See, it’s really funny to mock the disabled if they have the last name Palin.

That’s probably the kindest nugget in the bowl. If you want to look at the deranged, diseased heart of liberalism, this is your perfect opportunity.

Be proud, Wonkette contributors and commenters. You’ve truly set a standard.

Via Iowahawk’s twitter – It’s a good thing the author of the “humor” piece has no physical shortcomings ripe for mockery.

Thanks for another classic, Serr8d.

Note: The post has since been removed, so go the links.

In what some industry insiders are heralding as a breakthrough in the world of online MMORPGs gaming, a Nashville man adapted the world’s first MMMPG (Minnesota Multiphasic Multiple Personality Game) to the chagrin of area police wearing special Class 4 hypno-shielding helmets:

Metro Police say Timothy Craig Terry — the schizophrenic 31-year-old who was shot by authorities Tuesday — is in critical condition at Vanderbilt University Medical Center.

The Bellevue man was shot by Metro SWAT officers at 11:45 a.m. Tuesday after he allegedly raised a pistol toward them while he was standing in the breezeway of Waterford Place Apartments the Garden of the dOrcs.

Officers had been in a standoff with Terry since 9:15 p.m. Monday night when his sister alerted authorities that he was off his medication, armed and acting crazy.

Thanks, sis.  If you don’t someone shot, don’t call the police.  It’s at this point that I note that “acting crazy” was not in quotations.

Sadly, King Timmy – Knight of the ER Table -  was not wearing his Mark III Biorestorative Underlay Armor.

At 11:43 a.m., Terry exited his apartment with pistol in hand and sat on breezeway steps facing the parking lot and SWAT officers, according to police. He was ordered repeatedly to drop his gun, which Terry switched from hand to hand. He ignored the commands, started to stand up and pointed the pistol in the direction of the SWAT officers. Believing that Terry posed an imminent threat, SWAT members fired on Terry with their police-issued rifles. He was hit, received emergency treatment at the scene, and was rushed to Vanderbilt Medical Center.

Does it go without saying that they were using “police-issued rifles” or are metro officers using  the pistol that Granny gave them for their 15th birthday that they’ve been waiting to wield on a special occasion?

Either way, through their superior Experience points they were able to register -80 Max Hit Damage on this particular Bellevue Schizo-troll.

This is the second time this year Metro officers have had to deal with Terry’s bizarre and erratic behavior. On Jan. 19, officers were called to Creekwood Apartments in Bellevue after Terry was spotted walking around the complex in his boxer shorts carrying a large sword. Officers found Terry in his apartment with the door ajar. He advanced on police with the sword while yelling nonsense. He refused to drop the weapon and told officers they would have to kill him. A Taser was deployed more than once, which allowed officers to take Terry into custody. He was sent that day for a psychological evaluation.

King Arthur may have been a white knight but he wasn’t a white trash knight.  He did not skulk around Mount Badon in a wife-beater and a pair of boxers.

Were that he did, I might have read about him.

When Tim Wilson thought up the First Baptist Bar & Grill, I’m pretty sure this is what he had in mind. When kicking it old school, the Big J might’ve turned water into wine but in Ashland City the King of Tears can get you tanked on Cumberland tap.

Crack open a six-pack of Salvation and behold. When you say Blasphemy, you’ve said it all:

Sure, the communion is served in a 12 oz. frosty mug and the Body of Christ is pretzels instead of wafers but when Jesus is your designated driver the night can last an eternity.

Though I drive through the Valley of the Shadow of Serpas,
I shall fear no DUI checkpoint.
My liability insurance and alcohawk, they comfort me.

So if you find the three-headed Schlitz Malt Liquor heifer of hell breathing down your neck – rip into a cold one. Ahhhh….and pour a pint on the curb courtesy of your Matador of Mercy.

After all, His Blood’s For you.  Nailed to a bar stool for your sins.

They’re serving after noon on Sundays but closed on Wednesday nights. After all, we have to keep something holy.

I’ll update our full White Trash Wednesday list as soon as I hear from the people still keeping their Coleman kerosene lamps / tire fires in their backyards burning bright.

Much like the insatiable Great White shark in Jaws 4, Atlanta survived an attack by a bloodthirsty and errant tornado that mistook the Georgia Dome for a double-wide trailer because of all the Alabama and Mississippi State fans inside.

Honest mistake.

Apologies to the kids for being so scarce lately but bidness called. And when it’s below freezing in Nashville and the expense is authorized for “South Beach”, it’s time to inflate the tires on the double wide and haul my tightly-clenched sphincter down I-95.

To begin, let me say that if you can get passed the omnipresent unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch techno blare that is pumped like white noise through every street light, potted plant, patio umbrella, and cocktail napkin (at every conceivable hour of the day and night) that it’s really not that bad of a place to hang out for a week.

You must make peace with the beat . It was there before you and it will be there after you are gone.

It’s like going to Jamaica and realizing that you hate reggae music after you’ve been off the plane for two hours.

The beat is inescapable. The same one from the Girls Gone Wild videos. Best to make peace with it lest it destroy you and find your battered psyche left curled in the fetal position on a bed in the corner of the Delano hotel’s pool bar and getting charged a $300 bottle service.
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Apropo of tonight’s weather…..Romney’s out, right?

A class 5 Hucktastrophe just tore a line through the mobile home park of Mitt-mentum didn’t it?

It’s getting me in about 10 minutes so if you hear a funky-ass bassline in the distance be sure to grab any guns, cash, and assorted chirren/womenfolk on the way to the basement, Preston. Hucktastrophe is coming your way.

Don’t mess with a Missionary Man.

In Donkey Disaster Pr0n, heavy rains evidently stopped Obama voters from outnumbering Clinton voters in Tennessee.

Because the weather only effects one candidate’s voters, right? It’s a meteorological C-O-N….spiracy.

Damn, racist rain.  If Obamessiah was already President we could prosecute it for a hate crime.

“The hoary doctrines of Anglo-American civil asset forfeiture law that have been resurrected like some jurisprudential Frankenstein monster, from the dark recesses of past centuries.”
[...]
“In my view, a drug ‘war’ has been perverted too often into a series of frontal attacks on basic American constitutional guarantees – including due process, the presumption of innocence, and…unrelenting government assaults on property rights, fueled by a dangerous and emotional vigilante mentality that sanctions shredding the U.S. Constitution into meaningless confetti.” Henry Hyde, Forfeiting Our Property Rights: Is Your Property Safe From Seizure?

That’s a great quote from Henry Hyde regarding the outright abuse of power by police departments and prosecutors in leveraging asset forfeiture as a punishment of first resort against innocent and guilty citizens alike when it comes to drug crimes. To begin, how do you defend yourself when everything you are worth is taken from you?

In a perfect world, there are little angels on the shoulders of the S.W.A.T. team when their guns are drawn and your property happens to be worth a lot of money that can conveniently be auctioned off and placed in their budget. But sometimes those angels get stuck in traffic.

Naturally, I was perplexed today when I heard that everyone’s 2nd 3rd 4th 5th 6th favorite state legislator, Doug Jackson (D – Dickson), is introducing a law that encourages asset forfeiture if dog fights take place on your property. Finally, someone taking a stand on the tough issues. And he’ll give the money from the auctioned assets to animal shelters. He cited asset forfeiture for drug crimes as the logical progression for extending that punishment to other crimes.

A real life Hillbilly Robin Hood. (more…)

Greetings from the Young America’s Foundation gala.

Just kidding. And for the sake of everyone’s delicate sensibilities, assume every link is unsafe for work and don’t click on a single, filthy hypertext markup.

For the red tie, blue blazer set…this is what’s called “going native”. Featuring special guest Nashville P*ssy (who unfortunately didn’t play this amazing Turbonegro cover) working the crowd over as a warm-up for hometown hellbilly Hank III and the Reverend Horton Heat. The Reverend who, by definition, is most likely the root of global warming.

A welcome sermon against the Church of Ecosecular Fascism.

My pre-emptive strike on Thanksgiving. Not throwing up in my living room floor and crashing through the coffee table will be thanks enough.

Sadly, any piece of trash can reproduce – and even more sadly, most of them do.

In today’s edition of White Trash Wednesday™, we share the story of the Father of the Year candidate who went to get his rocks off at Nevada’s famous Mustang Ranch and left his 2-year-old daughter in the car while he made his deposit.

Fortunately, the girl will be ok, unlike the countless kids who’ve been left in Memphis-area day-care center vans. She got lucky – just like her “dad”.

That’s class, baby.

When it’s time to party,
I don’t let nuthin’ get in my way!

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Bucking the entertainer trend of shopping for discount celebrity handbags babies on the Indonesian black market, Jack White apparently stuck his ball in somebody’s biscuit and had a sweet little time about it:

NEW YORK – Jack White and his wife, Karen Elson, are the parents of a baby boy.

The couple’s second child, named Henry Lee White, was born Tuesday, a publicist for the White Stripes frontman said Wednesday.

True to his lo-fi indie roots, White immortalized the event by taking pictures with a Polaroid SX-70 Instant Camera and recorded the the baby’s primal birth scream on a #68 Edison Experimental Phonograph and will be dubbed to Betamax at the Easley-McCain recording studio in Memphis.

Family and friends can expect the vinyl copy of the historic day to be delivered by Pony Express some time in Early 2008. God willing and the creek don’t rise.

If only for one more time.

We are apparently number four on the Adelphia search engine for:

“girls puching on each other”.

You’re welcome.

UPDATE! (Preston)

Even better, we are Numero Fricking Uno for Google searches of “girls of abu ghraib”. Hell yeah!

I know, I know. It depends on the beer. And yes, I know it’s not Wednesday yet but let’s face it – this post has a shelf life of about 5 hours.

Convicted murderer, Philip Workman, is slated to hitch a ride in that big 18-wheeler in the sky at 1 am Wednesday morning for the death of a Memphis policeman while he was in the commission of robbing an area Wendy’s. Seriously. He was going to rob some place and chose a little, 8 year old ginger girl.

As a testament to Workman’s cruelty, I’ll quote from the link above:

On Tuesday, Workman received several visits from friends, family members and a spiritual advisor.

He has also requested, for his last meat, that a vegetarian pizza be delivered for to a homeless person.

A vegetarian pizza to a homeless person? What a sick bastard. Onions make the homeless gassy. He could have ordered two filet mignons, a bowl of lobster bisque, a twice baked potato and a chocolate milkshake delivered to a multi-racial, disabled foster kid, but no. Tell me he hasn’t been hanging out with death penalty opponents for over 25 years.

Presumably, that ghostly semi will be making a pit stop at the Limbo Gas’n'Go to let him see all of the cool trucker hats he will be allowed to try on but not to buy prior to being sodomized for gas money, dropkicked through the back window of the overnight cabin, getting a nasty skin rash as he bounces off the pavement once and landing, taint first, onto one of Satan’s warmer pitchforks.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think Workman killed the cop. He certainly facilitated the murder by his actions. Much in the same way that the Supreme Court is allowing police officers to facilitate needless loss of life with their new high speed chase ruling.

But I’ll be glad to say “I was wrong” if the big faker, Phriend to Phelons, Phil Bredesen is going to let a kind of, sort of innocent man die on his watch. He imposed a 90 day moratorium on executions on the flimsiest of grounds. He’s stood in the way of justice at every turn. It would be the mightiest display of balls this lowly blogger has seen since that old man on the third floor of the downtown Hilton exposed himself to all of Music City Brewfest last year.

Even I’m not cynical enough to believe that Bredesen would let Workman die to further a greater Anti-Death Penalty cause. But I do think that he would milk it for all that it’s worth and wait until the last minute to issue a stay. Feigning some fierce inner morality struggle on a ’300′-esque scale where the pussies win in the end.

So now we come to the gambling part….

I don’t think Bredesen’s got the balls to let Workman die.

So, who wants to bet on it? Will the state’s deathly bartender serve Workman a clinical Kamikaze or will Philly boy descend the ladder from the Keebler Elf Treehouse, where his diminutive frame lovingly pounds out chocolate chip cookies by the palate, and save him?

My bet is YES. Bredesen will intervene. If Workman is armed robbing the Wendy’s in hell tomorrow morning and you accept this offer – you will be the proud recipient of one free domestic pint redeemable this Sunday at the Broadway Brewhouse in Midtown.

Would a beer quench your irony? The feelings of victory that you won something but at the expense of a dead man. Or the karmic dread that my hard-earned, pro-death penalty ducats will hopefully grease your path to a sweet, merciful DUI.

If Workman is still breathing deeply from the eternally fecal stink of life in prison come tomorrow morning, then you owe me the beer. Simple, no?

Your unmitigated joy will be tempered by the knowledge that my cynicism can predict the future.

I will limit this contest to 7 participants as I try not to drink more than 7 pints at one sitting and Broadway Brewhouse does not place “to go” orders on booze. In the unlikely event of 7 takers and a Smantix win, I will accept remaining payment in the form of foodstuffs from the spicy Mojo kitchen.

Put your money where your mealy, murderer loving mouths are.

Comments must show a post time before 1:00 am.

This Little Light of Mine Update: What can I say except that everybody else must have thought Bredesen would have pinned his 4-leaf clover on Workman too. Otherwise, I would be out cash money and spending it on liberals to boot.

Sadly, no one took me up on my offer. Oh well. Tennessee has now officially executed three murderers in the last 47 years. Those three being Robert Glen Coe, Sedley Alley and now Philip Workman. Tell me, what do those three criminals have in common that is at odds with the majority of convicts on the state’s death row?

Vanderbilt medical center staff went on high alert Monday due to a self-inflicted injury from current state senator and former Lt. Governor John Wilder. No, he didn’t pull the trigger on his Medic Alert bracelet again, rather took dead aim at his own feet by invoking “Rule 13″ about a conflict on interest in a bill about hiring illegal aliens.

Former lieutenant governor and current Sen. John Wilder said Tuesday that as far as he knows, he does not employ illegal immigrants on his West Tennessee-based cotton gin.

The clarification comes one day after he declared he had a conflict of interest on a bill relating to the employment of illegal immigrants.

Monday, on the Senate floor, Wilder declared the Senate’s “Rule 13,” which lawmakers are supposed to declare when they have a conflict of interest on a particular piece of legislation.

“I couldn’t run my cotton gin without Mexican help and I’ve done this for a long time,” Wilder (D-Mason) told his Senate colleagues Monday.

Tennessee historians will recall that the Cotton Gin, a new invention at the time, was a personal gift to Wilder by Eli Whitney himself. Ironically, in exchange for then youthful Wilder’s support of the Spanish-American War.

Later during Monday’s floor session, Wilder extrapolated on his previous comment:

“Let me apologize. Because of my personal relationship with these employees that we’ve had for these many years that have come back year in and year out, it’s personal, and that’s one reason I feel like I do. They are trustworthy. They work 12 hours a day, 7 days a week.

“They are hard-working people and they are good people and they are Christian people and they are family people and that’s the reason I feel like I do.”

No word on whether those “good, Christian people” qualified for healthcare or the minimum wage or whether they were simply paid in food and shelter for “doing a few chores”.

Local ACLU attorney Bruce “Country Jo & The Fish” Barry took umbrage with Wilder’s flirtation with discriminatory hiring practices . “That the former Lt. Governor would demean his office by seemingly discriminating against Undocumented Agnostics is regrettable.”, Barry lamented. “Hopefully in the future Mr. Wilder will consider both legal and illegal atheists to work 84 hours a week for bread and water on his 21st century anachronism.”

Not one of Wilder’s Senate colleagues asked the 85-year-old Wilder for an explanation Monday. No one else in the body publicly declared that they had a conflict of interest.

Asked Tuesday whether he actually does employ illegal immigrants on his West Tennessee cotton gin, Wilder said he employs “Mexican workers” who are from “somewhere down there in Mexico,” but they are “not illegal people.”

“We’ve never had anybody say anybody’s illegal,” Wilder told The City Paper. “We’ve been doing it a long time, and a lot of them come back often and so forth.”
[...]
Wilder said his son, John Shelton Wilder Jr., run the cotton gin, which uses seasonal workers for about two-month periods.

“As far as I know, it’s not illegal,” Wilder said.

Congratulations for opening this tempest in a taco, Mr. Wilder. As April 15th approaches, as far as we know, you haven’t been avoiding taxes on these workers.

Today’s WTW is a really a quick double shot of humiliation for cracker-ass crackers all across the fruited plain.

First – and if you haven’t seen it, you’re missing out. Mrs. Holmes pointed this story out to me Sunday morning as we worked through our hangovers: A Super Sweet 15 for Farragut Teen. (Registration required, you can use my login – sixmeat-at-gmail.com, pw – sixmeat) Though I will excerpt it, you should read the whole thing.

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It’s been a while since we’ve had a WTW post, but this week’s news cycle is just full of white trash everywhere you look. Today’s episode will be a veritable celebration of human debris – not the funny kind, but the scum-of-the-earth-should-already-be-dead kind.

First, let’s take a look at multiple-child-killer Daryl Keith Holton. A sympathetic hero of the Tennessee leftosphere, Holton had a “special” day with his kids (and his stepdaughter) in 1997, which resulted in his incarceration.

I’m sure the kids’ ghosts are tickled-me-Elmo pink at the stay of execution he’s received from the 6th Circuit Court of Appeals. The pro-criminal justice system has no time to consider Stephen, Brent, Eric and Kayla’s side of the story. They’re too busy legislating their own nauseating political agenda from the bench, taking away Holton’s right to choose the electric chair as his method of discharge. Because… wait for it… he’s… mentally ill! This handy label instantly absolves criminals of any responsibility for their actions. What a great racket the pro-criminal lobby has put together over the last several decades.

If they don’t get to fire up Ol’ Sparky and send this piece of shit to hell where he belongs, let’s hope he’s allowed to spend some time with the general population at Riverbend, where he may be fortunate enough to get the Jeffrey Dahmer treatment. After a long period of repeated prison rape, of course.

Speaking of the right to choose, it’s 2005′s Reproductive Rights Superstar of the Year runner-up, Carissa Marie Roraus. Carissa, who explained it all by wrapping her newborn in swaddling plastic and dumping her in an I-75 rest-stop trash can, has also gotten a slap from the silk glove of the pro-criminal American justice system. Because… wait for it… she’s mentally ill!

Roraus, for exercising her blessed right-to-choose and self-administering a late-term abortion, has been labeled insane by the criminal “justice” system. Isn’t this an affront to progressive women everywhere? Isn’t the right-to-choose the holy sacrament that defines just how truly sane and heroic a modern woman truly is?

At least Knoxville’s single males have a hot new target to shoot at, since Carissa will be spending time at our own Lakeshore Mental Heath Institute, not far from the heart of Bearden.

Guys, if you want an easy mark with no consequences, get ready. Carissa’s comin’ to town and you won’t have to worry about paternity tests nine months down the road. I would recommend Michael’s or the Electric Cowboy – I’m sure she’ll make herself available once they decide she should be set free, which shouldn’t take long.

Enter stage left. Whitebread, upstate New York healthcare mogul/Tennessee Governor Phil Bredesen had to overcome a lot of stereotypes about yankee carpetbaggers to parlay his Keebler elf frame and fudge striped shortbread cookies into the treehouse of the Governor’s mansion.

But in order to keep his boondock bonafides intact, every election year he’s forced to white trash it up and this year is no exception:

Governor hospitalized with possible tick bite

Tennessean Staff Reports

Gov. Phil Bredesen was hospitalized on Monday, his office disclosed late this afternoon.

Press Secretary Lydia Lenker issued a statement saying the governor “was admitted to Centennial Medical Center in Nashville for observation late Monday night after experiencing flu-like symptoms, including a severe headache and high fever. Medical staff indicated the Governor’s symptoms could be the result of a tick bite. The Governor is receiving antibiotics and feeling better. Physicians advised him to remain at the hospital overnight Tuesday for additional observation.”

The statement did not indicate how or when the governor might have been in contact with a tick.

He could have attended General Sessions court for spousal abuse, chipped a tooth opening a beer bottle or given a Tennessee Arts award to The DaVinci Commode – but no! An itsy bitsy widdle tick sent him to the Emergency Room and now he’s taking a valuable bed away from a deserving illegal alien.

Huzzah, Governor! I would have bet what cash of mine you let me keep that you would have gotten more blood out of the tick than he got out of you.

The American Spectator’s David Holmes posts today about harassing phone calls and death threats being made by way of the Huffin’glue Post and one of our own local numbnuts, Agent Orange over at “Democratic” Veteran:

I gleaned from ‘CIA BOOK of DIRTY TRICKS’ Don’t get mad, get EVEN.” Minutes later, at 2:19 p.m., “YvonneMoorhead” repeatedly pasted SatanLivesinUSA’s comments on that page and on another Huffington Post post. Elsewhere, in February, YvonneMoorhead had posted, “F*** em, they died for the greater Isreali [sic] goal of stealing more land by having its proxy America invade Iraq and next Iran.”[...]
After the contact information was posted on the Huffington Post, the harassing calls increased in frequency. Saturday afternoon Lonsdale received another call, “congratulating” him for “ruining our country.” In the early hours of Sunday morning, Van Odell received three calls, he told TAS, at 1:47 a.m., 1:48, and 1:50. A man calmly told him, “I want to know why you lied about John Kerry… Traitors must die. We will get you. You can’t get away with this.”

As James Taranto is fond of pointing out, John Kerry was in Vietnam for 120 days (and recommended himself for purple hearts after shooting kids in the back) and has yet to release his military records that he promised to over 500 days ago. Who knew a self-confessed war criminal wouldn’t keep his promise?
That’s the magical thing about Vietnam. Somehow only the people who brought their cameras and minders like Al Gore and John Kerry are “war heroes” and everybody else deserved to be spat on, kept from getting jobs upon returning from the war Donks drafted and shipped them to, and are now worthy of death threats – of which, Corporal Klinger over at Democratic Veteran still posts their home telephone numbers on his website and is no doubt happy to be the conduit for.

The Swift Boat Vets worked because they were telling the truth. I know, I know – it’s a novel concept. They banded together 30 years after John Kerry slandered them in the Congressional Record as being wanton murderers and built a career off of his lies by the clam chowder sucking camelotophiles of the People’s Republic of Massachusetts before trawling the funeral home parking lots for some easy squeezing and a big purse.

You want to attack them on the issues? Have at it. The election was about 20 months ago and most of us have gotten over it. But quit calling them up in the middle of the night to make death threats to their six year old grandkids. It’s the least that the Sgt. Secretaries and Private Pencils of the Office Depot Commandos can do before unfurling their Mission Accomplished banners over a defaced Afghanistan war veterans’ funeral plot this 4th of July.

/CHICKENHAWK!

This one just screams white trash — and it is White Trash Wednesday. This story and WTW go together like chocolate and peanut butter. Peaches and Herb. Freebie and the Bean. Tango and Cash. And so forth.

Cooperstown Mayor Danny Crosby has a lot to be proud of besides his hat and shiny badge. He’s got a track record of creating speed traps, profiling members of the U.S. Armed Forces, violating civil rights and child labor laws, planting evidence, ordering the arrest of political opponents and threatening citizens. That’s just the beginning.

More from the Smoking Gun:

I say ticket all the illegals you want, but once you start profiling our military personnel, it’s time they took you out back for some Tennessee Justice™.

You can see the whole complaint at the Smoking Gun.

I remember when I was just a pre-teen, how hot I thought Dana Plato was. But I always reminded myself that, if I had the opportunity to meet her, she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She was a TV star, I was a nobody. So my love for her would never be reciprocated, no matter how many fan letters I wrote her.

Well guess what, Dana, now you’re dead. Guess I got the last laugh, because I’m still alive. Take that and so forth.

Back when I lived in Nashville, we used to live at The Grove apartments on Elmington Avenue. We would often drive by the park there at Elmington and West End, where we would see scenes like these:

The wife (then fiancee) and I would say to one another, oh my, what a throwback to the days of yore…, then we’d head down to Baja Burrito for a big fat chicken burrito.

Anyway, the Tennessean, known nationwide for its cutting-edge journalism, reminded me of these bloated battlers with a feature this week.

I never got the whole D&D thing or Lord of the Rings, so maybe I’m just too uneducated to really appreciate this group’s brand of absurd ritual. But, I suppose it is like pretty much any other sporting event, as long said sporting event uses a Nerf™ brand sport ball.

I find the whole “very athletic” thing odd, because when we would come upon these Ogre battles, it was often a mix of morbidly-obese and pencil-thin combatants, moving in a grotesque ballet of flying foam swords and cellulite. On the other hand, they did wear the heavy costumes in the heat of summer, which has to help shed the pounds.

I’ll go ahead and save Brittney the trouble and make this point: at least it’s better than real war!

The DaVinci Code may have a multi-million dollar budget, all-star cast and millions more in free publicity but the rich (well, not so rich..er, poor to be exact) aluminum-sided, double wide pantheon of White Trash lawn art raises questions just as troubling. For the low, low price of passing gawkery.

Strewn somewhere beneath the Hardee’s Bacon Double Cheeseburger wrappers and Mountain Dew cans in the floorboard of a 1988 Ford Tempo, beats the semi-blocked coronaries of a 96-Gallon White Trash visionary putting the pedal to the metal to challenge the way we view sinners and saints. Leviticus and lavatories. Revelations and Rebel Flags.

Like the similarly named movie, The DaVinci Commode has unlocked the secrets to one of life’s more intimate religious experiences….hidden for centuries by the Catholic Church.

The rural, ring-around-the-collar Rodin that sculpted this Rubenesque cherub atop it’s not-so-heavenly throne is such an inbred iconoclast as to wash away all guerilla roadside grave activists in his wake.

Like Burt Reynolds in Deliverance, I traversed the landscape of Crackerstan to attain this photo. Risking life, limb and squeal like a piggy rape as the curtains were violently thrown open @ 6am this morning to see who was trespassing with their magic picture box to capture Toilet Baby Angel in His divine squat.

In these times, such dogpatch DaVincis assuage fears of oppression. Betwixt pulled-pork barbeque and hickory smoked bacon. Walking a tightrope between faith and feces. Challenging dogma with its corn pone counterculture and porta-potty proletariat ethos.

A haunting image that lingers beyond our stained spiritual salvation and the sneering neighbors that don’t understand.

Rock on Toilet Baby Angel!

In what could be a long week and a half, justice stands to be denied again in the death penalty case involving raped and murdered Marine Lance Corporal Suzanne Collins two decades ago in Memphis.

Count on News2 for one side of the story. The poor, innocent murderer’s side. *sob*

Sedley Alley’s taped confessional snuff porn is only an hour long they contend. One hour short of their liking.

July 11, 1985
Alley’s wife left him after getting in a fight. He drank two six-packs and a bottle of wine. He told authorities that he had gone out for more liquor when his car accidentally hit 19-year-old Suzanne Collins as she jogged near the Millington Naval Base. Alley’s story is that he accidentally killed the young woman — who was due to graduate from aviation school the next day. However, an autopsy revealed that her skull had been fractured with a screwdriver. After she died, a tree limb was rammed into her vagina so hard that it entered her abdomen and lacerated one of her lungs.

After his taped confession, his defense team claimed he had Multiple Personality Disorder. Twenty years, and seemingly endless appeals later, one of his personalities is now claiming that he’s innocent.

The inconveniently graphic details always get left out of anti-justice advocates’ attempts to humanize their monster role models.

It doesn’t help your case when one of the FBI’s top criminal profilers of all time includes three condemning chapters in his book on the object of your diseased affections and who was the model for Clarice Starling’s mentor in “Silence of the Lambs”. Someone who at least bothered to talk to the victim’s family and the condemned before promoting some ideologue’s propaganda.

ABC thought enough of him before, why not have somebody give him a call and ask him why he’s wrong now?

Take that all of you CSI: Miami Monday night armchair criminologists.

Approaching the 21 year anniversary of the murder of Suzanne Collins, the same bastards who have defaced a Wikipedia page (see edit “the tn dude”) to her memory and turned it into an anti-death penalty page while continuing to disgrace her memory and torture the victim’s family by lionizing this piece of shit.

Even so speciously asserting that “Moreover, examples of false and coerced confessions abound. A number of innocent people confessed to being the Central Park rapist, for example” as if that one incident nullifies any confession in any court. But what do we really expect from a guy who likes “creating mayhem and havoc”.

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I really thought we were done with her, but Pamela Rogers Turner apparently has a MySpace page. Oh, and a MySpace blog.

Her website, however, may be a violation of probation and could send her back to the slammer.

Whoops. On the bright side, I do have a second Rollergirl fantasy now.

hat tip: the head NiTwit

And now from the why the hell didn’t I think of this department – it’s a new type of pre-nup. Forward-thinking Iowan Travis Frey created a “Contract of Wifely Expectations” which detailed a whole host of rules and regulations for his wife.

Some of the highlights of this 21st-Century pre-nup are details for what his wife is allowed/required to wear, personal hygiene standards, sexual requirements and tasks that could earn the wife GBDs – or Good Behavior Days.

A few of the details from this 4-page contract include:

Oh, there is much much more. Go read the entire agreement. The sex-related regulations are pretty remarkable. You’ve got to give the guy credit for creativity. I will note that it’s not clear if the wife signed the agreement before or after the wedding.

h/t Leo

For anyone sick of the incessant bombardment of G-dawgs flashing dollar, dollar bills to the camera in front of rented Humvees or so-called 38 year-old “men” who write whiny songs about their momma’s kicking them out of the house or worse, Mother Earth – this weekend finds me not ridiculing but rather partaking in the culture that’s given us so much and asked for so little. Especially in the field of dentistry.

Ruyter Suys of Nashville P*ssy empowering women everywhere with ten Marshall amps of non-menstrual rage

Picture Motorhead downing a litre of Crown Royal right before dropping 4 hits of orange sunshine and beating up AC/DC behind the dumpster of an Atlanta titty bar.

If I’m not back by tomorrow night. Somebody call the jail or a preacher.