shot at your partner’s being in the closet and not having to deal with his or her in-laws.
•    Gay sex cannot produce children “by accident,” which is responsible for 98% of all marriages. (The other 2% result because she starts crying and a guy will do anything to put a sock in that shit.)

On a constitutional “amendment” vs. constitutional “revision”

Furthermore, the Court holds that Proposition 8 constitutes a constitutional ‘amendment’ rather than a constitutional ‘revision.’

What’s the difference between an ‘amendment’ and a ‘revision’? Do we have to spell it out for you?

Oh. We do have to spell it out for you.


Well, one means ‘change.’

The other means, ah, ‘change.’

And, well — oh, fuck it, you bunch of word nerds.

On Proposition 8 violating the equal protection clause:

Describing the effect of Proposition 8 as narrow and limited fails to acknowledge the significance of the discrimination it requires.

On the other hand, ‘narrow’ and ‘limited’ are pretty good adjectives to describe the penises and vaginas, respectively, of the bonnet-wearing, hissy-throwing, sexually repressed Christian dingbats backing this measure in the first place.

Proposition 8 and all similar initiative measures seek to deny a fundamental right to a group that has historically been subject to discrimination on the basis of a suspect classification.

This violates the essence of the equal protection clause of the California Constitution and fundamentally alters its scope and meaning. Like — what happened to sticking it to Mexicans? This state was built on sticking it to Mexicans. And to the Chinese. Now there’s a Panda Express every 10 feet and a taco stand every five.

On complaints that it is too easy to amend the California Constitution:

Petitioners’ complaint is that it is just too easy to amend the California Constitution through the initiative process.

But it is not a proper function of this court to curtail that process; we are constitutionally bound to uphold it.

On the other hand, the scratch-n-sniff ballots have to go.

Likewise the Pin-the-Plug-in-the-Badonkadonk Game.

On rights retained by same-sex couples under Proposition 8:

Although Proposition 8 eliminates the ability of same-sex couples to enter into an official relationship designated “marriage,” in all other respects those couples continue to possess, under the state constitutional privacy and due process clauses, “the core set of basic substantive legal rights and attributes traditionally associated with marriage.”

Which means no, dude, you can’t “gay marry” instead of “real marry” your girlfriend and then stay out late watching Star Trek: Into Darkness with your friends on opening day at midnight on a Thursday and think you’re going to avoid her nagging bullshit when you get home.

That is some serious science-fiction escapism.

On the state’s obligations to same-sex couples:

All three branches of state government continue to have the duty to eliminate the remaining important differences between “marriage” and “domestic partnership,” both in substance and perception. Such differences are, in the opinion of this Court, a bunch of crap.

Two guys living together can get health insurance, but a guy shacked up with his girlfriend can’t?

Total horseshit.

If you want free blood work and no co-pay, then you should have to march your assless chaps down the aisle and say ‘I do,’ goddammit.

Gay couples get all kinds of sex all the time, they get parades, they get their own fuckin’ TV networks — plus they can score antibiotics for a sinus infection without auctioning off their extremities?

Total horseshit.

Filed under gay gays lesbian lesbians homosexual homosexuals homosexuality gay marriage same sex marriage same sex doma defense of marriage act civil union civil unions domestic partnership domestic partnerships california prop 8 proposition 8 obama barack obama marriage pregnancy pregnant

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Cranberries, the Can-Do Berries

Where did all the cranberries come from?

I never even saw a real cranberry when I was a kid.  And I sure never ate a real cranberry.

The only time you heard about cranberries was Thanksgiving — and that’s not even real cranberries.  That’s a squat little fireplug of purple gelatinous goo so jiggly just-out-of-a-can, you can still see the corrugation on the sides like chins on Newt Gingrich.

The Motion of the Ocean Spray

If you said “cranberry” when I was a kid, I’d say “Ocean Spray” like Marco Polo, jack.  I knew that much from TV commercials. But I still didn’t know what a cranberry was. 

Cranberries might even be a fictional food, like nectar of the gods, manna from heaven, or an Egg McMuffin.  Might as well call ‘em Franken Berries.

Cranberries are perverts, though.  In Ocean Spray’s secret laboratories, the cranberry showed its willingness to fuck any kind of fruit, so you wound up with mutant cran-apples, cran-grapes, and other cran-kids nobody wanted. 

So Ocean Spray squeezed ‘em all into a juice that if you gave to a actual kid, he’d cry for an hour till he got a serious goddamn juice like Sunny D.

To Cranfinity and Beyond

Now cranberries are everywhere.

Cranberry Raspberry Snapple. Cranberry Twist Tea. Canada Dry Cranberry Soda. Orange-Cranberry Muffins. Oatmeal Cranberry Cookies.

There’s even a band called The Cranberries, but they’re Irish so it’s probably a tribute to Stuff You Can Ferment in a Plastic Bag to Make Liquor in Prison. 

They make dried cranberries, but nobody would eat something called dried cranberries, so they call them craisins.  Which is supposed to sound better.  Sounds craisy to me.

When Leo orders cranberry juice in a bar in The Departed, the other guy has so much cranberry trivia at his fingertips, he informs Leo that cranberries are a natural diuretic.  Which ought to mean they give you diarrhea, but really means they make you pee.

If you ate enough cranberries, sure, you’d get diarrhea — but you can’t eat that many cranberries, because they’re as bitter as Republicans on November 7, 2012.

Can-Do Berries

If they could get so many cranberries into so much of our lives without a single complaint (our fuckin’ cookies?), maybe the cranberry people could do the same with gay marriage.

Just fold gay marriage into the texture of everyday life, no big deal, nothin’ to see here, folks, till it’s everywhere, in every town in every state, just like that. 

And nobody even notices, when they sit down to snack on some fresh, wholesome, old-fashioned oatmeal cookies, they’re really getting a big ol’ mouthful of gay.  And that doesn’t taste so bad, now, does it?

Filed under cranberries Newt Gingrich Election Day 2012 The Departed gay marriage same-sex marriage

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Angela McCaskill: Ignorant of Her Own History

Angela McCaskill is the chief diversity officer at Gallaudet University, the nation’s top university for deaf and hard-of-hearing students.

She recently signed a petition to put Maryland’s gay-marriage law up for public referendum.  By doing so, clearly she is against same-sex marriage.

Angela McCaskill is a 1) woman who is 2) black and a steward for the interests of 3) the deaf — but she wants to deny another minority some rights.

Because of — wait for it — a church.

AP reports that McCaskill “signed the petition at her church after listening to a sermon about marriage. “

A church which, for centuries, dictated a society in which women were less than men, black people were less than human, and deaf people were less than sane.

Rather than remove her from her job, perhaps Gallaudet might mandate that she enroll in some history courses.

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Babyball: If Men Could Get Pregnant

If men could get pregnant, a lady once said, abortion would be a sacrament. She had the right idea, but I think she took it the wrong direction.

If men could get pregnant, having babies would be a sport.


You’d see guys at the gym cracking it on the VajMaster, huffing through three sets of ten Lamaze reps, showing off stretch marks like prison tats.

Morning sickness? That’s just fear leaving the body. Fear and last night’s Red Bull and Del Taco run.

You’d see nine-months-gone mutant thugs in UFC cage matches, and when they clenched in a scissor-lock, they’d pinball their papooses into play — mano a mano, utero in utero.

You’d see bulked-up beefcakes in labor at the Olympics, spitting out wet infants like watermelon seeds. They’d call it Babyball — shotgunning their bouncing bundles of joy for distance at the shotput, blasting mewling tykes through bullseyes at the archery range.

He Ain’t Heavy — He’s My Baby

If you have a kid today, chances are you had it in a maternity ward — a safe, sterile environment with friendly faces and pleasant music.

In the old days, we had another word for maternity wards: fuckin’ CAVES.

Women have been giving birth in the dirt, in the rain, in the mud for ten thousand years — but I’m supposed to feel sorry for you because, oh, the vending machine with the good Twinkies is on another floor of the hospital and you have to wait an extra 45 seconds while your baby daddy trots up and down the stairs?

And stop whining about your “contractions.”  Hey, I’ve got some contractions: Won’t you — Can’t you — shut the fuck up?

You get a shot that paralyzes you so you don’t feel anything.  Everything below the waist goes slack and you dribble out your rubbery little urchin like slipping off one of your galoshes at the front door.

Men wish they could have something like an epidural before they roll to work every morning.  A labor pain is a man wishing he could zone out and forget how hard he has to labor with two unemployed mouths to feed.

Parental Snide-ance Suggested

So having babies isn’t impressive. But raising them is.

Childbirth is a sprint. Childrearing is a marathon.

If you’re a parent — mother or father, gay or straight, adoptive, surrogate or foster — you know what I mean.

Get in there and get your hands dirty. Teach those kiddies right from wrong.  Risk their love by dishing out some discipline when they fuck up.  Confine them to their rooms.  Take away their computers and video games and TVs and iPods and iPads.

And stay home to gloat. Enjoy it. Revel in it.

There is no greater punishment than grounding your kid — then making him or her listen to the sounds of you fucking in the next room all weekend long.

Two old people like you — it’s disgusting.

Consider every knock of that headboard against the wall just one more bump up that GPA on their transcript for Princeton Law or Harvard Medical.

Spend Friday night, all day Saturday, and all day Sunday exclaiming with every grunt and thrust, “I beLIEVE the CHILdren ARE our FUture! Who’s your daddy?”

Do it for them.  Do it for you.

They won’t cop to it at the PTA, but learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.  You could look it up.

Filed under babies childbirth comedy humor humour men and women parody pregnancy pregnant satire abortion

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One More Fucking Blog About Daniel Tosh, Reduced to Two Simple Fucking Conclusions

Tweet after tweet, blog after blog — this fucking shit with Daniel fucking Tosh is never going to fucking end.

Not more than a few hundred fucking people were at the fucking Laugh Factory, or else they would have been violating the fucking fire code, too, but fuckety-fuckballs doesn’t everybody want to fucking weigh in on it?

So fine.  Fine. 

Here’s my fucking take:


Let’s assume two fucking things that don’t seem to be in dispute in all fucking accounts, first- and secondhand, of the original fucking incident.

1) Daniel Tosh was fucking onstage (fucking here is an intensifier, not a verb, or the fucking Laugh Factory would have another fucking problem altogether) and fucking talking when a female audience member shouted, "Actually, rape jokes are never funny!"

2) Daniel Tosh responded, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that girl got raped by like, five guys right now? Like right now? What if a bunch of guys just raped her… ?”


A fucking lot of fucking people have retweeted at least two articles on the subject in the last two days: Lindy West’s “How to Make a Rape Joke" and Jim Emerson’s "What Is a Rape Joke, Anyway?

I read both of them.

And, while doing so, I COMPLETELY LOST MY FUCKING MIND at one point.

Well, at two points.

Same point, different pieces.

Lindy West writes:

And the flip-side of that awesome microphone power you have—wow, you can seriously say whatever you want!—is that audiences get to react to your words however we want.


If people don’t want to be offended, they shouldn’t go to comedy clubs? Maybe. But if you don’t want people to react to your jokes, you shouldn’t get on stage and tell your jokes to people.

Jim Emerson writes:

[The audience member] [was] heckling — but not the kind where someone in the crowd simply calls out the comic for not being funny. She was openly challenging him on what he knew was dangerous ground.


You could also argue that if a comedian is going to provoke his audience, he shouldn’t be surprised if they push back. She could have just started booing and hissing, which anybody in the crowd has a right to do, but she openly challenged his assumptions about what was funny.


To which I say the following:




I’m fucking tired of hearing people fucking talk at the movies.

At the theater.

At concerts.  Sometimes the music’s so loud, they actually TALK LOUDER. People have ENTIRE FUCKING CONVERSATIONS while I’m reelin’ in the years and stowin’ away the time.

And at fucking comedy clubs.




IT IS A MONOLOGUE, from Latin mono-, meaning “one,” and -logue, meaning “should shut the fuck up.”

Even if you’ve never fucking been to a fucking comedy club before, you’ve probably seen Leno’s monologue. Letterman’s. Fallon’s. Kimmel’s. Maher’s.

Have you ever heard a fucking audience shout shit at them?

(Well, once. And this is what happened.)





One person fucking starts, everybody thinks the fucking dam has cracked like it’s a Michael fucking Bay movie, and so everybody paddles in and tries to catch a fucking wave.


Just because a fucking group decides to do it at the same fucking time does not make it acceptable fucking behavior. 

Your performer will hear the horrible fucking sound of your not fucking laughing.

That is entirely fucking sufficient to fucking communicate to her or him your fucking displeasure with his fucking material.

It is also entirely fucking sufficient for the fucking club to make a fucking value judgment as to whether to put that fucking person in front of a fucking audience again.


Laugh, chortle, guffaw, weep, sob, gasp — but SHUT THE FUCK UP.


If you don’t fucking like what you are fucking seeing or fucking hearing to the point where can still fucking sit there and not disintegrate into a million disappointed little pieces —

Please leave.

Pretty please, with sugar on top.

Just leave.

You’re not enjoying yourself, anyway. Why not leave?

Ask a staffperson for your money back if you feel so inclined.  There are no hard and fast rules on this.  The Laugh Factory may differ from the Improv, and such may differ manager to manager, and such may differ night to night.

You may talk about your experience outside, you may blog about it, you may tweet about it or post on Facebook.  You may host a rally.  You may call for a boycott.

That is, Lindy West and Jim Emerson are entirely correct that you have a right to react to what you see and hear in an entertainment venue — comedy, movies, theater, concerts, etc. —



Lot of fucking tweets, lot of fucking blogs, lot of fucking Huffpost comments — but I’ll stick with Lindy West and Jim Emerson for simplicity’s sake.

That is, other than the remarks above, I have no complaints to lodge with either.

Both are fine and thoughtful articles about subjects that these writers care deeply about.

At first, Lindy West raises an objection to Daniel Tosh’s remarks based on an advocacy for women and their lifelong vigilance against sexual assault.

Then she proceeds to make a case for four (4) comedians whose rape jokes she likes.

So her umbrage with Daniel Tosh is not necessarily the reference to rape, then.

Jim Emerson skips over the women’s issue completely, preferring instead to discuss joke construction — and, in fact, also references a Louis CK piece cited by Lindy West.

That is, he doesn’t seem to have a problem with rape as a subject for humor per se, either.



The whole incident can be reduced to two clear calls to action.

1) Audience: SHUT THE FUCK UP.


And don’t get fucking confused as to which of the above you fucking are.

Filed under Daniel Tosh rape comedy comedians standup lindy west jim emerson fucking