Every week, five reasons that we should be proud to be Americans. United States of Americans, that is. This week: Elvis’s colon, Justin Bieber’s brain, Miley Cyrus’s video and Republicans with rentboys.
For over thirty years we’ve been told that Elvis died from a heart attack. For over thirty years we’ve been lied to.
It wasn’t a heart attack. It wasn’t the drugs. It wasn’t his giant fat ass. Well, actually, it was his giant fat ass. Or, rather, the fact that it didn’t work properly.
You see, the King was constipated.
This is news now because Elvis’s friend, doctor, and (untrustworthy) confidant told Fox News the other day that the King died because he was constipated:
“He would get embarrassed, he’d have accidents onstage. He’d have to change clothes and come back because of the way we were trying to treat his constipation,” Nichopoulos said. “So if they had done the colostomy then, he’d probably still be here. But it wasn’t acceptable treatment at that time. Now the treatment is short.”
Look, if thirty years after I shuffle off into the Celestial Kingdom one of my boys goes to the press and is like
“Yeah, it was his ass. We all thought it was the drugs or the cheeseburgers but it turns out it was his ass. Isn’t that embarrassing? His ass killed him. Ass.”
…we’re going to have a problem. Don’t blame it on the King’s ass. Let the man rest in peace. Tell us that he died from syphilis or even AIDS. At least that jives with the fact that he was, you know, Elvis. Tell us that he drank himself to death or ate a bowl of cocaine every day for breakfast and it caught up with him. Tell us that he drowned in the bathtub or maybe even the toilet. Tell us anything that doesn’t involve his colon.
Maybe a Bolivian drug lord named Colón killed him. Yeah, that’s totally what happened.
How many more prominent old white Republican dudes – especially the ones who yell and stomp their feet in public about the evils of the gays — have to be literally outed as being, well, gay before America catches on?
Let me break this down: the people who are most the publicly and vocally against something are usually, deep down inside, completely in favor of that very thing. A quiz:
A prominent professor, minister, writer, and co-founder of one of America’s most notoriously conservative organizations makes it his personal crusade to expose the homosexual threat. He takes it upon himself to tell America that children adopted by gay couples are more likely to commit suicide. Et cetera.
Spoiler alert: he’s gay.
Getting popped at the airport with your rented male prostitute while returning from a trip to Europe is, I’m pretty sure, the best public outing since Larry Craig dropped the soap at the Minneapolis airport.
The fact that people are still flabbergasted by this flabbergasts me. I am flabbergasted by their flabbergastedness. At what point does this stop being surprising? We should just expect this now. I’m eagerly awaiting the secret Rush Limbaugh gay lover expose. Or maybe Sean Hannity’s bear fetish will be the next big reveal.
Either way, there are some hilarious times ahead. And gross, if Rush is involved.
A few years ago Miley Cyrus was the biggest star in America. Well, Hannah Montana was. Whatever.
ANYWAYS the point is that Miley Cyrus was, for a brief shining moment, bigger than Jesus. Or the Beatles. Or both. She was the Disney pop star apotheosis: they had been trying to manufacture a pop star/crossover entertainer/thing like this for years. The Disney assembly line had given us plenty of awesome stuff, but they all hit the big time after leaving Disney.
Hannah Montana existed at a weird confluence of timing, Nashville, good teeth, and Billy Ray Cyrus. If they pick any other kid on earth for that part it doesn’t blow up as huge as she ultimately did. Disney could build a Pop Star Supercollider underneath Orlando and just start tossing kids in by the busload and the odds against another Hannah Montana happening would still be like a bazillion-to-one.
But, like all child stars, Miley had to grow up some day. Well, she will. Someday. Today she’s still only 17. Which is, apparently, old enough to roll around like some kind of a slutty part-bird-part-human hybrid mutant thing. In a cage.
Look, this whole thing is weird. I don’t understand what’s happening when Hannah Montana is skanking it up on a bed of peacock feathers with her tits hanging out while Tennessee is turning into Waterworld.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Having a friend that’s a Notre Dame fan is like being friends with an otherwise normal dude who just so happens to be a Scientologist. Most of the time it’s not a big deal but every once in a while – like that time at your girlfriend’s parents’ cookout – he starts mouthing off about Tom Cruise, Rudy, Xenu, or, God forbid, Lou Holtz.
It’s just embarrassing for everyone involved. For him, yes, but mostly for you, because you’re the asshole who invited a Scientologist to a Labor Day cookout.
This right here is why the terrorists hate us. When the French complain about our cultural imperialism, this is exactly what they’re talking about. When aliens show up and the first thing they want to do is blow up America, it will be because of stuff like this.
Everyone is so worried about what gets into America – immigrants, terrorists, Chinese imports – when what we should really be worried about is what gets out. You can’t see me, Justin Bieber, but I’m doing this as hard as I can.