Today Barack Obama was the special guest on The View  . He told the White House Press how much he enjoys going on Ladies Daytime TV shows . "  I feel safe and at ease being with those Old Hags . I know nobody is going to ask me any difficult political questions or why I am such an ineffective President " said Obama .    Next week Obama plans to do the Wendy Williams show , " She's a completely lame brain kiss-ass "  said Obama .     Barack Obama is most excited about being a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race in September .  " I know that's one contest I can't lose  ! "

New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie says the show “Jersey Shore” leaves a terrible impression.   In related news, chairs say the same thing about Gov. Christie's ass.

 India unveiled a $35 computer as part of a program to provide access to all. At first glance, I gotta say I'm not that impressed.

 Being fat at the gym takes the pressure off, when a girl winks in your direction you can be sure she's aiming at the fitter guy behind you.

Expressions of people who wear spectacles are difficult to understand. You tell them a bad news, they remove their spectacles. You tell them a good news, they remove their spectacles. Ask them to pose for a photograph, they remove their spectacles.

Parenthetically, before we start this story, there's someone you should be introduced to first. Meet Mr. J, a mouth-breathing-barbaric-lousy-writer so self involved that he failed Astronomy 101 because he literally thought the world revolved around him.

Mr. J is in the midst of writing a new book or as he called it “an Amish blog”. Chances are it will be total flop and have more unread pages than a crack dealer’s beeper while on sabbatical.

Mr.J was a black robe and sickle away from being language's Grim-Reaper.

Mr.J was to language what hemlock was to Socrates, what Pontius Pilate was to Christ, what Harvey Lee Oswald was to JFK, and what Rush Limbaugh was to credibility of Rush Limbaugh.

Understanding Mr.J's style of writing was like solving the Rubik’s Cube…color blind.

For the next chapter of his book, I mean his Amish Blog, he's constructing a top ten list of hebetudinous however helpfull hints to delineate if you are demonically destroying decent discourse. As if you were an allegorical Aerosol Spray Can eliciting global warming on the Proverbial Planet Pretentious Pedantic Pomposity as it orbits in the Semantically Snobbish Solar System:

1) -You think “Barnes & Noble” is a description of a fancy farm.
2) -Spell check has no suggestions other than “Don’t expect people to read this.”
3) -Your favorite author is a guy named Cliff Notes.
4) -You think sweat shops make deodorant.
5) -You never order a Caesar Salad because you’re afraid a Brutus and Claudius Salad will stab it to death.
6) -Someone said, “I’m watching Ripley’s Believe It or Not.” And you reply, “I believe it.”
7) -You think Olive Garden should open an adoption agency because when you’re there you’re family.
8) -In your mind, Books for dummies describe all books.
9) -You can only speed read with books on audio aka press fast forward and use your book mark aka pause button.
10) -Face book is the only book you’ve ever read.

Incidentally, this particular story is not about Mr. J. No it’s about a murder of his closest friend who of course in Mr.J’s case was a stranger. His name was M.T. Jester, a fuzzy fellow that looks like the love child of Chewbacca and Sasquatch.

Hair dragging behind his feet like a Bride’s dress that makes follicles of Repunzle on Rogaine seems as if it’s the smooth skull of Lex Luther after leaving the barbershop.

This Cousin It carbon copy, known as M.T., is a professional unicyclist who could only do one trick: a wheelie. He was sponsored by Neosporen.

Now that we've met everyone; Let's rewind one week, to last Tuesday, where this story begins, okay? Arlight, so...it's last Tuesday and its a crisp calm night, as the velvet twilight glistens and gleams from sparkling silver pepper stars sprinkled across the powdery air of the black tarp hovering overhead restlessly. And M.T. is busy in his looking for his new titanium shovel so he could clear a space in his yard for a glow-n-dark sundial.

Suddenly a stealthy silhouette wavers through the shadows. Sneakingly the silhouette emerges clutching the missing titanium shovel in his nervous hands that are quivering like Michael J. Fox during a game of Jenga.

The mysterious figure strikes M.T.’s cranium, cracking completely open as if its a pinata full of dark rose colored blood.

Exactly one week later on the subsequent Tuesday-a week after the attack and M.T. lies on his death bed, pale as a winter moon. He’s forcing an awkward smile before sinking into the unknown abyss of afterlife. Nostalgically he reflects on past events in life such as his freshman year in college when he tried speed dating. Not on purpose, he was just dumped a lot.

As death lurks nearby it seems almost as if a heightened sense of M.T.’s sparse source of mortality is plunging over the ragged edge of the universe that was once crimson lit full of youth giving air. More reminiscence consumed him with memories of when he was 18 and lost his virginity followed by memories of being 19 and realizing he didn’t lose it but simply misplaced it between his low self esteem and social awkwardness.

Eventually everything surrounding M.T. becomes sinisterly desolate dreary and dark. His universe was becoming cold lifeless and absent of all short winded elations. Eyes closed so tight as he grasped at insignificant concepts for comfort. Turning over in his mind how he displayed such amorous feelings towards light savings time because he loved jet lag without packing.

And who else other than the fetid sump-sucking, Mr.J would be the last person privy to M.T. Jester’s final uttered syllables. Most of what he said to Mr.J made as much sense as a mime performing ventriloquism or a dyslexic playing boggle or buying a coffin with a lifetime warranty.

Mr.J, yawning feigns interest with a camouflage of affectation as his neighbor rambles, rants relentlessly. Musing amphigories such as “Cannibals truly are what they eat.” And things like, “The early bird gets the worm so if you’re a worm, I’d sleep in.” Or even, "If the alphabet was one long word, it would be easy to spell but hard to pronounce."

M.T.’s fluttering lips. Banality of banter flourishes nonsense like a Blue Angel soaring through social-stratosphere. Caroming off intergalactic solar plexuses of vastly vacant headed vernacular that’s so boring even his tape recorder was now just pretending to listen. It was a cheap Sony Handheld Recorder: batteries and attention span not included.

Suddenly, M.T. stifles, truncating his jostling jabbering jowls and becomes quieter than a librarian with laryngitis for several moments.

This of course abruptly elicits Mr.J to regain intrigue. By this point Mr.J had begun playing on his laptop which was full of Trojans, viruses, and never worked. Essentially his laptop was Lyndsay Lohan.

Mr.J’s eyes glance around the room and involuntarily fasten in awe with M.T. who returns a blank ambiguous stare. M.T. conveyed a familiar conviction as if he was a magic 8 ball during an earthquake: Answers would be easier to understand if someone asked a question first.

Silence consumes the entire room and shattered as M.T lightly interposes and whispers in a husky tenor with great trepidation and Mr. J leans forward with eagerness. Moving wistfully before him hesitantly unveils his only veridical secret. An ancient mystery so old it makes Alexander Graham Bell’s prototypes look like the new iPhone.

M.T. fragilely murmurs.
“I have a confession. You never knew this. But, I’ve been secretly having an affair with your girlfriend.”
Wicked words from a wicked tongue poison the ear and resonate to the deepest crevice of his stitched skull. Mr.J pauses, motionless, reticent, reserved, and statuesque. The air is rich with tension and dramatic turbulence that builds at a steadfast and unwavering pace and is released as Mr.J smirks and replies contemptuously.
“I have a confession too. I already knew about the affair. And, that’s why last Tuesday night, I borrowed your shovel.”  

Vice President Joe Biden told Meet the Press Sunday that the Democrats will surprise everyone and maintain control of the House and Senate in November. He then realized he was in a trailer for the movie "Inception" and that he was dreaming.

My dad always asks me to go fishing with him.I have no interest in fishing whatsoever.I don't want to catch,release,or even look at fish.Then my brother will call, and make me start feeling guilty about the whole bonding thing.In the end,I wind up baiting and hating and relating and fishing..................................... talk about pier pressure.

Another Mel Gibson  recorded phone call to girlfriend Oksana was released to the press today . It went something like this :

Oksana :   " Hello "

Mel : ( breathing heavy )  " You know who this is, Bitch  ? "

Oksana  : " Could it be Mel Gibson ? "

Mel :  " That's right you f**ing little whore  "

Oksana  : "  Oh my god, how did you find my phone number ? "

Mel  : "  The Yellow pages and on the wall in every Men's room  in L.A. you stupid little C***  ! "

Oksana  ( very calm voice ) : " What do you want from me at 2:35 am ? "

Mel ( panting faster )  : " What are you wearing now, I bet you're dressed like a cheap hooker  ? "

Oksana :  "  No I am not !  I am wearing a black leather mini-dress, over a black fishnet body stocking, black patent leather 6 inch stiletto heels, and a black leather spiked and studded wrist cuff . Why do you ask ? " 

Mel ( gasping for air ) :  "  Listen Bitch, do you know what I'm going to do to you now when I come over ? "

Oksana ( speaking softly )  : " Gut me like a flounder, hit me on the side of the head with a bat, and plant me in the rose garden ? " 

Mel ( puffing like a steam engine now ) :  " Yeah that too, but I'm coming over to rape you first . Where are you ? "

Oksana : " I am hiding where you will never find me "

Mel : " Listen bitch, when I get there I'm going to slap you around first before I make you do nasty things to me "

Oksana : " I am hiding in the bedroom "