The President gets a swollen lip to match his ego.

President Obama supposedly took an elbow to the face in a White House game of hoops on Friday and had to have twelve stitches to close up his lip.

I say supposedly because I'm calling bullshit on this story.  I mean, come on.  You're telling me, that Barack Obama, the hardest working, most dedicated to his country president that this nation has ever been blessed with, spent the day after Thanksgiving fucking around with his buddies?   When myopic  midget North Korean dictators are lobbing missiles at our staunch ally?  When America is hopelessly stuck on near double digit unemployment?  I don't think so.

Hahahahahaha!!  Just kidding.  Of course, Old Jug Ears was goofing off.  And the country is the better for it, let me tell you.  I'm also thinking that if any elbow got anywhere close to the constantly moving presidential mouth, a Secret Service guy would have double-tapped the offender pronto and with extreme prejudice.

Nope.  I'm thinking cover up and it all goes back to (Dum da dum dum) Michelle Obama.  Yep.  I think the First Battleaxe finally realized that with her feckless hubby's procrastination and lack of leadership the Obama family taxes were going to go up.  'Cause dey rich yo'.  Michelle keep the mind on the money and the money on the mind, so she wapped his mug with a fryin' pan.

My other theory is that he had a buddy land a shot to his chops to hide something else from the ever angry Michelle.

A split lip from the basketball court is a lot easier to explain than this.

Just the thing for the Traditional Catholic Funeral Mass.

Classic steam bath poses for a 

fun-filled fapfest at your fabulous funeral.

Hellllllooooo Frisco!!!!!!  Gay-themed coffins are cumming your way.  Men who love men and want to spend eternity surrounded by images of more men (of the oily nude variety) now have their heavenly vessel.

Mike Konigfeld and his partner (in both senses) Tom Brandi, designers in Cologne, Germany have coffins (we call 'em caskets in this country, pardner) that are tastefully adorned with muscular young men graphics that are sure to put the stiffie on your stiff.

I'm certain that for a few extra Euros, your friendly flaming funeral director will casket you pantsless, face-down and biting the pillow.

Ru Paul's nephew arrested for terrorism.

Mohamed Osman Mohamud in addition to hating the United States 

was upset that his local Wal-Mart ran out of eyeliner and lip gloss on Black Friday. 

A Somali immigrant with the shockingly unlikely name of Mohamed Osman Mohamud was arrested in Portland for allegedly plotting to blow up Christmas revelers on the day after Thanksgiving.

Mohamed who is as short on brains as he is long on beauty, was exchanging emails with what he thought were Pakistani jihadis, but were in fact, U.S. agents of the FBI.  Oh, snap!

In related news, President Obama immediately issued a preemptive pardon to Mr. Mohamed Mohamud as part of his longstanding outreach to the Religion of Peace™.

Oh, My!!! Total "Mel"tdown!!

The rumored audiotape of Mel Gibson ranting at his Russkie celebrity bastard baby momma, Oksana Suckarichdickova, is no longer a rumor.  It's out and it's comedy gold!

"OK, you two.  I'm too fucking drunk to ever remember your goddam fucking names.  So.  Blondie?  I'm gonna call you Vegas bitch.  And you, with that finger that ain't going up my ass since I'm no fucking fag, goddammit... I'm gonna call you Vegas whore.  Got it?"

You can listen to the whole two minutes at Radaronline, but let's break it down piece by piece (of ass) shall we?

From previous Mel-bursts, we know that The Melster has unkind thoughts about "kikes", but seems to like "sugar tits".   We now have new information that Mel also uses the somewhat archaic term "wetback" in referring to our brown brothers and sisters from the south, and imagines that black rapists roam the countryside in something he calls "packs of niggers."  (You will notice that I assume a degree of maturity from my readers and when using a quote I refuse to say "The N-word" or "N****r".  If some dumb shit used a racial epithet they used a racial epithet.  Grow the fuck up, people.  Funny how most other sites I've checked will not use "nigger" but "wetback" is A-OK.)

Remember, we've already had a teaser on this where Mel said, "I am going to come and burn the fucking house down...but you will blow me first."  My feeling is that you should not threaten bodily harm on somebody right before you stick your cock in the orifice on her face that has teeth.  But maybe that's just me being overly cautious.

Anyway, the two minute tirade runs a pretty full gamut of spooky stalker, ex-lover menace and full bore crazy.

Mel opens this little drama by expressing his pissed off displeasure that Oksana breast feeds his daughter with "foreign bodies" in her chest.  He follows by saying that she lied to him about her "fake tits".

So.  "Sugar tits"= good.  "Fake tits"= bad.

Can a woman really lie to you about having bobble tits?  I know Mel was married to the same woman for a long time, but could he really have been that sheltered?  Considering Mel's well known fondness for the sweet escape of Demon Rum is it hard to imagine he might have cheated on his long time spouse?  That, and, oh yeah, he's a famous movie star.  My money is on Mel being a husband that fucked around.  So the famous Hollywood celebrity (Hollywood of all places!) can't spot a set of plastic hooters a mile away?  Much less when he's squeezing, sucking and probably sliding his lubricated wing-wang up between them on occasion?  OK, whatever.

Moving along.  Mel tells his little Russian doxy that the "fake tits" look "ridiculous" "too big" and "stupid".  (Too big and stupid but Mel still couldn't spot 'em.  Hey, Mel, I don't think Oksana's tits are the only stupid things in the room.  If you catch my drift.)  Then he insults every woman in Las Vegas by saying that Oksana looks like "some Vegas bitch" and "like a Vegas whore".  Vegas bitch and Vegas whore?  Like that's a bad thing?  Jeez, Mel.  First Obama, then you?  How much slander does the poor city of Las Vegas have to take?

Oksana Grigorieva.

Fake tits or not. They sure look sugary sweet to me.

I should mention that whenever Oksana interjects a comment into Mel's psycho screed, she sounds like a reasonable person who is trying to deal with a slow-witted DMV employee.  That, or she has a head full of Xanax.  She's Russian, so it's hard to put your finger on it, but I'd bet on the latter.

Then Mel goes where any criminal profiler will tell you these soon to be ex-girlfriend murdering guys always end up going.  Mel tells Oksana that she looks like "a fucking bitch in heat.  And if you get raped by a pack of niggers it'll be your fault, all right?  Because you provoked it."  The word "provocative" gets thrown around a few times especially when she "show[s] off, in tight outfits and tight pants so you can see your pussy from behind".  (Like Ice-T's wife, Coco!  But the difference is that Ice-T likes Coco walking around that way.)

Mel then finishes up by telling his daughter's mother in a voice that drips with icy hatred that he doesn't trust her, he doesn't love her and he doesn't want her.

What makes me think that somewhere there is a tape of O.J. saying the same things to Nicole.

Brit Gal diddles herself to death. Shocker! Alcohol appears not to be a factor.

The French have a lovely description for orgasm.  Le petit mort.  The little death.

Well, for Nicola Paginton, 30, of Circenster, Gloucsester, her little death became the final journey into the bright white light.  Miss Paginton was found lifeless and pantsless in her bed last October, vibrator at her side and porn on her laptop.  Oh, behave!

Nicola the Naughty Nanny.

If there'd been a man in her bed instead of a 

vibrator and a laptop could she have been saved? 

I guess Britain being Britain it took 9 months to figure out what happened to the saucy Nicola, but it was eventually determined that it must have been a heart attack brought on by arousal.  Hmmm...I'm getting a little tight in the chest and short of breath myself as I think about Naughty Nicola and her last big O.

Just a couple of thoughts.  Nicola worked as a nanny.  Good thing she wasn't buzzing herself to ecstasy while at work as the kiddies were napping.  WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN!!!???  Not exactly an easy death scene to be able to explain, is it Mary Poppins?

I firmly believe that 95% of the world's population in their heart of hearts have the notion that some how, some way, Death will make an exception in their case.  The other 5% work in emergency rooms, as EMT's, hospice nurses or in the funeral trade.  I always think about what if I dropped dead right this minute?  Would my not too mechanically inclined Mrs. Funeral Guy be able to navigate the combination to the safe where our trust is?  How much porn do I have hidden around the house?   Did I leave a tab open on my computer displaying the Pussy XXL Big Labia website.  Where the hell is my cock ring?  Think about it, folks.  If you die suddenly somebody else is going to go through all your shit.  And I do mean all the little dark cobwebbed secret corners of your life.

I used to have a forensics textbook.  It was titled Medico-Legal Aspects of Death.  It had photos of every mode of death that you could possibly think of.  Then it went into some scenarios that you could never imagine in your weirdest nightmares.  Truly gnarly stuff.  I remember one that always stuck with me.  It was a death scene.  By the suits on the cops in the photo it looked like it was some time in the 40's.  It was an old guy on a bed in what looked to be an attic room.  He had rigged up a contraption that tied to his ankles that facilitated his proclivity for fucking himself in the ass with a dildo that was just slightly smaller than the trunk of an oak tree.  Whilst pleasuring himself thus, he had a heart attack and died.  The photo shows the man, legs akimbo, mouth and eyes open, with his huge homemade dildo machine buried in his bunghole.

I always imagined that some time before that picture was taken a mom was saying, "Kids.  Run upstairs and wake Grandpa up from his nap.  Tell him supper's almost ready."

The 4th of July...Hamburgers, apple pie and bloody stumps where limbs used to be. A true American holiday.

The whole point of the Darwin Awards is you have to take yourself out of the gene pool by killing yourself doing something stupid.  Eric Smith, 36, may still be alive and able to reproduce, but hopefully he jacks off righty since he blew his left arm off while fucking around with fireworks.  Mr. Smith was so anxious to lose his limb that he started his bang-up 4th of July celebration on the 3rd.  The accident took place at 5:45 PM on Saturday.  Which by my watch is 45 minutes into the official start of cocktail hour.

Eric the Brainless was illegally using a commercial fireworks tube when the accident occurred.  I'm sure somewhere in the instructions it states that you shouldn't stand your dumb ass in front of the tube when you ignite the boom booms.  I'm calling it fireworks, although the story refers to the ordnance as mortars.

Professional fireworks mortars.  

Not for neighborhood barbeque use. 

Mortars!!??  Are Eric's neighbors in Islip, New York, members of Al-qaeda?  Maybe Eric should experiment with hand grenades next year.  He can pull the pin with his teeth like G.I. Joe, since he'll be down one set of digits.

China's diabolical commie plot to turn us into a fingerless nation.

As a lad I liked fireworks and explosions as much as the next kid.  Me and my male cousins would chase each other around on the 4th and toss ladyfingers at each other while our parents watched and laughed.  The girls would hide and shriek in horror.  (I swear to God, nothing was against the law back in those days.)  I grew out of this perilous tomfoolery by my 20's unlike Mr. Smith.  Of course, I had the incentive of not ending up as a one-armed drummer like that dude in Def Leppard.

I like how the CNN story helpfully supplies basic fireworks safety rules for the benefit of the four low IQ retards that still watch their network.

Happy Independence Day!

Two hundred and thiry four years ago today we declared our independence from British rule and damn well got it after a bloody revolution.  If we could have only waited a couple of hundred years we'd have been able to just sneak away while those drunken Brits were nursing a hangover.

What makes the United States of America so dang all fired great and special?  Well, in addition to a gazillion other things, we invented the personal computer and the internet.  Which allowed me to find this photo of girls in flag bikinis in .019 seconds flat.  Hot dog!  And hamburgers, potato salad and creamy frozen custard in sugar cones, too.

Thank you, ladies.  Very patriotic.

Believe me, our flags are at full staff and saluting you back. 

Oh, and let's not forget freedom while we're at it.  The good 'ol US of A has survived wars, depressions, natural disasters, and American Idol contestants.  We can surely overcome the disaster that is the Obama administration and the greaseballs from The Jersey Shore.


Founding Father Fun Death Facts:
These U.S. Presidents all died on the Fourth of July.
2nd U.S. President John Adams (1826)
3rd U.S. President Thomas Jefferson (1826) The same day as Adams...Spooky...
5th U.S. President James Monroe (1831)

Enjoy the day and God Bless America.

Everybody sing...Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary...Haaaaaaaaappy A-N-N-I-VERSARY.

Awwwww...Thanks, Lexxie.

You baked us all a cake. 

The Funeral Guy is one year old today.

I was driving home from work on July 1, 2009,  and contemplating the Michael Jackson Death Circus and thought to myself, "I've got to blow off some steam about all this shit."  First post here.

So I started this blog.  (I never realized you could set one of these up for free!)  I figured, opinions are like assholes.  Everybody's got one.  And I've always been an asshole with a lot of opinions.

I originally thought that I would be doing mainly political stuff.  I hate taxes, liberal bullshit, political correctness, government employees and all the rest.  Well, we still have some of that here, but as you know it has evolved into an extension of my id.  A scary (and hopefully humorously twisted) place it is, too.  Where else can you find tits, ass, celebrities, death, rock n' roll, movies and politics all in one fun, happy little corner of the interweb?

Imagine poor Mrs. Funeral Guy.  She has to live with me for reals.  24/7.  I can feel you shudder from here.

I hope you keep coming back.  Send the TFG link to your friends.  Leave comments or send me email.

Thanks for reading.  I appreciate it.  No Joke.

Elin gives Tiger an ass reaming...and not in a good way.

Hell hath no fury...

Elin Nordegren might not be the world's best cocksucker if the small amount of time Tiger spent with her is any indication, but she sure as hell knows how to suck the cash out of a soon to be ex-husband.   750 million samollians.  That's how much Tiger will be paying for his freedom and the sound of silence.

And that means no books, no interviews, no nothing.  Even if Tiger dies first.  If she talks, the money's gone.  The reason the settlement is so high is that Tiger had more dough than Elin originally thought.  I mean the dude can shell out $750 million and still have enough to maintain a swinging lifestyle.  (You know he ain't giving that up.)  Fucking golf...I had no idea.

Elin gets custody of the chilluns, of course.  (Like Tiger needs those little balls and chains putting a crimp in his pussy hound shenanigans.)  The funniest part of the settlement is that none of Tiger's ladies can be anywhere around the kids.  I can just hear Elin in the settlement conference.  "No skank whores, porn stars or quote unquote cocktail waitressess around my kids.  This is non-negotiable.  I'm not going to be picking crabs, cooties or other DNA out of their hair after a weekend with dad.  Plus, I don't need little Charlie getting any ideas that the waitress at the pancake house is there to do anything more than bring him his eggy-wegs."

Tryouts are beginning around the country for girls 

hoping to hop on the Woodster's wood.

Some of the talents that will be evaluated include width of leg-spread, 

sucking a golf ball through a garden hose, and relaxed gag reflex.

Update: Reports are that the settlement is $100 million.  Not exactly 3/4 of a billion dollars, but a nice chunk of change nonetheless. 

Died on this date:

Bob Crane

Actor/World Class Bone Daddy

July 13, 1928-June 29, 1978

(Age 49)

Bob Crane and Sigrid Valdis.

Bob was nailing Sigrid on the set while married to his first wife.

She became the second Mrs. Bob Crane.

I can't believe I almost missed this one.

Bob Crane was the star of the sixties TV sitcom Hogan's Heroes (1965-1971).  A surprise hit since not many people thought that a mere 20 years after WWII anybody would attempt to find anything remotely funny about the Nazis.  And set in a prison camp, no less.  But the finger poppin', wise crackin' Col. Robert Hogan along with the doofus Sgt. Schultz and the clueless Col. Klink proved everybody wrong.

The most interesting thing about Bob Crane though, was that he was cocksman first and an actor second.  The latter being used mainly to facilitate the former.  Crane and his buddy John Carpenter utilized Carpenter's access to video equipment (Carpenter was a rep for Sony Electronics) to tape their swinging activities.  Believe me, if YouPorn would have been around in the seventies, Crane and Carpenter would have been the Hope and Crosby of sex flicks.  (Bob Crane was also a drummer like yours truly...hmmmmm??)

As the story goes, Crane was about to unload his equally horny wingman, Carpenter.  The next day Bob Crane was found bludgeoned to death in his Scottsdale, Arizona apartment.  The murder weapon was never found but was suspected to be a camera tripod.  (Cue ominous music.)  Carpenter was long thought to be the murderer, having the motive of losing his pussy magnet.  Since Carpenter was kind of a creepy dude that mainly got the fucky overflow from the has-been actor, his anger at being kicked out of the poon party would have been great.

The original police work was pretty slipshod for such a high profile case and Carpenter was never charged.  The case was reopened in 1990 and John Carpenter was indicted for the slaying, but was acquitted due to lack of convincing evidence.  The murder remains officially unsolved, and Carpenter maintained his innocence up until his death in 1998.

Paul Schrader's 2002 film Auto Focus, about the career, prodigiously kinky sex life and death of Bob Crane is one of my favorite movies.

A real shock, I know.

And Now...A Very Special Public Service Announcement...From The Funeral Guy.

Gregg Allman, singer and keyboardist of the revered Allman Brothers Band has received a new liver in a reportedly successful transplant operation at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida.  Gregg needed the new liver due to complications from Hepatitis C.

Hepatitis C can be contracted by getting your ink done by the world's skeeviest tattoo artist...

Or by all the heroin, coke and booze that might be required to make you forget that not only did you marry Cher, but you also made the worst album in rock history with her.  

We at The Funeral Guy sincerely wish Gregg Allman a speedy recovery and a long and fruitful life.  We are confident that he will realize what a wonderful gift he's been given and not drink and drug his second liver to death like Papa John Phillips.

We would also like to encourage all the Young Turk speed demons and the indestructible youthful daredevil motorcyclists out there to make sure that your organ donor cards are all signed and up to date.  (Please notarize to save any last minute hassles with your parents or significant others.)

And remember, all you YouTube and Jackass generation wannabees.   Helmets and seat belts are strictly for pussies.  Life is to be lived to the fullest.  Go for the gusto and the wind in your hair.

Remember.  The life you save...may be mine.  Or some other aging rocker.  Thank you.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Who da' thunk it? Christians like to do the wangdangdoodle just like normal people. (And other quick hits for giggles and shits.)

My apologies for being away so long.  I was kidnapped just outside of Palm Springs and forced to smoke crack and party with my abductors.  And I don't even like crack.  Except for the crack on a lady, if you know what I mean...and...oh, never mind.

I found a bunch of goofy little items around the interwebs (between hits off the pipe), but nothing so earth shattering that would inspire me to those long, thought provoking posts that I am justifiably famous for.

What's my position on Christian sex?  Uh...missionary, I guess. 

This is one of those stories (thanks to tbird, as always) that makes the folks at the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times all scratch their heads.  Christians?  Fucking?  With sex toys?  Why, what manner of Christians are these?  I've never heard the like and I certainly don't know any Bible thumpers myself.  At this point they will assign a reporter to do one of those stories where they observe the behavior of Christians or conservatives like they just found one of those lost-in-time Cargo Cults in Papua, New Guinea.

Yes, there are sex toy websites that are aimed at the Christian market.  Book22.com was started by the aptly named Joy Wilson.  It stands for the 22nd book of the Bible, Song of Solomon (or Song of Songs, depending on which version you go by).  Joy says that she and her husband carefully evaluate the products before adding them to the catalog.  Which means they pray about it, for all you heathens out there.  It all looks like any other sex toy website, except a quick search for "butt plug" came up empty, so to speak.  Too gay, perhaps?  The other website mentioned, Mybelovedsgarden.net, does offer an interesting device that goes up the male butt for prostate stimulation.  And when I say it looks interesting, I mean I think I want to get one.  The only difference that I could see from a Christian and a secular sex product website is there are no bobble tit chicks modeling the lingerie and no porn DVD's on the Christian sites.  That and when they say marital aids...they mean MARITAL!!

So I guess Christian sex is here to stay since it's the only surefire way to make more Christians.  That ought to bug the shit out of the New York Times.

Marital Aid Nostalgia. 

No wonder you have "daily tensions, aches and pains", my dear. 

You're completely unaware of where your 

goodie button is and the ad is certainly no help. 

Randy candy gets father fuming.  

Another h/t from the intrepid tbird.  (I don't know what I'm going to do when his unemployment checks run out and he'll have to stop trolling the interwebs and find work.)  Original story in Daily Mail UK is here.

Simon Simpkins (I'm not making that name up) met a pieman going to the fair.  Oops, sorry, I got distracted.  Anyway, Simon was shopping for sweets with his two lil' chilluns when he was taken aback by the pornographic wrappers on the German brand fruit candy, MAOAM.  (Little known fact:  Maoam is kraut for, "Blow Me".)  "The lemon and lime are locked in what appears to be a carnal encounter.  The lime, whom I assume to be the gentleman in this coupling, has a particularly lurid expression on his face," huffed Mr. Simpkins.  Simple Simon then got into a "heated exchange" with whom I'll assume to be the most bewildered shop manager in all of Britain, when his wife became "quite distressed and had to sit down in the car park."

I think Simple Simpkins is a bit confused.

These are obviously lesbian fruits that are "scissoring".

This Limey likes 'em underage.  

Licking cherries is his bag, baby. 

Here's my take.  Simon Simpkins is shit nuts and hasn't been laid in a couple of years.  He probably looks down at a plate of fried clams and sees a Roman orgy.  His wife had to go sit in the car park after Simon embarrassed her for the umpteenth time by acting like a flaming arsehole.  His wife hasn't fucked him in two years because he is always acting like a flaming arsehole in public places.   If you follow the comments at the end of the story even his fellow Brits think Simon is a half baked PC crackpot.

Simon Simpkins is only slightly less crazy than the dipshit muslims that got Burger King to pull their ice cream because they were insulted by the swirly logo.  They said it looked like the word "Allah" in Arabic.  Where are the South Park guys when you need them?  You really can't make this shit up.  Aren't there enough legitimate opportunities to be pissed off in life?  Why would you want to make yourself miserable by going out of your way to look for them.

The University of Obvious will conclude next that water is wet.

Men can figure out if a chick is hot in a millisecond.  Women take a little longer to ascertain if a certain male is mate material.  Yep.  That's it.  Three researchers and god only knows how much tax money went into this one.

Actually, for the men I think a millisecond is a bit leisurely.  Nanosecond is more like it.  Nice face, nice tits, nice ass...Me Want!  All squeezed into a blink of an eye.  Then the move is on to look for the next one.  Does anybody wonder how a titty bar with the same lone stripper night after night would do?  Maybe these geniuses at the University of Amsterdam could tackle that topic next.  (Or just look out the window and see the smorgasbord of whore houses in your home city.)  Men like variety and lots of it.  Duh.

Miss Right.  

Lather, rinse and repeat every couple of months. 

Of course women take a little longer.  You have to at least get to his place.  Determine he's not a complete tool or serial killer.  Check out his car.  Get a rough estimate of his net worth.  Then see if there's piss stains on the toilet and pubes on the soap.   All that takes a while.

 Mr. Right. 

For a man that rains money he could be a lot uglier. 

Move your big ass over, Kim Kardashian, celebrity sex tapes go global.

A couple of celebrities are caught up in a sex tape scandal.  Ho hum, say you.  What is it Tuesday?  This one, however, is a slightly bigger deal since it takes place in Indonesia.  Indonesia is majority muslim and extremely repressive.  They gots laws against this kind of thing, hombre.  The clips purportedly show pop star Nazril "Ariel" Ilham (that's a dude, BTW) doing the shag nasty with his TV star girlfriend, Luna Maya.  Another tape has him hiding the salami with with actress, Cut Tari.  (Getting deep in the "Cut", as it were.)  So there you have it.  A couple of sex tapes.  Only two?  Shit, Motley Crue singer Vince Neil could whip up two sex tapes before breakfast without raising a sweat.

Nazril Ilham and fuckmate Maya Luna 

went from porn video to hostage video. 

She's pretty hot.  On porn sites their

 sex tape would be categorized under "Exotic". 

Unlike Vince, bandmate Tommy Lee, Kim Kardashian, Kendra Wilkinson and all the rest of the celebrity skanks that use "leaked" or "stolen" homemade porn tapes as a career move, Nazril could wind up in the jug for 12 years.  Tifatul Sembiring, who is the Indonesian Information Minister, has expressed disgust at the clips.  Which in the course of his duties he has had to watch approximately 122 times.  "Why would anyone tape such a private thing?" he also added.  A question that could only be asked by a repressed muslim who probably has to flog his genitals with a cat o' nine tails if the wind blows the hajib off a woman's head in his presence.  (A bit of advice.  If you find yourself in a country that feels the need for an Information Minister get the fuck out of there.)

All these shenanigans, of course, have brought about talk that the muslim dominated government will now start cracking the whip over internet content.

Good luck with that.

Instead of worrying about the internet, maybe they should keep a closer eye on the cow fuckers.

The Funeral Guy has always kept you up to date on the latest in the world of bestiality.  Archives here and here.  ( That reminds me.  Note to self:  Work on that post about Al Gore and the "happy ending" massage.)

An 18 year old man in Indonesia was caught boning his neighbor's cow.  Good lord.  Is no barnyard safe?  The farmer said Gusti Ngurah Alit was "standing naked while holding the back of the cow."  Yeah, kind of hard to explain that one away.  But leave it to Gusti to give it a shot.  He told the Times newspaper in Johannesburg, South Africa that he didn't see a cow, but a beautiful young woman.  "She called my name, so I had sex with her," said Gusti.  Goddam rapists!  Always trying to blame the victim.  "You should have seen that cow," Gusti fumed, "strutting around that field in a miniskirt and her high heels.  All painted up in make-up like a barnyard brothel bimbo.  No man could resist."

After living long enough in a shitty third world dirt puddle

your mind starts playing tricks on you. 

The village chief apparently agreed.  Mr. Alit was assessed a $562 fine and told to ritually wash off his stupid dick.  The cow was drowned in the sea to get rid of bad luck.

No.  I'm not kidding.

I think I'd rather have sex with the box that it came in.

Some savvy entrepreneur somehow sees mega dollars signs when he thinks about the vast multitudes of men that will lay down some hard earned schmundo to fuck a Lady Gaga doll.  I shit you not.

The blow up doll is named Lady Gag Gag.  I'm assuming that this is so he won't get his ass sued off.  The same company also has a Beyonce version.  ("She Loves ALL THREE HOLES filled.")

I'd like to take a moment of personal privilege to remind you that I came up with the name Lady Gag Gag in a post honoring the young lady's beat looking broad's birthday.

The Lady Gag Gag Love Doll.

I assume the name is also to flatter your penis.

She comes complete with that stupid Alice in Wonderland 
hair and her own tucked penis. 

No man I know is hankering to give a poke to the real Lady Gaga.  She's the definition of a butterface.   If a vote was taken tomorrow I would wager she would win the Most Annoying Celebrity Award of 2010.  Beating the Kardashian Krew by a wide ass mile.  Her music...is that music?  God almighty, I would love to get in a time machine and kill the guy that invented Auto-Tune.  Just think of the "singers" that would never have been foisted on us.  Lady Gaga, Avril Lavigne, Ke$ha (double yuck) and every other teenybopper popstress whom I can't name because of the cookie cutter crapola sameness of their "music".  

Lastly, a Lady Gag Gag fuck doll is pointless.  A dude that loves women doesn't want to fuck Lady Gaga.  Men who love Lady Gaga don't want to fuck women.  QED.

"I've had it with these motherfuckin' heads on this motherfuckin' plane."

A sharp eyed (or sharp nosed) Southwest Airlines employee called the police after finding a box of heads on a plane that was headed for the Dallas-Ft. Worth area.  The cranium cargo was headed (tee hee) to the Ft. Worth office of Medtronic which does medical research.  The exact number of brain holders is in some dispute.  Apparently nobody is volunteering for the gruesome job of doing an actual "head" count.  (tee hee.)

The no longer alive heads were not packaged or labeled correctly so the Little Rock gendarmes got on the case and handed the nomadic noggins over to Pulaski County coroner Garland Camper.  "We've come to the conclusion that there is a black market out there for human body parts for research or for whatever reason.  We just want to make sure these specimens here aren't part of that black market and underground trade."  So said coroner Camper, whom I don't think will be confused with Quincy, M.E. anytime soon.

Hey, coroner Garland Camper (love that name).  Why don't you look to see if they each have a single bullet hole in the back.  If the answer is yes, call commie China and see if any of their dissidents are missing.  Haha!   What about Al-queda?  They must have to do something with all those bearded heads after making their jihadi videos.

The supplier of the bodyless heads is an outfit named JLS consulting.  The Wynne, Arkansas, business has it's license in revocation and has blamed problems in the past on a private courier.  The founder of JLS is not answering calls.  Hmmmm??  Arkansas?  Body parts?  Hard to see how anything could go wrong there.

The Black Market for human body parts is both vast and varied.

Two things you might not know.  One, you may at anytime be flying the happy skies with this kind of cargo.  We ship bodies all the time.  You will never see a place with more lazy ass lard butt union employees than an airline cargo hanger.  (Outside of a government office, that is.)  The two words that get you to the front of the line?  Human remains.

Second.  According to federal law you cannot sell human body parts.  I think this is nanny state, anti-freedom bullshit.  Your eyes, organs, head and everything else should be yours to sell.  When you die you or your  next of kin have to give permission to have any part of you taken for donation.  So aren't they acknowledging that you belong to you?  I can sell my car.  Why not my liver?  (Not that mine would be of much use to anybody.  My liver, I mean, not my car.)

For those of you who are thinking about donating your body or a loved one's body to science, you might want to read Stiff: The Curious Life of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach.  Before you romanticize to yourself, "Mom, would have been so proud that after her death she helped in the fight against cancer." be aware that some research facility might also put her in a car and run her off a cliff just to see what happens.  Or she might take a few .50 caliber rounds to the torso so the defense department can test the effectiveness of a new weapon.  Unless it's going to a specific organ or tissue bank, once you sign over disposition of an intact body, it's out of your hands.

And those heads?  They were probably going to be used to teach already filthy rich cosmetic surgeons how to perform the latest eye lift procedure on aging socialites and movie stars.

Cameron Diaz is "Always traveling for cock." Clay Aiken says, "Is that all it takes to get noticed these days?"

I haven't given much thought to Cameron Diaz since she debuted in The Mask in 1994.  Jim Carrey's career was skyrocketing and Ms. Diaz didn't have to do much but look hot  and dance around with her smoking ass in a tight dress.  Her subsequent films were basically chick flicks.  Ho-hum.

Cameron Diaz 

A fantasy to box your goofy to.

Cameron Diaz.

After a long flight during cock hunting season.

Sixteen years later, Cameron, 37, has a new movie coming out.  (Knight and Day with an equally past his prime, Tom Cruise.  Not exactly a can't miss combination for coaxing the ten-spot out of the wallet of a recession weary public.)

But this is Hollywood where the creation of buzz is a lot more creative than acutal moviemaking, so Cameron took a roofie and a shot of sodium pentathol and went for a sit down with Playboy Magazine.  (Question:  Is the summer movie going demographic reading an old school stoke mag like Playboy?  Oh, wait.  Nobody reads Playboy, or even wanks to it much anymore.)

The skilled Playboy interviewer was able to coax some nuggets out of the delightful derrierre of the demure Ms. Diaz.  The quote that has the collective boner of the interwebs all a' throbbing is this one.  "Oh, gosh, I can't even count how many times I've gotten on a plane for love.  It's not unusual in this business; my lifestyle demands it.  I'm always traveling for cock.  You've got to go where it is."

Wow!  I would have thought that if you were Cameron Diaz the cock would come to you.  Not to mention come on you.  (She did look pretty good with a load of spoo goo in her hair in There's Something About Mary.)

Other highlights from the interview are that she is not a lesbian but she's open to having sex with women.  That is my kind of lipstick lesbian, and how.  Likes dick and vadge, but mostly dick.  Also, caveman sex gets a thumbs up and her ass will make a featured appearance on film again if given the right role.

When you sex it up with hubby five times a day,

you have to work at least one session into your pool time. 

Fuck me shoes and lube required, of course. 

In other celebrity there's-nothing-private-about-my-life news.  Melanie Brown aka Mel B aka Scary Spice tells George Lopez (a not funny comic who's developed a talent for getting C-list celebutard famewhores to talk about everything from their vaginas to their sex lives) that she keeps her rockin' bod rock hard by...are you ready?  Shagging!!  Yes, Mel and her exhausted husband make the beast with two backs five times a day.  Or just three times on a day when her schedule is otherwise full.  She is a mom, after all.  Beats the shit out of a recumbent bike or a Bowflex, I can tell 'ya.  How does her husband, music producer Stephen Belafonte, feel about his wife putting his sexy bidness out dere in da street?  He has no comment, but like most guys I'm sure he's perfectly OK with the world knowing what a studmuffin he is.

h/t Huffpo which I always thought was a political website, but has become the go-to place for breaking celebrity sex news.

Curb your erection. Is Al Gore banging Larry David's ex??!!

Or, on the other hand, this could be complete and utter horseshit.

When news of the global cooling of the Gore marriage was first revealed, I thought that Al was going to come out as Big Gay Al.  An ideal both revolting and hysterical at the same time.  For some reason Al always came off as somewhat of a closet queen to me.

Throw in Sheryl Crow and you have a menage et twat.

Al Gore and Laurie David, huh?  Well, they do have a lot in common.  They're both private jet flying, huge mansion living enviro-bores and imperious, self-righteous scolds.  Taking a break from telling the rest of us how to live to sneak around for fuck time is....I really don't know what to say.  The image of a red-faced huffing, puffing and humping Albert Gore, Jr. is almost too repugnant for words.  Not only is the world not getting hotter, but I probably won't be sporting a boner again till I can get the picture of these two boning doggy-style out of my head.  Laurie David is kind of MILF-y, (like a lot of Plain Janes with a shitload of money to spend on themselves) but what an insufferable yenta.  

If this match made in heaven is true (Ms. David denies all) there would be no two people more deserving of each other.

I swear to Gaia.

Greta Van Susteren. Asking the questions inquiring minds want to know.

There's been a buzz like a thousand buzzing bees around the interwebs for about a week now.  What is it?  Breast implants.  Did Sarah Palin get 'em?  Or is she au naturel?  I haven't put in that much thought about this since after five kids I'd rather concentrate on Sarah's legs when she has high heels on.  So I guess I'll just  leave it to Greta V. to get to the meat of things in her usual blunt style.

The money shot question is about 40 seconds in.






Well, there you go.  I know that Greta has been a big pusher of Palin since before the election, doing  interviews at the family home in Alaska and having unbelievable access.  Which is why, when asked the inappropriate question about her funbags, Sarah answered in a politically savvy way as possible.  Instead, of saying, "My tits are real Greta, but speaking of plastic surgery, shouldn't you be due for a touch-up on that mug of yours?  This time have them lift a little higher on the left side so your mouth doesn't look like Popeye's when you talk."

Vajazzle your Vajayjay? Discuss.

I found this today during my usual search for sex and death.  Vajazzle porn?  What the hell is that all about?  Which led me to a more detailed explanation of the process of vajazzling.  Vajazzling, for those of you who don't know, is the gluing of little Swarovski (which is Russian for really fucking expensive) crystals on the pubic area of a lady after she waxes down.  You know, right above the hoo-hoo.  From what I've seen on the interwebs, butterflies and fancy heart designs seem to be most popular.  I also saw one that spelled the word JUICY in multi-colored crystals, which would be perfect for the gal who would like to convey her sexuality with a tasteful sense of elegance.

Vajazzle Porn.

With free jewels included!

Fun for the whole family!

I guess a guy could do it too, but it would be so beyond gay that gay men would laugh at you.  You could call it Cockazzle.  Hey, don't anybody steal my idea.

Jennifer Love Hewitt started the trend when she went on Lopez Tonight (yeah, George Lopez has a talk show, and no, I wasn't aware of it either) and talked about how after a break up with her boyfriend she started vajazzling to make her feel better about her "precious lady".  I would have suggested that a new boyfriend playing with her "precious lady" would make her feel even better about things, but that's just me.  Although I do have to say that listening to Jennifer Love Hewitt talking about her privates makes my own privates get a little jazzled if you know what I mean.

Bryce Gruber can't wait for her man 

to try out her glittery new jewel pie. 

As you know, I always like to get to the nitty-gritty possibilities on these kinds of matters.

Let's just say, unbeknownst to you, your darling inamorata has gone and vajazzled her runway of love.  Bedtime arrives and you are pleasantly surprised that your dear treasure is acting frisky without you even having to beg.  Kiss, Kiss....uummmmm...  Down come the panties and whoooahhh!   "Ohhh, that's different...I mean....NICE!"  You say while she sashays a bit with her hands on her hips.  All the while you're thinking, "That's kind of weird, actually.  Did she do that for my benefit?"  Yes, dumbfuck, she did.  So get to it.  And you do.  It's non-routine sex and you're a guy so you put the vajazzle visual aside and bang away make the love.  Things get a bit sweaty and you start to notice that your personal nether regions are becoming vajazzled.  Even worse, as things progress, you're doing that ptooooey, ptooooey thing because you have little glass thingies in your mouth.  Bleeehh, this is worse than the 80's when you were always getting pubes in your teeth.  You then spend the next few days picking Swarvoski crystals out of your ass because they're stuck up in the sheets as well.

The tab for this little added spice to your sex life?  $175.00 and up.  Enjoy.

Just a quick comment on genital jewelry in...uh...general.  Not a big fan, myself.  It really is impossible to improve on nature.  (My views on fake plastic bobble tits are well known.)  For whatever reason when I see a photo of a girl with a clittie ring it's a turnoff.  It's a couple of things, I guess.  Why would somebody want to run a piercing needle through that most delicate of areas?  I can picture a lot of different outcomes from this activity and most of them are bad, oozy and possibly permanent.  Maybe it's because I've always been so protective of my own giggle stick.  Also, I've always had the impression, rightly or wrongly, that a woman who would do that to herself is probably not only open, but anxious, to do something kinky to you.  The kind of chick that on your second date wants to drip hot candle wax on your balls or make you shit in a diaper.  I know this may surprise you but The Funeral Guy was never much for fetish games or outrageous kink.  (And at my age I have to be mindful of my back.)   I've only had one experience with a pierced goodie button.  It was distracting and in the back of my mind I was afraid one of us was going to tear something.

So ladies.  If you want to vajazzle the "V" or hang a chain off your yum yum, go ahead, I guess.  But don't gild the lily for us.  I would bet if you asked most men they'd tell you that when it comes to that particular part of you, plain 'ol vanilla is just fine.

Cemeteries...They're not just for dead people anymore.

I love cemeteries.  Always have.  Which may seem weird or not.  Its not like I had a lifelong dream to be in the funeral business.  (I always wanted to be a rock star so I could be buried in a cemetery really early.  Ha ha.)  It wasn't even that I liked funerals.  As a matter of fact I avoided them when I was younger always making some excuse not to go to one.  In fact, I was usually on the road, but I now regret missing the funerals of some family members.

Where I grew up in Ohio there were many old cemeteries that were suitably eerie at night.  Cemeteries were good places to go for making out and getting high.  Scared and tipsy girls were girls that wanted to get close to you.  Always a good start.  Mainly though, I just liked how quiet and peaceful cemeteries were.  And I'm speaking as one who is not a camping or outdoorsy type person.  I like looking at the markers and reading the names and dates.  Especially now that a lot of markers have pictures on them. They have a really nice mausoleum in Ivy Lawn Memorial Park where they have a columbarium with windowed cremation niches.  You can see where families have set up little dioramas with photos, medals and other memorabilia along with the urn.  Santa Paula Cemetery has a section where they have folks that died in the mid 1800's.  For California that's an old cemetery.  Fascinating.

For me, the best part of the funeral service is after it's over (and all went well) and I can start to relax while everyone is chatting around the casket before going to the reception.  My associate and I will people watch and take notice of all the family dynamics.  It's also funny to watch women all dressed up walking through the grass as their high heels sink into the ground.  Didn't think of that when you got dressed this morning, did you, honey?  The exception to this tranquil revery is when it's really hot and all I want is for everyone in their summer frocks and short sleeved shirts to clear the hell out so I can get my dark-suited ass back in the air-conditioned hearse.

Memorial Day festivities at Olinger Crown Hill Cemetery.

This story featuring Olinger Crown Hill Cemetery in Wheat Ridge, Colorado highlights a direction I've been seeing for awhile.  Cemeteries are sprucing up and holding events to bring folks in to give them something to relate the grounds to other than the fact that their loved ones are under it.  As Crown Hill general manager Kevin Wolfe wonderfully puts it, "People come to cemeteries, and they are always looking down."  Why do you think most cemeteries all called memorial parks now?  (You'll never hear a professional refer to a graveyard.)   I must admit I miss seeing upright tombstones.  Most places require ground markers.  Easier for the groundskeepers, you see.  Anyway, jazz concerts, fireworks on Memorial Day and summer potlucks are all on tap at Crown Hill.

 Wee Kirk o' the Heather at Forest Lawn Glendale.

At Forest Lawn Glendale there is Wee Kirk o' the Heather chapel that has hosted weddings for decades.  When I was doing pre-need for Forest Lawn I met a couple who were married there and their funerals will both be done there.  Married and buried in the same place.  Sweet.

Johnny Ramone's Memorial at Hollywood Forever.

Hollywood Forever ("Resting place of Hollywood's Immortals") hosts movie nights.  My co-worker went to one a couple of weeks ago and saw North by Northwest.  They set up a huge screen outside right on the grounds.  He said it was fun with kind of a punk crowd atmosphere.

I think this is a good trend.  Most of us will take our eternal rest in a cemetery.  Shouldn't you get to know and maybe even enjoy the place now while you can?

What one guy imagines the funerals I direct turn into.

And that guy is tbird, naturally.  Like Winston Churchill's pudding that lacked "theme", tbird felt the same about the new look of TFG.  To that end he sent me one.

If you love good caricature you have to visit the site of Victor Juhasz.  He is simply an awesome artist.

One of The Funeral Guy's services descends into chaos.  

Street Kill...L.A. Style.

I was looking for pictures for another post and I came across this guy's blog.  He has an interesting hobby.  He takes pictures of the dead critters he encounters on his Los Angeles walkabouts.

The interwebs have something for everyone.  He also takes photos of flowers and other city life.  I know L.A. pretty well, and this guy, whoever he is, captures the flavor of it quite nicely.  He must also really like to walk.  In this city he's one of the few.

Go here if you enjoy dead animal stuff (all in various stages of decomposition).

A native Los Angeles rat.  

Don't know which gang he belonged to but, 

he is most assuredly deceased. 

More new stuff.

I have decided to set-up an email address for The Funeral Guy.  You can click on My Profile and there it is.  Send me weird stories or other items of interest.  Or just say Hi.

Here it is.   thefuninfuneral.death@gmail.com

This is an experiment.  Do not send me pictures of your penis.

No Penis.

The Funeral Guy Motto

Arghhhhh!!

For some reason with this new template some of my links are not highlighting.  They are there, but they don't highlight until the cursor rolls over them.  Error messages keep popping up whenever Cheyenne, my tech gal tries to fix them.  Bear with me.  For now if you want the links to the stories, you have to roll your cursor over obvious places.  I know this is a major pain in the ass.

I am tired and I'm tired of fucking around with this.  Cheyenne has left in a huff.  I'll offer her drugs in the morning after her shift on the pole to see if she'll come back and fix it.

Update:  Looks like I solved it.  Something wrong with that hot red background.  Who needs Cheyenne?  I'd fire her ass, but she's easy on the eyes and works cheap.

TFG has an even newer look.

Taking tbird's pithy critique to heart, I am taking not 5 minutes, but 10 this time to try to give this site a little more pizzazz.  (My mother always said I was easily influenced by bad companions.)

Hope y'all like this 'cause I don't want to overthink or overdo this like I'm an interior decorator who is tweaking on meth.

TFG.

TFG has a new look!

Do you like it?  If you don't...tough shit.  I did it because:

a) I was bored.

b) It didn't cost anything.

and

c) It took me about 5 minutes.

The content will remain the same, i.e. anything that amuses, disgusts or interests me.

Thank you for your patronage.

Look Mommy! Look!!! That lady is playing bouncy lap with that man.

This is such a great performance of drunken public fuckery that I'm shocked that Laura Hall is not involved and it didn't happen in Britain.

I've never been to Batavia, New York, but I can only imagine that they don't see shit like this in their parks every day.  (Unlike MacArthur Park in LA which is like one of Dante's Circles of Hell...illegal alien edition.)

Suzanne Corona, 41, and her fuck buddy, Justin Amend, 29, were caught by police boning on a picnic table in Farrall Park at 5:00 in the afternoon.  Oh, no!!!  What about the chilluns?  When the coppers walked up and asked them what they were doing Suzanne and Justin said, "Just talking."  Which may have been the case but while they were "just talking" they were also just fucking.  Police also report that the couple appeared to be intoxicated.  Hmmm, fancy that.  Sounds like we need to start issuing Asbo's in this country to skeevy rumdum skanks who can't even be bothered to go behind a tree to get their public freak on.

Suzanne and Justin.

AKA The Romeo and Juliet of Batavia, NY. 

What gives this story its "hook", as they say in the newsbiz, is in addition to being charged with public lewdness, Suzanne, who is married and a mom, is also facing an adultery rap.  She could get 90 days in the pokey (tee hee) and a $500 fine.  I say they put Suzanne in the ducking stool and make her wear a Scarlet "A" for a year.

Suzanne, with admirable self-reflection, apologized and admitted that her behavior was inappropriate, but told police "[they would] understand if you knew what my life was like."  So what is her life like?  Well, her husband is "transgender" and they "never have sex."   That sure as hell would be enough to turn anyone into a stew bum fuck tramp that boinks younger guys on picnic tables in the pubic (typo, but I'll keep it) park.  (Question:  Did Suzanne not know that her "husband" was an impotent transgender when she married him?  She doesn't seem like the type who would have any moral compunction about sampling the goods before marriage.)

For all her contrition, Suzanne seems pretty incensed about the adultery rap, and will fight that one all the way.  Her husband is standing by her, you see, so it's really nobody else's concern.  Putting aside the outdoor sex show, of course.

You've got to check out the video.  First of all, the husband looks like a tool and a wimp for standing gamely next to his trollop of a wife, but he sure as hell doesn't look transgendered to me.  I also like how the other half of this sexy time criminal enterprise, Justin Amend, slinks away from the camera like a guy caught masturbating in the church school parking lot.  But the best part is listening to Suzanne trying to spin her way out of her liquored up lewdness.  Like an ace attorney she weaves a tightly honed defense of "Yeah, I was fucking this dude in the park, but it really wasn't like fucking because we both had our clothes on and maybe his cock was just exposed around the zipper area if you really want to get technical about it but nobody could really tell what was going on so what's the big deal anyway?"

Translation?  They were doing cowgirl.

I think Debrahlee's settlement just got a lot smaller than her surgically enhanced bazongas.

Well that didn't take long.

Before she was a poor, sexually harassed victim of the frat boy culture at Citibank, Debrahlee Lorenzana was just a 26 year-old shrinking violet who decided that her first boob job wasn't porny enough, so she decided that she needed to go up to Playboy proportions.  Or, as she so demurely put it in the 2003 Discovery Health Channel series, Plastic Surgery New York Style, "That's what I want to be: tits on a stick."   Her ultimate goal, you see, was not to be a high ranking bank executive but a "cross between Pamela Anderson and Carmen Electra."  This particular surgery was on top of her liposuction and tummy tuck.

Oh, did I mention that Debrahlee is a single mom with a son who will probably be slamming heroin by the time he's 15 because his mom is a shallow, self-obsessed, club-crawling gold digger?  My favorite part from the series is where Debrahlee is dancing in da' club with her jouncing jugs about to fly out of her tube top.   And this was before the double-D upgrade.  My second is when she is with her friend in the market and she holds two melons up to her chest and giggles like a simpleton.

The video is here.  Listen as Debrahlee (in that godawful nasally, New York Puerto Rican Minnie Mouse voice) explains how she figures bigger tits will help her "determined manhunt" to find "Mr. Right".   Someone with the looks of George Clooney or Ben Affleck and of course, "educated and successful".   (Kind of like when the whores on Craigslist mention that they prefer "generous" men.) What Debrahlee brings to the table is the promise of happiness "because I'll be looking like a little Playboy Playmate."

Debrahlee Lorenzana.

Just your typical struggling working mom.

Now I wasn't there in the Citibank office during Debrahlee's employ, but that's surely not going to stop me from speculating.

Let's picture Debrahlee.  It's seven years after her nattering, bubble-brained appearance as a young bimbo on the make who's looking to purchase bigger torpedoes to add to her man snaring arsenal.  As far as we know she still hasn't found Mr. Right.  Although I would bet you a dollar to a donut that she's probably fucked a whole bunch of Mr. Hornys during the search.  Debrahlee is probably just figuring out that just as a woman can smell a sex-starved desperate schlemiel from a mile away, a savvy New York yuppie can similarly sniff out a determined single mom looking for a wallet to marry.  The perfect scenario for the male hit-it n' quit-it maneuver.  (Plus that voice...Oh, my god, how many guys have sat through dinner listening to Debrahlee prattling on while thinking..."How much more of this crap do I have to listen to before we can head to my place for some serious fuck time?")

We're now in Citibank 2010.  Debrahlee is thirty-three and the vision of a closing window is starting to get a little more vivid.  In addition to the sexy outfits and the fuck me shoes, Debrahlee starts putting on the vamp just a little too much and the suits are starting to get uncomfortable.  The Citibank execs are perhaps seeing a little too much sexual tension in the workplace.  It's probably not too much of a stretch to imagine that Debrahlee's mind is more on the successful mens then it is on productive work.  So out she goes.  Debrahlee takes her shot at a possible settlement and some surefire publicity.  As I said in my previous post I could be totally off base on this one, but we'll see.

Debrahlee's attorneys are starting to spin once again that Debrahlee can't be faulted for being a volcanic bobble-titted sex bomb.  They compare her enhancements to a woman who gets her hair done or has a nose job.  Nice try, but when a jury sees that video they may have a different take.

H/t tbird.