President Obama is now on Twitter and holding town halls, where he fields questions from users, as if in-person town halls weren’t full of enough imbeciles and lunatics. Here are the twitiodic things we’d want answers to @ #AskObama

What would you do for a Klondike bar? And is that why you killed bin Laden?

When you discuss raising the debt ceiling, how many feet do you have in mind? Are we talking Cathedral height?

With those tough teeth, how much wood could Joe Biden chuck if Joe Biden could chuck wood?

If we were running for President, would you vote for us? Keep in mind, when the situation was reversed, we did you a solid.

RT @bahamen: Who lets Bo the dog out?

If your iconic poster’s theme was “Hope,” should GOP candidate Gary Johnson, who advocates legalizing drugs, adopt the theme “Dope?”

The President has his finger on a dangerous button — the “Tweet” one.

Which blows more smoke, the Arizona wildfires or Mitch McConnell?

Is the Tea Party’s best strategy to throw itself into the Boston Harbor?

Won’t your wife’s plan to eliminate childhood obesity eventually cause the demise of dodgeball?

Since you decided to dispose of bin Laden’s body in the water, how many “Dead Sea” jokes have you heard?

In the bedroom, is your idea of “compromise” also bending over and submitting to the wants of others?

Does John Boehner spend more time in Congress or the tanning salon?

If we wanted to gay marry New York’s Governor, would that make us Cuomosexual?

Do you believe you were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize ironically?

Which is the more unnecessary than the original: Rand Paul or Transformers: Dark of the Moon?

Have you contemplated threatening Libya with Anthony Wiener’s “missile?”

If you were making a mixtape for Sara Palin, would you include the Beastie Boys’ “Paul Revere?”

Do you have plans to arrange a pickup hoops game between Arne Duncan and Tim Duncan?

Which is the bigger waste of 2 hours: playing Angry Birds or meeting with Eric Cantor about the possibility of raising taxes?

Exactly how much porn was found on Osama bin Laden’s computer? Are we talking about an addiction, David Duchovny quantity or was it a reasonable amount for an old, pervy father of 20+ kids?

What is your strategy for courting the coveted Juggalo vote in 2012?

Did you consider renaming your residence “The Bi-Racial House?”

Which is the more cruel and unusual act: forcing people to buy health insurance or forcing Conan O’Brien to surrender his time slot to Jay Leno?

Now that The Pope is also using Twitter, have you tweeted him any words of encouragement, like “Yes, We VatiCAN?”

Are the rumors true that Mitt Romney will take over the lead role in “The Book of Mormon?”

If Pakistan was an inept cartoon character, would it be Mr. Magoo or Elmer Fudd?

As measured on the Busey-Sheen scale of sanity, where does Michelle Bachman fall?

If you lose your re-election bid, will your administration count that as a new job created?

It’s a strange thing celebrating something that seems so fundamental as assigning the nomenclature of “marriage” versus “union” to a couple, a concept that in 50 years will seem as archaic as separate water fountains between races does today. I certainly can’t speak to these tribulations – I think back to a time before the internet and am immediately thrust into convulsions of loneliness and despair, huddled up in a corner and suckling at my internet router for sustenance. White straight male – nerdy high school years aside, I’ve had a relatively sweet ride.

As they say on the inter-tubes, though, haters gonna hate. Morbid curiosity gripping me, I took a walk through the comment section of an article on FoxNews.com to see how the other side is fairing through the recent events of NY passing the bill allowing gay marriage. I managed to condense down some of the more choice fears from The Greatest Generation (which apparently means hating on everyone who is young, non-white and insists on walking all over your lawn). Man they’re right – things are going to hell in NYC now! Just take a look at the crazy shit that’s sliding down along this slippery slope with gay marriage:

Gay Marriage allowed in Gotham? Not exactly coincidence.

SNL will now stand for “Saturday Night Liza”.

The Statue of Liberty will be required to wear a pants suit.

The 1984 classic “Muppets Take Manhattan” will be re-shot to show Kermit marrying Gonzo at the end. (Conservative backlash is mitigated after 80 year olds fail to properly identify what gender Gonzo actually is.)

The Yankees will be legally allowed to “bat from the other side of the plate”, “Play for the other team”, and get bonuses for all the balls they get in a game.

NYC has now changed its nickname to “The Big Appletini”.

There will be only two sections of Manhattan – Chelsea and “Chelsea’s Bitch”.

The entire of borough of Queens will now be renamed “Drag Queens”.

A multi-billion dollar project will be instituted to wrap Long Island in the world’s largetst banana hammock.

The MTV show Jersey Shore will be canceled when The Situation and Ronny run off together back to Staten Island after the dam on years of repressed homosexual urges finally breaks. A spin off show with a lesbian Snooki/J-WOWW will fail horribly after it convinces even more men to seek the gay lifestyle.

Sinatra, a staunch conservative himself, will rise from the dead, ushering in yet another zombie apocalypse. At the very least, he’ll lead a Thriller-esque chorus line of zombies singing “New York, New York”.

The less said about the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel the better.

Spill the Bean’s Blood: Sean Bean, an actor on Game of Thrones, was cut by an attacker outside a London bar, then went back in and resumed drinking. It seems the pint he couldn’t stand to lose was on the counter.

Yes, he Vati-can: Kansas City Chiefs player Leonard Pope rescued a drowning boy from a pool. Following his heroic act, the Saints are attempting to sign him.

It’s all about the Benjamins: Due to cutbacks, Comedy Central’s newest show will be retitled Jon Benjamin has a Minivan. And if ratings dip, Jon Benjamin has a Hatchback.

Mahmoud rings are ok: In an effort to rid the country of Western fashion, Iran has banned men from wearing necklaces. This could prompt a chain reaction.

Read ‘em and sleep: The popularity of Go the F**k to Sleep has inspired a raw remake of a classic children’s book, Goodnight, Motherf**king Moon.

And The Flash becomes The Blue LED Flashlight: In the interest of being more eco-conscious, The Green Lantern will now be known as The Green Compact Fluorescent Light.

His beady eyes are keeping an eye out for beads.

The Seal Team will involve Seal: Now that President Obama has dispatched Osama bin Laden, it’s time to tackle the next biggest threat to America, the New Kids-Backstreet Boys hellish hybrid.

Get the picture: Amid a sexting scandal, Anthony Weiner has resigned. His wish is for us to stop giving him a hard time, so he can get back to giving us one.

“Bad” idea: Michael Jackson’s jacket from “Thriller” will be auctioned off at the end of June. We’re dead set against its sale and think it’s a grave mistake.

It’s for the breast: Hugh Hefner’s former fiance is on the cover of the latest issue of Playboy. The couple was supposed to marry this Saturday. To cheer Hefner up, Steven Spielberg offered him a role in Jurassic Park 4.

Wooden it be nice: Tom Cruise gave his daughter Suri a treehouse that cost $100K. Truth be told, it’s closer to a treecondo.

Head of the Plass: Leo Plass, 99-year-old man, graduated from Eastern Oregon University this week. Like a lot of recent grads, he can’t remember anything that happened during his senior year. Or much from the past decade (it’s for the best). Plass re-enrolled after an 80-year absence. His major changed automatically, from History to Ancient History. His thesis was on an expedition he undertook with his pals, Lewis and Clark. Congrats, Mr. Plass, you might not have done a keg stand, but the fact that you can stand at all, is impressive. To accomplish what you have at your age, the degree of difficulty was high. We hope you didn’t throw out your back tossing your mortarboard into the air.

Very soon I will the proud uncle of a niece/nephew, proving once again that my family does not reproduce through any sort of asexual division, spontaneous introduction into our universe through extra-dimensional means, or alien implantation chest-bursting methods. So don’t go worrying about us suing James Cameron except for the fact that he took the Thundercats, put them in a tree, and called it Oscar worthy.

I’m non-specific about the baby’s gender as I simply don’t know yet. Under the “Mothers Against Drunk Bloggers” campaign, we’re to be kept as far away and with as little knowledge of potential non-nerds as possible. But they also say it takes a village to raise a child, and every village has to have its idiot and/or a drunk. So I think I’ve found a loophole.

The day you stop loving chimps is the day you start dying.

Should I be allowed to participate in the nurturing of the next generation of our nation’s youth, I figure I should probably come up with some fancy ass words of wisdom, but where do I even begin? How do you explain JCVD to a child? Do you jump right into Eddie Murphy’s “Party all the time” or ease in with “Superfreak”? How long is too long to talk about monkeys? (Answer: it’s never too long, especially if they’re in tuxedos).

After 17 hours of huffing my way through the paint section of my local Home Depot, the best I could do was quote the coach from Teen Wolf: “never get less than twelve hours sleep; never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city; and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body”. Clearly I’d need to do a lot more huffing.

In any event, here’s me dipping my toe into that font of wisdom:

Science
I’ve found a nice intersection that should cover any and all cases that ever come up – If Adam and Jaime from the Mythbusters say it’s so and the GOP disagrees, then it’s pretty safe to bet on it.

Gambling
I’ve said it before – always bet on black.

International Diplomacy
If America fought ‘em, fuck ‘em. Unless they then decided to buy all of our debt. Then we should probably kiss their asses.

Sex
If you don’t have a 60 ft yacht, two plungers, a mime, the complete Dorf on Golf series, and enough oatmeal to choke an elephant, then you’re doing it wrong.

Politics
The art of turning bullshit into reality.

Art
The bullshit of turning politics into reality.

Music
Anyone who tells you that you need to decide between The Rolling Stones and The Beatles is an asshole. Period.

Fine Wine
If you buy a bottle worth more than $20, you’re showing off.

Drugs
I don’t partake, but if you want to change the chemical make up of your brain, by all means. Just remember – Cocaine is God’s way of telling you that you have too much money.

Alcohol
Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. But Margaritas are the devil.

Sleep
There’s a reason you do it for the first 22 hours of every day for the first year. Because it’s sweet and you can.

Pooping
See above.

Blogs
Avoid them and the idiots who write for them at all costs.

Baseball is upon us again, the only instance when Americans want to see Latinos climbing fences. The season, like, an Oscar acceptance speech or any episode of Entourage, is interminably long. We preview the teams worth watching.

NY Mets: Ownership was the victim of not only a Ponzi scheme, but a Fonzie scheme as well (you can con a lot of New Yorkers if you just add “Aay!” to the end of your promises). No matter the squad’s financial state, under pressure they’re sure to buckle like a motorized seat belt.

Washington: The only bigger disaster in D.C. is President Obama’s foreign policy. They’ll make the Wizards and Redskins seem competent. After the All-Star break, the Nationals TV affiliate will switch to showing re-runs of Hardball instead of broadcasting the games.

Philadelphia: The Phillies will have less power in their lineup, partially due to the departure of Jayson Werth and partially because, as a consequence of not carefully reading his endorsement contract, Ryan Howard will be forced to bat using a variety of Subway sandwiches.

 

Baseball will give Sheen the chance to try a new drug: steriods.

NY Yankees: A-Rod will prove difficult to deal with, as his ego will need to be constantly fed, forcing the Yankees to add Cameron Diaz to their payroll, since she showed at the Super Bowl she’s up to the task.

San Francisco: Eccentric pitcher Brian Wilson goes a step further with the shoe polish it’s suspected he uses on his beard, darkening his whole face and eventually, his body, insisting that he was black all along and was wearing “white face” to be accepted all these previous years. San Franciscans, having never met a black person, won’t argue. Also, he will give interviews completely in jive.

LA Angels: A meet-and-greet with the team will turn into a p.r. disaster, as “Touched by an Angel Night” attracts the wrong kind of attention — and crowd.

Chicago Cubs: Players will be disappointed to learn that no one thinks batting a no-hitter is an impressive feat.

Cleveland: Charlie Sheen, drawing on his experience in Major League, will offer his services pitching. He’ll demand that the mound be made entirely of cocaine,   that trolls be banned from the stadium and that Ron Washington be named manager.

Pittsburgh: These Pirates will be replaced by Somali ones and, on May 20, extras from Pirates of the Carribean: On Stranger Tides, in hopes of making the club more competitive and likeable.

Boston/Chicago: Thanks to a mid-season uniform laundry mishap, no one will be able to tell the Red Sox and White Sox apart and the league will mandate that they merge into one squad: the Pink Sox, instantly becoming the favorite team of tween girls everywhere.

LA Dodgers: It’s a broken home plate, as divorcing owners Frank and Jamie McCourt have yet to reach a settlement regarding control of the club. She has said she is willing to sell her share of the team to her ex-husband, but they can’t even agree on a ballpark figure. The final figure will probably be the equivalent of the cost of three beers from the stadium’s concession stand.

Like anyone who enjoys a concept we can’t spell, schadenfreude (also: hors d’oeuvre), we want actor chocolate milk enthusiast Charlie Sheen to keep “winning,” so here are some new occupations that he can apply his Adonis DNA to.

TV pundit. Sheen could easily slide into the slot vacated by Keith Olbermann. The amount of exaggeration, arrogance, insults hurled and distorted perception of reality would remain the same. However, Sheen would have to eliminate the “Worst Person in the World” segment, since he’d be a prime candidate to receive it every night.

VP of marketing for Taco Bell. Sheen has much in common with the chain’s products. Both are filled with substances even science struggles to identify at any give moment, inspire almost instant feelings of regret and are far more appealing in the wee hours of the morning when our judgment is impaired. Who better to reassure the public that Taco Bell’s ingredients are safe than Sheen, who has snorted all of the filler materials before (sometimes intentionally)?

Store owner. Sheen can open a Massandwich shop, selling two of the items he felt the studio should have been rewarding him with regularly, massages and sandwiches. Finally, a place where you can get your body and meat tenderized. Sheen may never go cold turkey, but that doesn’t mean he can’t serve it.  The bread is baked daily, just like him. Slogan: We can’t wait to put our hams on you. For obvious reasons, Dennis Kucinich is pre-banned.

The idea that Two and a Half Men might not return is a tough pill to swallow for Sheen, who usually has no trouble swallowing pills.

Italian prime minister. Should Silvio Berlusconi be forced out of office, Sheen is a shoe-in to take over, as the only man who can rival the nation’s leader in prostitute usage. The country’s defenses might weaken, since Sheen would be only interested in acquiring legs, not arms.

Creative consultant for Cartoon Network. Sheen claims to have tiger blood coursing through his veins, he’d be a natural fit to oversee the Thundercats reboot, so long as he doesn’t attempt to talk WilyKit and WilyKat into a threesome. Either that or become the managing editor of Tiger Beat. The plots and dialogue of most the channel’s shows are on par with Sheen’s level of coherency.

Full-time tweeter. Sheen should switch from hash to hashtags #notthedumbestideainthispost. He’ll make Kanye West seem sane and selfless by comparison.

Fighter pilot in the Air Force. Sheen is an ideal recruit, not because of his celebrity, but because his body is also a jet. An F-18, to be specific. That being the case, Michael Bay has a role for him in Transformers 3 (Starscream becomes Starsheen). Sheen also claims to ride on a mercury surfboard, so he’s in the lead to play the Silver Surfer as well.

Creative writing program instructor. Sheen has poetry in his fingertips, so of course he’d want to share the secrets of scribes with students. If drug consumption and self-destructive behavior are marks of a great author, Sheen is the next Hunter S. Thompson. He also has haiku in his hair and limericks in his…well, you’ll see.

TV show producer. As a mitzvah for a possible anti-Semitic remark against his former program’s creator, Sheen can helm a Jewish friendly sitcom, Two and a Half Mensch.

Occasionally, we emerge from our underground bunker (located directly below a Chuck E. Cheese’s, which is a little ironic, since I’m lactose intolerant) to visit the outside world. It’s usually to restock our supply of Steven Seagal’s energy drink (it certainly has a kick) and to check if the great Bieber plague is over (curse his full head of shaggy hair). In this case, I not only left the cat’s lair (but not without first consulting the Sword of Omen for signs of danger), I went overseas. What follows is a diary of my trip to Jamaica. No matter what happens on this vacation, it can’t be as big of a Caribbean catastrophe as Dead Man’s Chest.

Day One

I’m not saying that the new airport security measures are intimate, but the TSA agent asked if I wanted the lights on or off for my search. He was gentleman enough to offer me a cigarette and his phone number after it was over.

Not to be out-molested by man, machine gets its turn. I was selected for the full body scan. If you don’t think the images it takes are revealing, let me say this: I had the TSA submit the shots to Playgirl. Look for my pictorial in March’s issue.

In customs, when the agent asked if I was carrying any food into the country, I responded, “Come Mister tally man, tally me banana.” He thought I was hitting on him.

The speed limit sign in kilometers. I refuse to use the metric system. I’m on vacation, dammit. Actually, I can’t. Public school doesn’t teach you anything foreign. In fact, the one thing I know about Jamaica is that it’s the only place on Earth that has more weed per square inch than Snoop Dogg’s greenhouse.

It’s so relaxing to lay out on the beach and feel the sand between your toes. And even better to feel the sand beneath the toes of the woman sunbathing next to me. Eat your heart out, Rex Ryan (actually, Rex, maybe cut back on the eating).

Ordered a Cool Runnings. I can’t be certain, but I think Doug E. Doug served it to me.

The trip was going well until someone (probably Barbados Slim) stole my Manwich.

Day Two

More than 24 hours in and I haven’t seen nor smelled marijuana. Sweet lamprey of Montego Bay! I’m starting to doubt I’m in Jamaica.

The bar ran out of Red Stripe, so I was forced to drink its imitator, Ruby Line.

If America had a dish similar to Jerk Chicken, we’d surely call it Asshole Chicken, however unappealing that may sound, because we don’t mince words.

Had a nightcap of a White Lion. I can’t be certain, but I think a member of White Lion served it to me. At least that explains the “wait.”

Sculpted a sandcastle in the shape of Castle Grayskull. It took me an Eternia to get the details right.

Day Three

Learned that if I had upgraded at the resort to the Premium Package, Usain Bolt would’ve been my personal waiter. He’s billed as the fastest booze fetcher alive. If there’s one man you’d want to send on an alcohol run, it’s him.

Admired a thin and beautiful young individual sporting a skimpy thong. Then, I stepped away from the mirror.

At this point, I’ve heard so much Bob Marley, I swear I’m back in college at a frat party. Oh yeah, I be jammin’ – my ears with cotton. I wonder if M.Bison was a buffalo soldier.

Spotted the first overweight person with a dumb Chinese character tattoo. Teared up a little at this reminder of America.

Had the full body scan again. Fortunately, I’m immune to radiation after sleeping with a Glo Worm by my side as a kid. And if wasn’t from that toy, then surely I swallowed enough Lite-Brite pegs to build up a tolerance.

Activision officially announced cancelling this year’s Guitar Hero’s release at an investor’s meeting early this afternoon. I don’t think there’s a man, woman, or child alive who possesses such a finely tuned talent to channel the deep emotional chasm that has cleft itself in my soul – I will no longer be able to shell out obscene amounts of cash to hit buttons on a plastic guitar to Justin Bieber tracks from an obvious cash grab to squeeze dry a dying franchise.

Now that my band, the Zom-B-Sharps, is officially dissolved, I’ve taken pause to note the path set before us, as is custom for those of us who have given ourselves over to lady music’s siren call, only to be cast aside like so many needles on the shorelines of New Jersey. If I’m lucky, all of the following will come to fruition in a YouTube “Behind the Music”:

My first solo album will only be released on Teddy Ruxpin.

• After ending my fake music career, I continue on doing fake drugs – lines of pixie sticks and chain smoking bubble gum cigarettes.
• An acoustic solo/throwback career where I play all my songs on a Simon from the 1980′s in an effort to “return to my roots”
• Temporary incarceration in the Monopoly jail after failing to pay back rent.
• Trading my fake “axe” (a fake guitar) in for fake monopoly money to get out of said jail.
• Getting a large rub on tattoo inked across half my face.
• Several loveless internet marriages, mostly in MMORPGS like World of Warcraft and Everquest, all ending in bitter divorce, all performed by an Elvis impersonator over video conference in ChatRoulette.
• A stint playing backup for Chuck E. Cheese’s animatronic band
• Setting up a comeback tour in 2017 when “Air Guitar Hero” is finally developed, where my spastic movements are further channeled, having realized I need only sit on my couch and scratch myself to play every Beatles song ever.
• Eventually succumbing to a grizzly demise when I choke to death on a playdough sandwich in a kiddie pool outside my mobile home.

Writing this all on the blog, the literary equivalent of fake writing, was probably a good start.

Do you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster and the theory of Atlantis? Well, you’re here, so you’re probably somewhat mentally challenged or hallucinatory – close enough!

After an article in a local Minneapolis newspaper “debunked” the myth (like science has ever proven even remotely useful in disproving myths), the internet dove into a sea of confusion the likes of which haven’t been seen since Ricky Martin came out of the closet.

What? He had me fooled.

Had astrological signs really changed? Only as much as the global market for leprechaun gold and unicorn farts has. Yes, the Earth has wobbled more than your average trailer park denizen’s arm flab into a bucket of KFC, but that doesn’t mean your hocus pocus sign of the zodiac is any less (or more) real. Hell, they even threw in a thirteenth “missing” sign, Ophiuculus, the serpent god (which really should’ve been Serpentor anyways).

If we’re doing a cosmological rewrite, I say we start with a clean slate. Aquarius, the water carrier? The only carrier I care about is trying to screw me out of my 200 texts a month. Virgo? That’s exactly what people want to be associated with, not getting laid. Because you didn’t ask, here’s how we think the signs of the zodiac should be represented now.

See anything here? Neither do we.

Marios & Luigii, "The Plumbers" - Despite being fat Italian stereotypes with a penchant for hanging in sewage drains, having a mustache rivaling Ron Jeremy's, and tripping on shrooms 24/7, you somehow manage to pick up the ladies almost any time you want. While your every day attire may not turn heads, your fashion sense should not be maligned, as you have an extensive wardrobe, a suit for every occasion that comes up.

Demolitionus, "The Three Seashells" - You are futuristic, mysterious and enigmatic. Your life may not be glamorous, but your role in helping greater causes, especially the environment, cannot be understated. Unfortunately, your lot in life is to handle other people's shit and the only person who really "gets you" is a piss ant Rob Schneider.

Hulkarian Hoganus, "The Hulkamaniac" - You love being at the center of attention, getting whipped into a frenzy by gratuitous cheers feeding your ego. Your voyeuristic nature is also aided by the fact that you will tear off your clothes around other men frequently and without warning.

Tequilas, "The Anarchist" - Also known as "the dice roll", "the wildcard" and "all bets are off". You are the person to talk to when you need to make things happen, mostly parties. You're also the absolute worst when there's a real problem to solve. You find balance in the chaos, which means the highest of highs and the absolute lowest of lows, with trouble following you wherever you go.

Tampaxius, "The Absorbant" - Your softness belies your ability handle anything that comes at you. You always have a "pearl" for whatever streams forth from life. You're also a great at keeping secrets – you'll never let anything leak! (Note: This constellation receive a generous sponsorship from the Tampax corporation, a division of Proctor & Gamble).

Chewbaccarian, "The Wookie" - A gentle, quiet nature is obscured by your inability to properly express yourself at times. Your loyalty to friends is absolute and you possess a strong handiness towards all things technical. Still, you're not particularly neat or well kept and could use a hair cut every now and then.

Kool-Aidius, "The Fruit Drink Bearer" - You have a positive attitude towards everything in life. Spontaneity is everything and everywhere you go, a party breaks out. Speaking of breaking, though, your zeal for breaking down barriers is matched by your destructive force, with little that can stand in your way, so others are often left to clean up the mess.

Bacones, "The Tastemaker" - You make everything around you that much better by simply being there. Are you going to make problems go away? Certainly not. In fact, your short term solutions usually exacerbate things down the road. You're a guilty pleasure, though, and you help spice up situations that would other be bland and stale.

Snoop Doggus, "The Doggfather" - You are the epitome of both casual attitudes and fiscal responsibility – laid back with your mind on your mind and your money on your mind. Your biggest character flaw is your need for social recognition – you have a compulsion to ask everyone "What's my name?".

Batmanius, "The Dark Knight" - You're not much for friends, at least close ones, but you've got a ton of enemies. It comes with the territory of being a complete bad ass. Haters gonna hate, after all. That's fine – you prefer the night life when no one is up anyways.

Tyrannus, "The T-Rex" - You're a little mouthy and that tends to scare people away. You also suffer from serious inadequacies in many of your relationships – you want to hold them but you're just unable to do so. You're old school, like coming from a previous era, and people appreciate that. You stand out above all the rest, so people admire you for it. They just do so far away from your path of destruction.

Conanius, “The Fiery Coiffure” – Silly dancing and absurdist humor are you forte. Your inclination towards the inane is matched by your sharp wit and biting humor. You pal around with some hot shots and make a name for yourself, but being the good guy means you’ll often take it on the chin.

End of times stories not involving zombies (yes, we’re dismayed) come from the South this week, where hundreds of birds have clustered in large mass death rituals not involving an Ozzy Osbourne concert. Theories have been offered up – a new infection or disease attacking the local wildlife, some sort of massive trauma, etc – but none are all that fun for a event that may in fact be one of the signs of the Apocalypse.

Thankfully, having absolutely no scientific background in this area, being nowhere in the vicinity and having no connection to this makes me perfect for coming up with some conclusions that are a lot more fun.

When God is “giving you the bird”, you damn sure know it.

• Hunting laws in the South have become so lax that animals are required dive bomb into the pavement
• After seeing Black swan, the flock of birds had been flying to Hollywood in order to court Natalie Portman, but became suicidal shortly after upon news of her pregnancy/engagement.
• Big Bird has the bitchinest New Year’s Eve parties. Unfortunately, he was never very good at keeping friends from flying home drunk.
• Alfred Hitchcock has been haunting the area and he’s being a complete dick about it.
• Several egg-stealing pigs have been exacting revenge of their own through covert operations.
• The birds never bothered to master landing on the air craft carrier in Top Gun for the NES. How they have paid for their sloth.
• They’re doing the largest re-enactment of Monty Python skits ever and they are dedicated as hell to their pining of the fjords.
• Twitter in Arkansas is still sent by carrier pigeon. Of course, when the “Fail Whale” hits…