Average therefore normal awesome America becomes apparently unhappy when a Boy Scout gets kissed on the mouth. This is a bad deal. Even though the Scout is a horny chick and the kisser is handsome Anderson Cooper, today’s Rock Hudson plus mountain fresh bleach. Unacceptable. Traditional America is wantin’ to give up stabbin’ sticks and wandrin’ dark tick-filled forests with child molesters if this keeps up. What with the boys kissing rich girls with big gazongas.

Anderson Cooper kisses “Boy Scout” to offend traditional America
Cliff Kincaid | Renew America

The headline says it all: “Anderson Cooper Kissed Madonna, Dressed In Boy Scout Uniform, at GLAAD Media Awards” . .

This was a deliberate effort to mock the Scouts for standing for traditional values and instructing young men to be “morally straight.” Anderson Cooper went along with the gag by “kissing” the faux Scout. It was supposed to be cute.

It was not. Cliff vomited in his mouth. And if he’d swallowed his corn-dog and beans lunch, a second time, he would have demonstrated the minimal talent necessary to earn himself the “Legal Proceedings Badge.” This a Scout gets for 1.) Poring over BSA civil court transcripts where they allege thirteen year-olds raped by their Scout leaders are not victims, but boyfriends, of said leaders, and 2.) Not cannon-hurling on a distant galaxy.

And should we take this Scouting revelation seriously, which followed the swearing of an oath, which my gosh they take seriously, we’d have to accept that Scouting routinely features thirtysomethings making tent pretzels of their newly pubescent [rrawf] boyfriends. So why does Cliff Kincaid care about this? So what if Anderson wants to steal a kiss from some soft-skinned Scout, with her curvaceous hips and heaving jugs?

As an Eagle Scout and father of three boys who also had some fun in Scouting, I don’t think it is right to mock this worthwhile program.

Ah, and maybe this is the point. Anderson and Madonna are legally permitted to commit whatever crimes against Jesus they like — unwed kissing between boys and girls, for example. But they shouldn’t do it in public just to mock the Boy Scouts. Closeted sexual experimentation (and pedophilia) is a traditional, worthwhile pursuit. Keep it naive. Keep it private. And keep it strictly same-sex, the Boy Scout way. Now that’s ‘some fun.’

Do most boys experiment with sex at Boy Scout camp?
Yahoo!Answers | Resolved Question | 4 years ago

When I was 12, I joined Boy Scouts. Since then I have attended summer camp every year. It has always been the same. Before going the first time, jacking off was something guys used to joke about and do in private. Not at camp! There, guys are doing it right in front of each other in the tents, woods and showers. Once, the first year, one of the counselors came into the shower after troop swim. Several of the guys were showing their erections to each other. The Counselor just said “Hurry up, other guys want to use the shower. You can do this stuff in the tents after lights out”. It was no big deal!

After saying “no” three times, I finally went into the woods with some other guys for a circle jerk. It was awesome! Everybody was squirting all over. Sometimes you could go hiking and find some guys doing more than jacking off.

My question is….are all scout summer camps like this??? . .

Dave S
Best Answer – Chosen by Voters

Yeah, that stuff went on at night at the scout camp I went to also. Mostly just jerking off with each other in the tents at night, but sometimes there would be a circle jerk in the woods.

Sometimes some guys would go further too! That’s where I first learned to give head.

You see Cliff’s point. Get Madonna out of there, at least.

When you’re a God-fearing black man you’re allowed to say whatever you like.

The modern day Sambos and Quimbos fall under two categories They are the poverty pimps like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton who may have begun on the proper path but have since been co-opted by racist liberal Democrats . .

‘Sambo’ Jackson and ‘Quimbo’ Sharpton.

And you have the just plain stupid Black leaders who have been selectively bred to drink the Kool-Aid with an insatiable thirst, despite the glaring evidence of the devastating toll that liberal policies have wreaked upon Black America . .

President Dumbshit was bred to destroy his people.

They are the triumph of the changed Southern Democrat strategy adopted after realizing they couldn’t win with fire hoses, attack dogs and the hangman’s noose.

Once the Republicans stopped Al Gore Sr. lynching the Negroes, Junior sent the suckers to college. Will a mister Clayton Bigsby please proceed to the courtesy phone . .

Makeup saleswoman and video actress Gwen Stefani, partnered again with the gang from No Doubt, does her darndest to popularize a song dumber than “Just a Girl”:

Do you think I’m looking hot?
Do you think this hits the spot?
How is this looking on me, looking on me?
Do you think I’m looking hot?
Do you think this hits the spot?
How is this looking on me, looking on me?

That’s not the video, of course. The clip has all but vaporized from the world because nobody anticipated dressing rock stars like American Indians, who actually exist, was less hot than it was insulting.

But can you blame the Orange County kids? Now in their forties, millionaires and purveyors of all manner of retail crap? They were only trying to make rock n’ roll fun. Make it easy on the ears. Easy on the brain. Cowboys and Indians, get it? What a sexy good time.

We turn now to Politico, to my mind the No Doubt of politics. Before them, what the powerful did or said was mysterious and arcane, like a Bob Dylan song. Those videos were no fun. Bob very rarely filmed himself dressed up like Roy Rogers so he could save the fashion model squaw, though he could have. Think of the career he threw away, the one where he sold Stetson hats and sandalwood cologne. What a dinosaur. Talk about your opportunity lost.

Anyway, the new media gurus have educated themselves a great deal in 2012. After 12 months of making Entertainment Tonight out of cable access Channel 9 Rubidoux, California, on the internet, plenty has been learned. Politico shares the lessons:

The 2012 election will be remembered by history for its smallness in a big, historic moment: The high drama of the first debate was a rare respite from months of petty rhetoric, egged on from start to finish by gobs of money from millionaires and billionaires.

Nothing learned of any use, however. The first debate should have been interesting to Politico for Romney’s near-psychotic lying. And for the electorate’s tragic response to it, which was positive. Instead it was tingling historic drama because Team Romney wins! Look at the polls go! This is an epic ballgame, we’re telling you!

If anyone were capable of reducing actual issues, like a dishonest candidate who holds America in complete contempt, to little more than “petty rhetoric,” it was Politico. The site has never once produced a word of political coverage that wasn’t instantly disposable. But how they need a word with you, good people, to tell you the way the 2012 election year failed them, and America, with its propensity for shallow and short-sighted politics. They demand better. You should too:

For those who hate long campaigns, get over it.

The combination of increased early voting and unlimited money in politics means longer campaigns and earlier attacks.

Well not that bit, that fact’s deep and sophisticated. Big Money now makes for politics 24/7/365 and you should grow up and get used to it. Politico will be there the whole way, of course. But here’s a good point:

In Missouri and Indiana, two states that once seemed like sure-bet wins for Republicans, the party could now lose both because two old, white, Christian men thought it was fine to weigh in on why a woman who was raped need not have the legal right to an abortion . .

Republican operatives tell POLITICO that after the election, top officials plan to enlist some of the influential outside groups representing conservative grass-roots activists to see if they can help pre-empt the future selection of unelectable conservatives. The hitch: A lot of those groups couldn’t care less what the Wise Men of Washington want.

In fact, it was the locals that forced the loons down the throats of, you guessed it, entrenched Washington. But now that Politico’s CIA agents have identified if not solved this problem — empower the locals! — the GOP will recover their sanity. Valuable lesson learned or maybe not, but we wrote it so you should read it like anything else. And for you Democrats:

If President Barack Obama wins, he will be the popular choice of Hispanics, African-Americans, single women and highly educated urban whites. That’s what the polling has consistently shown in the final days of the campaign. It looks more likely than not that he will lose independents, and it’s possible he will get a lower percentage of white voters than George W. Bush got of Hispanic voters in 2000.

A broad mandate this is not.

Don’t you get too puffed up about this election, liberals, especially if you win. All your colored guy did was appeal to “Hispanics, African-Americans, single women and highly educated urban whites.” Without more normal people, you’re stuck with a chunk of America that represents everything but the homogenous Republican base. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that those people really count: The good-looking folks with an interest in politics as cultural fashion, particularly when it’s delivered in an easily digestible manner.

It’s bad enough that lumbering ginger bitch Mark Steyn pesters the internet with his whining. Today he’s crying about an Obama campaign graphic, btw. A flag! Bastards!

But can you believe he sings? Or tries to?

Mark Steyn is an international bestselling author, a Top 41 recording artist, and a leading Canadian human-rights activist . .

“Top 41?” There is no Top 41, Dino. Any more than there’s a “Billboard Hot 99.” Or a “Kapitol Records.” Larfs.

“A Marshmallow World,” his Christmas single with Jessica Martin, reached number seven on Amazon’s easy-listening bestsellers, and number 41 on Amazon’s main pop chart . .

Marshmallow World! Great fartz of schmaltz. On YouTube, there’s also a Sweet Gingerbread Man. I shit you not! Typing and giggling, it’s harder than it looks.

The man has no soul, so how does he carry a tune? He doesn’t. He can’t come close. Mark Steyn has the music in him, and your budgie is Don Giovanni. He’s flat as a Texas panhandle:

This caught my eye. After Obama fired tonight’s yet unprecedented centrist salvo on the Charlotte crowd, this take on his political personality is precious:

Gee willikers!

Four years ago, Barack Obama was America’s Rorschach test, upon whom voters could project their disparate yearnings . .

No. That’s not how a Rorschach works. Nice try. No matter how thirsty I am, ink blots won’t make me cry ‘Water!’ The Rorschach test draws out obsessions. Pre-occupations. Pardon George for seeing his big-eared cabana boy everywhere and then writing this.

Here’s one way you can fight abortion. You can go back to the womb, back to the seldom-remembered time before you were born, or right after you were born but months before the vagina shuttle dropped you off at the delivery ward, and you can watch Jesus punch your mom in the face because she’d like to take Franklin Roosevelt’s RU486 pills. Then you can tell a harrowing first-hand account of Holocaust zygote survival to your Christian pals and high-five everybody because you just won the all-time yuck episode of Fear Factor.

Delivered from Abortion: Healing a Forgotten Memory
July 31, 2012 By Gordon Dalbey

Late in the fall of 1943, as Nazi submarines terrorized Allied shipping, a young Navy officer and his wife faced a terrible dilemma when he deployed to an aircraft carrier in the North Atlantic.

What to do. Should we abort our future hallucinating baby? Or should we have the Nazis do it? They’re not about to feed and clothe an eight pound homeless person. Oops: SPOILER ALERT. Oh well, Gordon’s mom is pregnant, back to the drama unfolding:

The doctor, however, had a solution to her problem. Handing her a small, dark red vial and scheduling her for an appointment the following week, he explained that he could “fix everything” quickly and easily after she took the pills.

Days later, before the appointment, the young woman shook the pills out of the vial into her hand and closed her fist. Shaking from both cold and anxiety, she poured a glass of water with her other hand. Uneasily, she hesitated and looked out a frost-covered kitchen window. “What if this is the son my husband wants?” she thought. Turning to her fist, she paused, then opened it and lifted the glass of water.

Remarkable lyrical details from the scene supplied by Gordon, especially considering the vantage point. Maybe his womb was brilliantly lit and richly appointed with sight-lines, glass and mirrors. Whether it’s hosting an impromptu Summer fest for the neighbors or a cozy detente in the whisper campaigns among the executive class, the guests frequently ooh and aah at the views from Gordon’s crystal palace. How you ladies manage to lug one of these eyesores around is a mystery. I’d be crankier.

“At the last minute, she just threw the pills away into the trash can.”

This jarring revelation stirred a host of unsettling, lifelong mysteries.

I remembered my recurrent nightmare of swimming frantically underwater and, strangely, breathing while submerged—an amniotic, prenatal “memory”? Once, I told a psychiatrist how I felt “trapped” and panicky in close relationships with women. Fears of death had dogged me, and a pervasive, empty sense of not belonging anywhere.

It’s starting to make sense. The water. The nightmares. The bouncing and the noise whenever the tenement janitor dropped by to say “Toodle-oo Carol. Don’t you look nice today?” The pieces fit.

Lying on the floor, I curled up in a fetal position and imagined the kitchen scene 35 years earlier as my sister had related it: myself tightly bound inside my mother’s womb, her holding the pills and glass of water, pausing over her decision.

As I “saw” my mother lift the pills, I began to shake in terror. “Jesus, help!” I cried out suddenly, desperately. “Save me, Jesus!” As I lay trapped and trembling, in my mind’s eye I saw a figure come into the kitchen and stand by my mother. With a single gesture, he reached and swept the pills out of her hand and into the trash can.

Amazed, I watched as he then turned to me. “You don’t owe your life to your mother,” he declared. “It was I who stayed her hand. You belong to me.”

I tried to say something. But with the silent wave of his hand, strong and thin, he simply replied “No.” Our eyes met, I couldn’t tear myself away. That’s how the most amazing night of my life began BOOOWN-CHIGGA-DOWN-BWAAAOOOOOWWW no I’m kidding. Too easy.

A cool sensation of release swept over me. Sighing deeply, I lay quiet.

Later, I remembered Jesus’ promise to his followers, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32NIV).

Indeed, this watershed experience freed me to face many unhealthy dynamics in my life—most notably, feeling overly responsible for my mother’s happiness and guilty for wanting a life of my own.

That last bit could use highlighting if ever there’s a non-fiction version of this drama. That part’s actually compelling. What? Right, The King stays in the picture, got it.

Today, 68 years later, I remain humbled by this unwieldy yet compelling mystery—and determined to entertain it. I’m neither obligated to believe nor ashamed to be alive.

I’m privileged to testify. The more I do, the more thankful I am to God, and the more determined I am to see others experience that saving power themselves.

So that they, too, may garner the same sort of forensic attention. By the way of visions-and-visits-with-Jesus. Imagine how difficult to believe some of this would be if it weren’t true.

This is strange. Here’s a tidbit that comes by way of author Bryan Young, whose brother worked at a Seattle’s Best in Provo, Utah. He told it to Jesus General (who is manly, amen), and that’s how I came across it. You might be surprised, or you might be nauseated, by the oddball generosity of Mitt Romney:

One day in 2010 the baristas were surprised to see Mitt Romney and his wife come to the counter.

According to my brother, Romney seemed genuinely confused by their refusal. His hot chocolate was so good he didn’t want to waste it, but it wasn’t so good that it was worth tipping those who made it. “I think the important part of this story isn’t the tipping,” my brother explained. “It’s that he doesn’t understand that everyone else is throwing their unused drinks away because they understand that it’s against social norms. His germs are on it, but somehow, in his mind, his millionaire saliva is good enough that it shouldn’t bother a barista of the serving class.”

Is this the weirdest man ever to run for president? I leave it to you.

California, that’s us. Unemployment is pegged over 10%, the state government’s poorer than a fruit picker, the mention of the word ‘water’ in polite society starts fistfights, and, beginning about a month from now, the Santa Ana winds will turn greater Los Angeles into gunpowder in a potter’s kiln. There are so many good reasons for the bleedinghearts at National Review to worry about us.

If Californians did not have enough problems already, they are about to be deprived of delicious, fattened liver.

Jesus, now this.

As of July 1, when Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 2004 “Force Fed Birds” act finally took effect, California became the first state in the nation to ban foie gras.

No more tortured goose organs for you. The fates. They are cruel.

Some, like the newly founded Coalition for Humane and Ethical Farming Standards (CHEFS), say the law goes too far. “It would lead to the widespread production and sale of contraband, black-market foie gras that would be dangerous to animal welfare and customers,” the CHEFS website states.

Because CHEFS are all about animal welfare. Similar arguments were forwarded the author by GNASHING BIRD MAGNETO. Now, here’s how the Review tie up this piece. No ma’am, I’m not making this up:

These birds are only the most recent job creators pushed out of the Golden State.

When the attorney general deports the Hell’s Angels, the morticians lobby will collapse.

The cynical artist with the facile hands and a powerful lust for business, Thomas Kinkade, has died. He was 54.

The controversial Christian and jillionaire will not be missed. It’s a sorry shame he didn’t die a day earlier. He was a gifted man who seduced and repulsed the world with his portraits of incandescent treacle. He trademarked himself “Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light.” He may have mass-produced and sold as many as ten million paintings.

Though he may have rivaled only Andy Warhol for success in the business of art, he was neither satisfied nor respected. He was angry at critics and frequently drunk.

[Kinkade's Media Arts Group executive John] Dandois also said of Kinkade, “Thom would be fine, he would be drinking, and then all of a sudden, you couldn’t tell where the boundary was, and then he became very incoherent, and he would start cursing and doing a lot of weird stuff like touching himself.” On 11 June 2010, Kinkade was arrested in Carmel, California on suspicion of driving while under the influence of alcohol.

He thought Pablo Picasso was lame. Kinkade believed himself to be great because he outsold everyone else, as if that were important. Creating factories to produce his ‘paintings’ wasn’t relevant, but you’re welcome to admire that too. His art was licensed to the likes of Wal-Mart and Hallmark for calendars, puzzles, CDs, greeting and gift cards. Have some more:

His arrogance extended to creating entire Thomas Kinkade towns. In 2002, Salon‘s Janelle Brown visited “The Village at Hiddenbrooke, A Thomas Kinkade Painter of Light™ Community.”

Kinkade has parlayed his fame into an entire country-cottage industry of Kinkade-licensed products, as seen on QVC — home furnishings, La-Z-Boy chairs and sofas, wallpaper, linens, china, stationery sets, Hallmark greeting cards and so on . . The Village at Hiddenbrooke bills itself as the culmination of Kinkade’s vision: an actual manifestation of the quaint cottages, charming gazebos and inspiring landscapes in his artwork.

Except that it isn’t. What you find in the rolling hills behind Vallejo is the exact opposite of the Kinkadeian ideal. Instead of quaint cottages, there’s generic tract housing; instead of lush landscapes, concrete patios; instead of a cozy village, there’s a bland collection of homes with nothing — not a church, not a cafe, not even a town square — to draw them together.

Your first glimpse of Hiddenbrooke features four enormous satellite dishes and a radio tower, nestled in a green valley next to an oblivious troop of grazing cows from the adjacent farm. The second thing you see upon arrival in Hiddenbrooke is an endless stretch of the community’s semi-identical greige tract homes, squeezed in close.

Hiddenbrooke is still around. Many of his hundreds of exclusive galleries are not. While it may have cost franchisees $100,000 or more to buy into the Kinkade trade, they labored to make the sort of money they were promised. They frequently encountered competition from a seemingly unscrupulous business competitor: Thomas Kinkade.

Kinkade’s company, Media Arts Group Inc., has been accused of unfair dealings with owners of Thomas Kinkade Signature Gallery franchises. In 2006, an arbitration board awarded Karen Hazlewood and Jeffrey Spinello $860,000 in damages and $1.2 million in fees and expenses due to Kinkade’s company “[failing] to disclose material information” that would have discouraged them from investing in the gallery. The award was later increased to $2.8 million with interest and legal fees. The plaintiffs and other former gallery owners have also leveled accusations of being pressured to open additional galleries that were not financially viable, being forced to take on expensive, unsalable inventory, and being undercut by discount outlets whose prices they were not allowed to match.

The unfortunates felt victimized not only for the loss of income, but for a kind of spiritual betrayal.

Former gallery dealers also charged that Kinkade uses Christianity as a tool to take advantage of people. “They really knew how to bait the hook,” said one ex-dealer who spoke on condition of anonymity. “They certainly used the Christian hook.” One former dealer’s lawyer stated “Most of my clients got involved with Kinkade because it was presented as a religious opportunity. Being defrauded is awful enough, but doing it in the name of God is really despicable.” On June 2, 2010, Pacific Metro, the artist’s production company, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, one day after defaulting on a $1 million court imposed payment to the aforementioned Karen Hazlewood and Jeffrey Spinello. A $500,000 payment had previously been disbursed.

One more:

A.S. Hamrah, writing in The Baffler, detailed the impact his life would have on others:

“Kinkade is a living testament to how the triumph of kitsch values has repercussions in the marketplace, outside the world of taste.”

Thomas Kinkade, dead at 54. Bury him deep.

Just came across John Derbyshire’s ultra-racist Trayvon riposte in Taki’s Magazine. This was surely inspired by so many black people talking publicly about themselves and their concerns. The tragedy has become too much for the National Review’s Dorkasaurus Rex to tolerate.

Derb reminds me a bit of my own Dad. He was an engineer. When I was 11, he gave me the talk about sex. It lasted ten minutes. It was the first time anyone read me a technical instruction manual, I guessed, from memory. At least it was in English, so that was nice.

There’s also a little bit of my sophomore year Berkeley roommate in Derb. He was 100% organic chemist, 100% of the time. I remember when my girlfriend came up from Santa Barbara to visit me, the roommate seemed impressed with her looks. The minute she stepped out of the room, he looked at me blankly and asked: “HAVE YOU MADE LOVE TO HER?” I tried to Scanners his fucking head, but he didn’t even blink.

What I’m trying to say: John carries on not only in combative and stupid fashion, but also with the sort of brain damage that renders him perfectly insulting. He and the similar cubes feel it’s a personal strength rather than a flaw people want to beat to death with clubs. John thinks he is the Excalibur that’s laid low the shallow premises and lazy thinking around him. He’s really an Asperger’s bully-hire the National Review trot out to headbutt liberals.

Women, for example. In September of 2009, he appeared on Alan Colmes’ radio show. This was his ‘political‘ argument . .

Alan: What is the case against female suffrage?

John: Well the conservative case against it is that, is that women lean hard to the left. They, uh, they want someone to, to nurture, they want someone to help raise their kids, and if men aren’t inclined to do it, which in the present days they’re not much, then they’d like the state to do it for them.

Got that? Again:

John: Among the hopes that I do not realistically nurse is the hope that female suffrage will be repealed.

You figure even the National Review might recognize Derb for the deeply disturbed man he is. But no, they just love him.

He is a shining example of conservatives’ calculated depravity. You have to assume someone so poorly mentally composed would stomp a toddler or start a tragic fire at some point. Today’s post comes close to doing it. Here Derb writes to warn ‘his’ kids in the same manner those tragic-glorious black people warn their own about America:

(10a) Avoid concentrations of blacks not all known to you personally.

(10i) If accosted by a strange black in the street, smile and say something polite but keep moving . .

Derb will swear he is honest and he is brilliant. He’s just mentally ill.

There’s been some interest in Fat Fuck’s human nature. Folks have dug up this old clip from my YouTube channel and watched in jaw-gaping wonder. Whenever he goes all Rushbo, like when he denounces a blameless citizen as a “slut” to his millions of listeners, the video gets views. “Has this man always had the heart of a psychotic wolverine?” people ask themselves. “When you piggyback Satan’s soul on your own, does it stick its finger up your ass?” others wonder.

Who can blame them? There are so many things to learn about the Army of Evil. And there are so few times we can ask an unrendered, fully-capitated person about it. It was bloody difficult getting Mussolini to say “peep” while hanging upside down from a meat hook.

So, what’s it like to be a member in whatever ‘standing’ shitstaining stands for?

The Golden Pundit, Dana Loesch, weighs in on Virginia’s shocking Valentine Wand Law. You could call it the “On your back, whore, so we can cram plastic in you” law. I was enlightened by this logic:

“’Oh what about the Virginia rape? The rapes that, the forced rapes of women who are pregnant?’ What!? Wait a minute. They had no problem having similar to a trans-vaginal procedure when they engaged in the act that resulted in their pregnancy.”

Dana: They had absolutely no problem putting something in their vaginas yesterday. Why can’t the government put something in their vaginas today? Good point. You know how women are, they’ll be all orgasm before you can even turn the thing on. So think positively of it. Think of the pleasure that technology brings. I think about the government doing this to young pregnant women, and it makes me nauseated. That’s when the ol’ bile ducts go bukkake on my stomach’s face.

Remember friends: Dana has been pregnant twice. So feel free to shove things in her. Preferably an object that emits electromagnetic radiation. Knock her on her ass and cram a flashlight in her. One of those Maglites cops love to bounce off felons’ skulls, that will do. Jam it in her. A Vespa headlight. A red hot x-ray machine. Make it fit. The space shuttle. It’s government owned and doing nothing, so put some potato soup on it and start pushing. Stuff’s been up in there before. I like logic. I love soup.