Check it, Peons: Your CNN Humiliation Compartmentalized

Wednesday, September 22, 2010


We've got some news to report direct from the United Kingdom's most venerable, high-brow, elite newspaper, The Sun. According to their sources, hard-working semen was instrumental in covert MI6 operations:


That's right.
James Bond didn't waste all his spunk on slinky dames. Some of it was used to defend The Empire.

I'm not sure if this story is even true. This is from The Sun, after all. (Which I shamefully loved reading when I lived in London. It's a bit like the NY Post: odious yet very addictive.)
But I can tell this journalist had an excellent time writing this jizz-filled historical account:

Walter Kirke wrote in June 1915 that Mansfield Cumming, the first chief of the SIS, was "making enquiries for invisible inks at the London University". In October he noted that he "heard from C that the best invisible ink is semen", which did not react to usual methods of detection.

It also had the advantage of being easily available.

One member of staff close to Cumming, Frank Stagg, said he would never forget his bosses' delight when the Deputy Chief Censor said one of his staff had discovered that "semen would not react to iodine vapour".

Close to Cumming, indeed.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010


There's nothing like a high quality insult. Delivering them is an art form that seems to be disappearing in a sea of unoriginal expletives and tired hand gestures.
So here are a few of my favorite verbal assaults throughout the ages. And if you've got a good one, add it to this steaming pot of bitchery.

1. "Don't be so humble, you're not that great." -Golda Meir to Moshe Dayan

2. "He looks like a female llama who has been surprised in the bath." -Winston Churchill on Charles De Gaulle

3. "It is only too easy to catch people's attention by doing something worse than anyone else has dared to do it before."
- Charivari on Claude Monet

4. “He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”
-William Faulkner on Ernest Hemingway

5. “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”
-Ernest Hemingway on William Faulkner

6. "He couldn't ad-lib a fart after a baked-bean dinner."- Johnny Carson on Chevy Chase

7. "Nixon's motto was: If two wrongs don't make a right, try three." -Norman Cousins

8. "He is suffering from halitosis of the intellect." -Harold Ickes on Huey Long

9. "So, you're the man who can't spell 'fuck." -Dorothy Parker to Norman Mailer after publishers had convinced Mailer to replace the word with a euphemism, 'fug,' in his 1948 book, "The Naked and the Dead."

10. "He was born with a silver foot in his mouth." - Ann Richards on George Bush

Monday, September 20, 2010


At Mama D's Arts Bordello, you'll find incredible musicians, storytellers, burlesque dancers, comics and magicians.
Not enough for ya?
Well don't forget about our World Famous Trivia Contest!
And for the first time ever we're giving you a sneak peek of a few of the wondrous prizes you could win.
Now, this trivia contest is all Love Boat related, so all of these prizes are "Things We Found When We Raided The Love Boat Costume Department".

Pictured above: Captain Stubing's knee socks, Charo's Realistic Looking Foam Falsies, and Isaac Washington's cocktail shaker.

And remember...there are still two more prizes that will remain a surprise until our cruise sets sail on October 15th!

Friday, September 17, 2010


Color me sad.
After 31 years, the Liberace Museum in Las Vegas will be shutting its glamorous doors for good in exactly one month.
I went there a few years ago (see above photo) and was dazzled by the array of costumes, the glittering gift shop (I bought my pal a dishtowel) and the enthusiasm of the docents.
So you can imagine just how shocked I was to find that this fabulous museum was rife with corruption!

The Las Vegas Review-Journal reports:
One former musician at the museum claims internal factors inflicted damage on the institution. "It was like a rotten onion, layer after layer after layer," says Wes Winters, who performed at the museum from 2003 to 2008 after winning the Liberace Play-Alike Competition.

He cites a staff meeting [where] "everyone was threatened that if you questioned anything, questioned authority, you would be terminated. They're threatening these 80-year-old women, employees and volunteers."

Now there's a headline:
Liberace Impersonators and 80-year-old Devotees Threatened By Domineering Liberace Museum Overlords

These are bleak days indeed.

Thursday, September 16, 2010


Mama D's tech guru Danny Figueroa just created this fantastic Love Boat open for our Shipwreck show.
With such a stellar talent pool, you can't miss this boat!

Wednesday, September 15, 2010


Ahoy there, we're a month away from our big show!

S.O.S motherfuckers!

Get ready for a night of nautical mayhem; be prepared for choppy waters and an iceberg or two. Come hear some stormy stories from Coree Spencer and Michael Maiello, see a tragic magic show by Nick Ignazzi and listen to doomed tunes from Jason Trachtenburg and The Pendulum Swings before our cruise ship sinks to the ocean floor.

Plus: We've got The Love Boat Trivia Contest, where you can win prizes we found when we raided the Love Boat Costume Department!

Make sure you're on the cruise ship when we set sail into oblivion.

TIME: 8pm
DATE: Friday, October 15th
PLACE: Parkside Lounge
ADDRESS: 317 E. Houston
COVER: $5.00

Friday, September 10, 2010


I used to work with this crazy guy from New Jersey. But this was before "Jersey Shore". So I didn't know that he wasn't quite the original character I thought he was. Far from it. In fact, he wore the full stereotypical uniform: spikey hair molded into place with copious amounts of gel, orange tanning booth tan, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a huge gold cross.

He used the terms "Bro" and "herb".
(For the uninitiated, here's how you use them in a sentence: "Yo Bro! Nah nah nah Bro, don't be such a fuckin' herb!")

We called him The Hurricane, because that's how it felt when he swept into the room. I have to say, he always livened up the afternoon.

Anyway, to make a little extra cash, he also worked at a gas station on the weekends. He really seemed to dig his job at the gas station. He claimed that "bangin' babes" often came in. Plus, he helped himself to free cigarettes. It was a dream gig, really.

Then one day, tragedy struck.

He stumbled into work in an uncharacteristically glum mood. He slumped into his seat and muttered, "Bro."

(Yes, even though I'm a woman, he still referred to me as "Bro".)

"Bro, I got fired from the fuckin' gas station."

"What happened?" I asked with vague concern.

"So, this fuckin' herb comes in with his dog of a daughter. Guy was such an asshole. Givin' me shit for nothin'. So I said to him, 'Get outta here. Get the fuck outta here. You're an asshole and your daughter looks like she ain't been fucked right in 10 years!'"

"Wow." I said. "That's some customer service."

"Yeah," he sighed. "How was I supposed to know she was only 15?"

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

LAGNIAPPE: A Choose Your Own Adventure Story

Last year Mama D's Arts Bordello did a "Choose Your Own Adventure" night, where four writers offered up four stories with multiple endings. The audience got to select the ending they wanted with the help of Myles the Applause-o-Meter Vixen. We had a lot of fun and Time Out Magazine gave us a great write up: CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE.
Today I'm posting the story I offered up at the show, with all possible endings. The ending the audience selected was B. Which one would YOU choose?


Standing in the heart of the French Quarter, you see New Orleans as a slightly over-ripe mango: juicy, succulent, but just on the verge of becoming rancid. The buildings are alive, weeds growing lazily from crumbling bricks. Roaches, slow moving and fat eat yesterday’s forgotten crumbs. The air is hot, damp and gluey. It feels used, as if it came from a balloon that someone deflated days after the birthday party.

You look at your girlfriend through bleary eyes. A slow stream of sweat trickles down her collarbone. A recycled breeze blows, carrying the perfumed scent of a famous psychic at a filthy sidewalk café; the health inspector long since bribed away.

Your stomach grumbles. A low, nasty growl. You feel a slow, hot, wet fart steam through your butt cheeks. It dissipates into the muggy heat of New Orleans. You glance down at the sidewalk and notice a crawfish head, a broken string of Mardi Gras beads, dirty Band-Aid and a tarot card.

You are thirsty, and remember the plastic milk jug filled with Mexican Holy water you have at home. A friend of yours moved out of a big dusty house on St. John’s Bayou, and needed to get rid of a few things. So in addition to the Mexican Holy water, you got half a set of encyclopedias, a tiny crystal vase, and a broken TV tray.

As you wander around, typical French Quarter scenes are unfolding:

Wisconsin tourists on Bourbon Street look bewildered as a man with his head inside of a plastic barrel starts to sing a Louis Armstrong tune. His baritone voice is beautiful and the acoustics in the barrel are excellent.

United Cab drivers smoke cigarette after cigarette, lined up in front of the Monteleone Hotel on Royal Street. They talk about their ungrateful kids in college. You see a middle-aged conventioneer walking two steps in front of a pimply hooker in scuffed white heels. She frowns and checks her watch. The conventioneer does not open the hotel door for her. Neither does the bellboy.

On Decatur Street, a skinny clown stops to re-affix his nose as a child complains that his balloon animal just doesn’t look like a dinosaur.

You hear a clap of thunder and rain begins to pour, crushing flowers on the hats of carriage-pulling horses who clip clop past Jackson Square.

You and your girlfriend take shelter in your favorite bar on Toulouse Street. It’s not your favorite bar because of the atmosphere (to be honest it’s disgusting and they can’t put locks on the bathroom doors because too many people were doing coke) but because of your favorite bartender.

Her name is Libby and she has a mysterious scar above her lips, which are always painted shade of vermillion that the tube calls Flirt. She wears flowing sundresses, and her bra strap is always showing. She smells of chicory, jasmine and sex.

While you and your girlfriend drink Abita Amber and Ruthie the Duck Lady’s duck waddles behind the bar, you listen to Libby tell everyone about last night’s crowd;

“Conrad Bourgeois came in here-you know, the butcher from Schweggemans. Said he had the money to pay for his drinks, but he’d have to tip with beef jerky. I’m not kidding. So at 1am he leaves. Then 4am rolls around and the strippers from Big Daddy’s come over. They all have plastic bags stuffed with beef jerky.”

Suddenly Ruthie the Duck Lady shouts, “Look out!” You turn around to see the skinny clown from Decatur Street pointing a .44 Magnum at Libby.

“Baby, you can’t leave me,” he pleads. “I love you. But if I can’t have you, no one can.”

Just then, the Wisconsin tourists pop their heads inside. The fanny packed wife says, “Look at this Bob, isn’t this cute. It’s a real old fashioned New Orleans bar. Oh no--Bob! That clown has a gun!”

“Nobody move a fuckin’ muscle!” snarls the skinny clown. “Except you two. Get over there.”

The Wisconsin tourists shuffle over to the corner.

The door bursts open again and the conventioneer from the Monteleone hotel runs in. He’s naked, chased by the pimply hooker. She’s wielding a knife. “Gimme my money you asshole!” she snaps. “I don’t care if you couldn’t get it up, a deal’s a deal!”

Libby pulls out a bow and arrow from behind the bar and points it at the pimply hooker. “Drop the knife. It’s bad for tourism when conventioneers get killed in this town and since the locals tip in beef jerky, I need the tourists.”

You look at the bow and arrow, the gun and the knife. Do you:

A. Jump over the bar and grab Libby’s bow and arrow, copping a feel in the process.

B. Kick the skinny clown in the nuts.

C. Offer to pay off the pimply hooker.

Think carefully now. Have you made your decision? Then read on...

ANSWER A: You leap over the bar, grab Libby’s bow and arrow with the right hand and grab one of her tits with the left. The skinny clown shrieks: “You filthy bastard! Get your hands off her!” He starts firing randomly. One bullet hits the conventioneer in the bare ass, giving him a heart attack. He dies instantly. Another bullet dislodges the chipped chandelier, killing the tourists from Wisconsin, shattering their cameras and squashing their fanny packs. The next three bullets manage to kill Ruthie the Duck lady, your girlfriend and the pimply hooker. Libby leaps back, accidentally drops the bow and arrow and slams into the cabinet behind the bar. It topples over onto her as bottles of booze come crashing all around. You dodge the cabinet, grab the bow and arrow and aim it at the clown. He shoots you right between the eyes. You’re dead. The clown hoofs it out into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by Ruthie’s duck, the sound of Zydeco music filling the air.

ANSWER B: You kick the skinny clown square in the nuts. He drops the gun, which slides over to the tourists from Wisconsin. The wife picks it up. “Look Bob, a real New Orleans gun!” she says. The gun accidentally goes off, going straight through Libby’s throat, ricocheting off the bar, boomeranging back and killing the Wisconsin wife. Just before dying, Libby releases the bow and arrow, killing the clown. The clown slumps over onto the naked conventioneer, giving him a heart attack. He dies instantly. The Wisconsin husband grabs the gun, which goes off again, killing Ruthie the Duck Lady. The pimply hooker leaps up and stabs the Wisconsin husband 12 times and says, “That’s for killing Ruthie the Duck Lady, you piece of shit!” You’re about to grab your girlfriend and get out of there when she gasps, “Honey, I think the beer was poisoned.” You both die a horrible beer-related death. The pimply hooker surmises the bloody scene, scrambles over to the cash register, grabs a fistful of cash and tucks it into her purse. She saunters into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by Ruthie’s duck, the sound of jazz and laughter filling the air.

ANSWER C: You make a grab for your wallet to pay off the hooker. The skinny clown says, “I said nobody move!” and shoots you dead. Libby raises her bow and arrow and the pimply hooker leaps at her, slitting her throat. “Don’t you touch him! His balloon animals are works of art!” Libby slumps to the floor. The clown shrieks, “You killed my Libby!” and starts shooting up the joint. He shoots the pimply hooker, then your girlfriend and moves on to the Wisconsin couple bellowing, “I fucking hate fanny packs!” Another bullet ricochets off the bar and hits the naked conventioneer in the penis. “Not my penis!” he cries. The pimply hooker looks up from her pool of blood and gurgles, “What do you care, it doesn’t work anyway,” before dying. The conventioneer grabs her knife from her dead hands and says, “Life isn’t worth living without my penis,” and stabs himself in the chest. Ruthie the Duck Lady ambushes the clown with the bow and arrow, spearing him in the right temple. She rips it out and spears him in the left one too, just to make sure he’s dead. Dropping the bow and arrow, she grabs her Mint Julep and wanders out into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by her duck, the sound of a brass band filling the air.