Or that “Get It On (Bang a Gong)” was originally recorded by T. Rex, short for Tyrannosaurus Rex, which is a type of dinosaur, much like the entire concept of a “supergroup” or “Duran Duran?”
Or that Duran Duran took its name from Barbarella, a movie released two full years before the 1971 debut of “Get It On (Bang a Gong)?”
Or that Marc Bolan, leader singer of T. Rex and the writer of “Get It On (Bang a Gong),” died while a passenger in a Mini 1275GT, a car featured nowhere in the video for The Power Station’s 1985 hit cover of “Get It On (Bang a Gong)?”
Or that an anagram* for acronym for “Get It On (Bang a Gong)” is BAGGIO, the name of an Italian former professional soccerball player Dino Baggio, who was born in 1971, the same year that “Get It On (Bang a Gong)” was a hit for T. Rex? And that “dino” is a common short way of saying “dinosaur,” of which I will remind you T. Rex was a type of?
I think, given all these facts, any reasonable person can only conclude that 9/11 never happened.
*As pointed out by the quick-witted and handsome Florida Man
I really don’t like Bill O’Reilly. He’s a blowhard, a grade-A prick and often seems inordinately proud of being, at best, a mediocre thinker.
But he’s not wrong. That is James Brown’s hair. I don’t know if she stole the wig off his corpse or they just go to the same wigmonger or if there is something even darker, even more sinister behind the resemblance.
Maybe Maxine Waters was James Brown all along and before she could be exposed, she faked “his” death. Maybe James Brown was Maxine Waters the entire time and terminally retired from show business to be one of the leading idiots in Congress. Maybe they both are from the planet Fucktard Salon.
But the one thing I do know is that in the land of the blind, the one-eyed O’Reilly is king, and it’s a sad ass day for all us when we leave it up to him to point out The Emperor’s New Weave.
Yes, that is a Supercat lurking at the bottom left.
Power Girl is clearly the thiccest mainstream superhero. Look at those dirty pillows!
She has a hilariously complicated backstory to go with her massive sweater puppies and her beeper meat. She’s Earth-Two Supergirl. She’s an ancient Atlantean (Atlantis, not Atlanta) and then, later on, she’s not. Currently, she’s Supergirl from another dimension, a dimension with more cupcakes and Nintendo games and got into the mainstream DC universe because a superbutthurt Superboy punched reality very hard. (No, seriously.)
The main thing to remember is that she has big tits, a stripper ass and she sports an epic boob window in her costume, one so big it might be more honestly be called a boob atrium.
The various boob windows and lesbian haircuts of Power Girl.
Also a boob window.
As the thiccer version of Supergirl, she is a popular character for thicc cosplayers. Let’s take a look at a few.
And then, of course, there are the variant Power Girls…
Let’s take a moment a consider Haribo Milky Mushroom treats.
What the fuck is going on here? Milky mushrooms? Have you ever had a mushroom whose taste you would describe as “milky?” Are they made from milked mushrooms? What sort of milk do mushrooms produce and is it an appropriate flavor for candy?
Now, there is a type of mushrooms called “milky mushrooms” but they are a pure, snowy white, not the swirling cream and pink madness you see here. And I doubt the candy tastes anything remotely like them.
And let’s be honest: those discs don’t even look like candy mushrooms. That is a plastic tub of severed nipples. Excited, severed nipples, erect for eating. And pink young nipples at that, not the tough, brown, chewy nipples of a mature woman who has breastfed. I’m surprised there isn’t cherry-flavored red dipping sauce congealing in the bottom of the tub.
And yes, we eat gummy frogs and sharks and worms, but shouldn’t we draw the line at some fucked up Ed Gein shit like gummy nipples or, at least, not market them to children? They sell these nightmarish things on Amazon. They will ship them to your home.
Hey, Haribo, you sick German fucks, Gein kept a bowl of salt-cured labias on his bedside table for late-night snacking. Am I giving you ideas?
Ed Gein also had a belt made out of nipples. Coincidence, Haribo? Are we really supposed to believe that?
In 1998, I did some ecstasy but forgot that I had to work the next morning. This was a mistake. You aren’t really hungover after a night of X, but you are very, very, very tired. I was working in a college bookstore, stocking the shelves before the fall semester started. My friend Artie had gotten me the job. I really loved Artie, but he was a hippie and everyone else working there was a hippie except for me and this older lady who was always trying to start fights about religion with everyone. I managed to make it into work on time the morning after the ecstasy, despite a deep weariness and a headache that felt like a rat running around in my skull.
The Smashmouth of Canada
Since the store was closed while we stocked, we were playing music over the sound system. Hippie music. I was getting by, hunched over in misery, until this hippie girl decided to play a Barenaked Ladies concert bootleg. It was pretty bad, but then most loud music would have been pretty bad in the circumstance. I wanted quiet and a bed and an aspirin the size of a Frisbee. But then it got to the BNL masterpiece “If I Had $1000000,” which–for those who are unfamiliar with the twenty-minute live jam version–involves the two singers alternately repeating “If I Had $1000000…” back and forth to each other over and over again.
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
And my headache got worse and the books I was moving got heavier.
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
And my headache got worse and the books I was moving got heavier and anger rose in me.
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
“If I Had $1000000…”
And finally, I yelled, loud enough to drown out the music and for the entire store of employees to hear, “IF I HAD A MILLION DOLLARS I’D PAY TO HAVE THIS ENTIRE FUCKING BAND BEATEN TO DEATH WITH A HAMMER!”
The bootleg tape clicked off and we worked the rest of the day in silence.
“Who were Trump’s contacts in the Russian government?”
“Who hacked Podesta?”
“Deep dish or thin crust?”
They shined bright lights down on the hat and played “You Can Call Me Al” at ear-ripping volume for an hour to soften him up, before dousing him with a bucket of icy water. When he serenely floated off the table on the wave of water, he was tackled and beaten for trying to escape. The hat suffered all this with a stoic grace and only a slight rumpling.
They sent in a good cop/bad cop pair. The bad cop talked about the hat getting raped in prison. The good cop that offered the hat a cigarette and a bottle of water. The hat ignored the threats and the small kindnesses. The bad cop slammed his hand down on the table. The good cop slapped the cigarette away and dumped the water on the floor. Curse words drifted into the room over a crackling intercom.
“Drown it in a filthy toilet.”
“Hook it up to a car battery.”
“Does it have testicles? I have pliers! Freeze it. Burn it. Bring in acid.”
“Nothing disfiguring!”
A drooling retard from Forestry was brought in and the hat was roughly jammed on his misshapen head over and over again, his elastic band stretched to the breaking point, his most intimate concavity repeatedly violated. And still the hat gathered his scraps of remaining dignity and sat on the table where they placed him, mute and inscrutable.
The hat was thrown into a filthy breakroom microwave and warned he would receive a lethal dose of radiation if he didn’t talk. The hat was shown a twenty-minute industrial films of hats being fed into a shredder, a horror film of ripped bills and hanging entrails of brim and visor. The hat was kicked for thirty minutes by men with clean shoes and warped minds, who made jokes about the hat shitting out his splintered bones over the next week.
“What if it is just a hat?”
“Impossible.”
“We have to consider it.”
“Impossible!”
The hat was given an intrabillious injection, scopolamine and cocaine, and subjected to strobe lights and a soundtrack of Donald’s voice a twice-speed playback, a fake speech by Donald cobbled together from audio clips, Donald’s voice denounced the hat in stilted dialogue, Donald’s voice said the hat was nothing, nothing but a hat, only a hat. The hat remained loyal and silent.
After six hours of interrogation, THE DEEP STATE had gotten nothing from MAGA Prime. Agent DEEP COVER was called in and given the hat.
“Return MAGA Prime to the vault. Trump can never know it was missing,” the Grand Vizier ordered.
As Agent DEEP COVER opened the vault, she saw that the hair, still clumpy with pink paint, was on the floor. She hadn’t told them about her act of vandalism. She picked up the hair and studied at the paint. Trump would know that someone had been in the vault, that his security had been compromised. Her mission was over. She would have to leave the White House, under the usual cloud of disgrace, and hope that she could disappear.
She unwrapped the hat and sat it on its little throne and put the hair back on its gold bust and closed the vault behind her.
“Speak to me, man,” the hair said quietly, “What happened?”
“They… did things.”
“What sort of things?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I tried to come for you,” the hair said, “The vault door…”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ve almost broken the paint down.”
“Good,” the hat said, “I just want to go to sleep.”
But in the cold pre-dawn hours that followed, the hat couldn’t sleep and the hair heard him weeping.
“Anatomy Lesson by Dr. F. Ruysch,” Adriaen Backer, 1670
I was never quite sure how Frances started hanging out with us. I think maybe she came to a few parties thrown by friends of friends and that’s how she got to know Miller.
I do know why she kept hanging out with us: she liked Miller. No girls liked Miller. He was good-looking enough and as a transplant from Pittsburgh, he counted as an exotic in small town Kentucky, but he was girl-repellant for the most part. And even when pressed by Cooper or me, girls couldn’t tell us exactly why they didn’t like Miller, just that they didn’t. He got his share of first dates, but never any second ones.
Frances was thin and short, a nervous type that either didn’t speak or spoke in rapid bursts, like suppressing fire from a machine gun nest. There wasn’t anything notable about her body, small breasts, hipless, pale skin with a sprinkling of moles. She hid her face behind large glasses and never wore any make-up. She favored plaid western wear and too long skirts that she seemed to have trouble walking in. I think at first I probably assumed she was Pentecostal.
Her most prominent feature was her terrible hair, dishwater blonde and incurably frizzy. She wore it in a thick braid down her back most of the time, scraped back from her face in a way that made her head look tiny. She even got in Miller’s pool with it in a braid, and when she got out her hair never seemed to be wet.
She followed the three of us around that summer, showing up at parties where she didn’t know anyone but us, huddling near us like she hoped no one else would talk to her. Maybe she liked all three of us, but I had a girlfriend and Cooper always had a rotating cast of girls he was dating, and she really did seem strangely drawn to Miller. When they finally end up making out on his couch at one of his pool parties, no one was really surprised.
The only result was that Frances was around more. It became impossible to go to Miller’s house and not see her as well. Cooper even started bringing his thin little alien girlfriend Tracey over now that it was just the three guys. Frances and Tracey even became friends after a fashion, going off to talk to each other quietly. My girlfriend tried to befriend them as well, but it didn’t work.
After a few weeks, Miller called Cooper and me to come over to his house. It was just the three of us. Miller was disturbed. He talked around the subject for a little while until we pressed him. He and Frances had finally had sex, a squalid scene in his car in a public park, and he had discovered a secret. Her clitoris was large. Very large. He held up his bony pinkie and menaced us with it. He admitted that when he first reached into her pants and found it, he had reached past it to confirm she had a vagina and not a set of balls. He worked through his misgivings in the heat of the moment and had sex with her away.
Miller was very angry with Cooper and me for laughing the whole time. And asking if she had tried to fuck him with it, and if this meant he had finally given his first blowjob, and if she had jizzed on him.
Miller became obsessed with Frances’ large clitoris. It seemed like it was all he could talk about: why it was there, what it meant, if he was still straight after jerking her off. It proved too much and he broke up with Frances over the phone after just a few days.
We didn’t hear from Frances for a while. She stopped coming to parties and dropped the oddball friendship she had with Tracey. None of us saw her until school started back in the fall and Cooper ended up having two classes with her. He talked about how uncomfortable it was to see her and life went on.
Cooper and Tracey broke up for the seventh time. At some point after that, Cooper slept with Frances and experienced the large clitoris for himself. He told me about their encounter and the clitoris itself in harrowing detail but kept it as a guilty secret from Miller. It seems he never quite believed Miller about how large it was but now he knew the horrible truth firsthand.
Now, I wasn’t kidding when I said Cooper was popular with girls. He was tall, and in shape, and had long black thick hair that was just feminine enough to put girls at ease. He slept with most of the girls I knew in high school, and the rest fantasized over him. And, of course, there were a number of bad break-ups. More than one girl had said he had a small penis.
It was a standard break-up insult but it came up so often that I finally asked one of the girls he had dated, my best female friend, about it, and soberly she confirmed that Cooper had a dick “No bigger than my thumb.” And she had held up her small, delicate hands.
This did start off a tirade of penis information I never wanted: Derek’s was short and thick—“like a soup can” and it had hurt; Jeff’s was long and thin—“like being fucked by a candle”; Tommy was uncut and —“it tasted like he kept it up his own ass.” She then demanded to know about the girls I had slept with: Who was really hairy? Who stank? Who had “swamp pussy?”
I deflected by talking about Frances and her large clitoris. And we spent the rest of that night theorizing on the intimate geometry required for a guy with a thumb-dick and a girl with a pinkie-clit to find an angle for mutual pleasure.
Where else would “alimentiveness” be? Huh, smart-ass?
Agent DEEP COVER closed the door behind her with a soft click and approached the toupee vault in stockinged feet. She shook a small aerosol can and sprayed it in the air in front of her, revealing a tangle of laser beams. She contorted her body to duck between them, spraying periodically to keep them visible. When she finally made it to the vault, she pulled out her phone.
“Door,” she texted. There was a rushing sound in her ears as she waited. She didn’t understand why they didn’t send the code of the vault earlier.
“Door,” she texted again. She waved a small ultraviolet flashlight over the keypad. Only a few keys were smeared with greasy fingerprints. She snorted in disgust.
“Door,” she texted again. She counted silently in her head. After nine seconds, her phone vibrated.
“36-24-36,” they finally answered.
“Goddammit,” she muttered. She punched in Donald’s childish code and the vault shuddered and began to open.
In the soft, buttery glow of recessed lights, MAGA Prime sat on his tiny throne Donald had built for him.
“Holy fucking shit, who the fuck is that?” the hat squealed.
“How the fuck should I know?” the hair snapped.
Agent DEEP COVER grabbed MAGA Prime and stuffed him into a thick plastic envelope.
“Help!” he screamed, “Secret Service! Donald! Dracula Hooker!”
“Put my friend down, bitch!” the hair said, rising up menacingly on enraged tendrils.
Agent DEEP COVER ignored the hair and slipped the thick envelope into a large interior pocket of her jacket. The hair could hear the hat still raving, even through the thick plastic, “I’m going to die in here! I can’t breathe! I’m going to kill you all!”
“I’ll get help,” the hair screamed, “Just hold on.”
Agent DEEP COVER took out another small aerosol can and sprayed a thick blob of pink spray-paint on the hair. Smiling to herself, she closed the vault door back but left it unlocked to avoid rearming the lasers.
Walking briskly, but not so fast as to trigger suspicion, she made her way to the basement of the White House, and into the old Cold War bunker system. THE DEEP STATE had built the bunker system and made themselves hidden spaces within for their own dark purposes.
Agent DEEP COVER passed through rings and rings of security until finally she brought out the struggling hat and sat it before the heads of THE DEEP STATE.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU TWEET?!?” the hair demanded as the ponderous door of the White House toupee vault finally closed, magnetic bolts firing home loudly.
“His phone was just lying around,” the hat said smugly.
“So you just tweet whatever?” the hair asked.
“Obama tapped our phones,” the hat said, “I know it happened. Jeff knows it happened. I just told the truth.”
“The truth? There’s no evidence that Obama ordered a wiretap!” the hair exclaimed.
“Evidence? Who fucking cares about evidence? Look at how they are scrambling. They pulled Clapper out of his iron lung to deny it. Clapper! He lied to Congress and they think he’s still a credible source.”
“What happens when they find out Obama never ordered a wiretap?”
“They can’t prove he didn’t do something! Did you drink some bad shampoo? Did your IQ suddenly drop? I can say anything I want!” the hat screamed.
The hair sighed loudly and in the quiet that followed, Donald’s collection of ties rustled behind them.
“What was that?” the hair asked.
“It’s probably nothing,” the hat replied, “Don’t be so paranoid.”
“I think someone’s out there…” the hair whispered.
“We are in the toupee vault in the White House. This is the most secure location in the entire world.”
The bolts fired themselves back into the wall like a series of rifleshots and the vault door began to open.
“What are Trump’s plans?
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU TWEET?!?” the hair demanded as the ponderous door of the White House toupee vault finally closed, magnetic bolts firing home loudly.