Man on Man Action: Penal Manipulation - Is There A Way To Rehabilitate Prisoners Effectively Without Requiring Prisons?

Preface: Rollo and I were enjoying a little political sparring today in between comparing the relative sizes of our girlfriends' vaginas. In one short second, both Rollo, the lunatic leftwing Democrat of the group, and myself, the middle of the road Amerocrat agreed on something.

The current prison system is tired, abused, and not working anymore - sort of like Keyser's mom. The idea behind the prison system in America, before we started jailing people for being of a slightly different color or perhaps carrying a Koran and/or a pipebomb strapped to his grundle, was to take those with questionable behaviors and teach them the wonders of being an effective member of society -- someone Democrats could wring a little more tax money out of to pay for late term abortions, no doubt -- but it WAS a noble cause.

Prison was supposed to be more than a "time-out" for adults. It was supposed to be a place to install a basic moral foundation. It was supposed to be a place where a societal deviant could learn a basic trade or earn a degree from an accredited program. Though more than that, it was to be a place where a convict could have the time to reflect on how their actions did not fit with society without the fear of not being able to afford food, clothing, shelter, and DirectTV.

The death penalty is not enough. Republicans think of jail as punishment. Democrats think of jail as an adult boarding school that should have internet access, voting terminals, sushi restaurants, and unlimited gay sex. There will never be a middle ground between the "Kill them before they become the next Islamic House Representative" and the "Let them free and with a taste for man sex" groups.

This is where our wonderful cross party solution can fit in between like the Ru Paul middle of a kinky bologna sandwich. Yes, Democrats, the bread is organic.

Don't Taze Me Bro.....

The Kaiser Has Finally checked in.

Please excuse my tardiness, but due to some technical difficulties with having the password changed Cuntolo I did not get access last weekend as I would have liked. And all week I have been traveling to your home state of Jersey to find your crack-whore given-up-for-adoption sister to give me head.

Fortunately I was able to find her and score myself a Velvet Hattrick.

What I wanted to discuss last week, before I left is how short people have no reason to live, although my boy Randy Newman stopped a little short, as he forgot to mention dykes, kykes and boy-bands. Seriously, other than for occasionally allowing me to enjoy the midget-porn fetish what do these mini-me-wanna-be's add to society? Don't get me wrong I'll let one of them hold my beer on their head while they suck me off, but realistically that's a need that has been replaced since the invention of the beer-helmet.

Changing topics and steering back towards the title of this post, Taser guns, and their place in society. Frankly I feel that they are an underused weapon. Let's think of some candidates that had they been "tazed" the world would have been better off. Wacko Jacko, OJ, Barney, Whitney Houston, Cartolo's dog Sambo (while giving it anal, just for a little extra kick), Britney Spears (for that lard-ass VMA performance) and the Bee-gees (in any order)

Great Travel Ideas with Lex Lesotho! Week One

So the court finally approved your vacation, your probation officer has signed off on the travel document, and the check you sent to the probate office has cleared. Where are you going? How are you getting there? How long are you staying? Who are you staying with? What is the phone number of the residence you are staying at?

Well let Lex be your travel agent to world. Let me lead you to some of the most wonderful sights this planet has to offer. I will be everything a travel agent is except for charging you money and being gay.

I had a hard time this week narrowing down where to send my wonderful internet friends IRL. (IRL means "In Real Life" in computer talk. Lex is interningual.) This week's pick is a homegrown good-ol' American city. With the rapid implosion of the Greenback and the beyond explanation Loonie parity, I figured all of you trashy low middle class dickheads would want to stick to your own.

So without further ado:

Destination One: Seattle, Washington

Nothing speaks louder for the United States than a Tall Green Tea Frappuccino Blended Cream. Seattle is one of the cornerstones of America if only because it's in one of the corners of America (sorry Alaska, you're more Canadian than American, so piss off, you hoser). Seattle is the home of a powerhouse NFC team, the Seahawks. By the way, Green Bay is a powerhouse NFC team too. It's like betting on the Special Olympics: It may be exciting to lay one hundred dollars on the American Handicap Bowling team, but your still laying money on the American Handicap Bowling team.

Seattle is also home to the Major League Baseball team, the Mariners. The team mascot is the Mariner Moose. "Hey Lex, how does a moose fit in with an obvious maritime themed franchise?" Good question, Timmy! You, like hundreds of thousands of other brain-stem equipped Americans have asked the same question. Unfortunately, Seattle is the only school district that teaches their young from grade one that Christopher Columbus was from China and was actually a moose. He discovered Seattle on April 6,1977. During his perilous journey across the ocean, he stopped in Japan and picked up Ichiro Suzuki, the gayest baseball player in the entire world. Rumor has it that Alex Rodriquez left the Mariners because he was intimidated by Ichiro's lisp and exotic Asian features. Yes, Seattle teaches this to their children.

So I suppose it comes as no surprise that Seattle offers SLUT rides free to children under 5. The country is still reeling from acronym fever after being assaulted by NASA, RSVP, NAFTA, CIA, NAMBLA, FBI, R2D2, OBIWAN, HOLLYWOOD, etc etc. SLUT is just the obvious next step. Hey, we have a MOAB in Florida, why not a little SLUT up in the far northwest corner? Traveling by SLUT is the only way to get around the south-side of Seattle. It's cheap, dirty, and Tomasi's mom is a conductor.

So, where do we go when we travel to the birthplace of Grunge and the final resting place of rock? So watching a soft swinging, fast running, homosexual at Safeco field isn't a turn on and watching a bunch of grown men grunt with neon green wigs and gloves and face paint isn't your idea of romance? Well, we have a couple of interesting places for you to see: Pepperspray Productions, a fast growing den of retardist Liberal media, claims it's headquarters in Seattle. This "edgy" company has the distinction of producing video tapes of a supposed Army Ranger who killed over 200 people, including people praying at mosques, while fighting in Iraq. They were supported by local Muslim activists (go figure, Muslims are sneaky shits?) and subsequently apologized profusely for publishing the disgusting lies and propaganda which turned out to contain not one shred of fact. Whoops! Must be a conservative conspiracy or the work of the Jews.

Anyway, where else can we go?

Well, don't you worry, because wherever you go downtown, you'll be safely protected by a halo of video cameras, and if you happen to wander away from the areas where a bunch of people can monitor you picking your nose and scratching your nuts, the police will be on hand with their own private recording devices to catch the act, jerk off to it at home, and then sell it on ebay!

In conclusion, because I'm sick of talking about Seasshole, Washington and because after spending two hours trying to find positive stories about the place I found absolutely nothing, I will leave you with one nice story that doesn't involve Seattle at all, at least in the sense that God hates someone more than it:

Biker's penis hit by lightning

A Croatian motorbiker's penis was zapped by lightning as he stopped beside the road to take a leak.

Ante Djindjic, 29, from Zagreb, said: "I don't remember what happened. One minute I was taking a leak and the next thing I knew I was in hospital.

"Doctors said the lightning went through my body and because I was wearing rubber boots it earthed itself through my penis."

Djindjic, who suffered light burns to his chest and arms, added: "Thankfully, the doctors said that there would be no lasting effects, and my penis will function normally eventually."

Poor guy. I hope he takes on the nickname "Hard Charger".

Lex out! Email me for travel discounts and to get Cartola's mom's phone number! ON'T CLICK THAT LINK AT WORK!. It's a picture of Cartola and his mom that I took about ten years ago!

The Greatest Hate of All

Whitney Houston is a worthless, lying piece of garbage. No, I’m not talking about her recent meltdowns with the crack pipe or her bearded sham of a marriage to an abusive Bobby Brown. What did the five fingers say to the face!?! I am talking about the lyrics to her song “The Greatest Love of All,” chiefly the last four laughable lines of the chorus:

I believe the children are our are future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be
Everybody searching for a hero
People need someone to look up to
I never found anyone who fulfill my needs
A lonely place to be
So I learned to depend on me

Chorus:

I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadows I
If I fail, if I succeed
At least I'll live as I believe
No matter what they take from me
They can't take away my dignity
Because the greatest love of all
Is happening to me
I found the greatest love of all
Inside of me
The greatest love of all
Is easy to achieve
Learning to love yourself
It is the greatest love of all

The fuck? Besides this song making me want to puke every time I hear it – I mean come on, who doesn’t know the future will be composed of our children? But seriously, where do you get off saying that “the greatest love of all is easy to achieve.” Do you know how many depressed people struggle with the ability to love themselves? To just get out of bed in the morning and face the mirror? “Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be?” How about I go start a tickle fight with my cranky, ex-girlfriend or make mud pies with my noxious landlord when the downstairs neighbors won’t stop parking their car in my spot. How about I take my dick and throw it in your ear world!?!?!?

Ladies and gentleman, I give you the fucking Care Bear Stare. “Learning to love yourself is not that easy.” Life sucks. Then you die.

I'm going to go drink until I shit myself.

Have a nice weekend.

--- Cartola

Exploring my modest racial ambiguity

It's like they've been filming my entire life.


As far as the family tree that I was forced to make (en francais! for some reason) in seventh grade would have me believe, I am 100 percent pure-bred European-American. Experience tells me differently. Surely, I'm not trying to back out of my presumably Caucasian heritage; being white has its advantages, after all:

• I've never been arrested, even on the occasions when I have been blind-drunk (c.f. Sunday morning around 3:45 a.m.) or stealing something (c.f. the "No Ballplaying Allowed" sign that used to be across the street from Keyser and my old apartment, and now hangs in a friend's campus office). It goes without saying that I've never had drugs planted on me either.
• I have no problem obtaining credit.
  
• People don't feel the need to do something fancy when they shake my hand, like grab closer to my wrist or just the fingertips or that little spin-move that Reggie Miller used to do before Pacers games.
• Much smaller chance of having sickle-cell anemia.

But there have been a number of occasions when I have had to call into question whether there isn't more to my ancestry. Occasions like these:

• Summer 1999 - Gerald, my fellow bank teller and a native of Ghana, continuously calls me "my brother" throughout our time working together. Granted, if criticisms of Barack Obama are to be believed, Africa-Africans like Gerald cannot be considered "black," but it was still nice to be added to The Struggle.
• Fall 2001 - I'm at a tailgate, talking to this friend of a friend, an Asian-American in his mid-20's. On the other side of the grill, another friend's mother asks her son, "That guy that [Rollo] is talking to, is that [Rollo]'s brother?"
• Winter 2002 - A dozen or so of us go on a Caribbean cruise, including Cartola's future girlfriend and Keyser and his then-girlfriend-now-wife. We're all on the lido deck getting the security debriefing and practicing our loading of the lifeboats. Each of us is supposed to have a life vest, with a whistle and a little light to help rescuers find you in the dark. My life vest lacks those two features. The only other person whose life vest lacks those features? Our token black friend. It's a conspiracy, we decide.
• Spring 2005 - While walking down the street in Ann Arbor, an older black gentleman ambles towards me, spots me, smiles, and says, "How's it hangin', my brotha?"
• Yesterday (and my inspiration for this post) - Again, walking down the street in Ann Arbor, though a different street and a different older black gentleman. This time, my greeting is, "My soul brotha!"

Could it be that for all this time I've been mislabeled? Perhaps my father's very thick, barber-scissor-breaking hair that I've inherited is not just knotty but nappy. Perhaps my smallish eyes and ability to do hours of pointless algebra is due to my Asian heritage. Perhaps my odor is... nah, I think I'll stop there.

But still, I'm concerned that my self-image has been somewhat different than reality. Could I have been checking one of those boxes on my many college applications? Could I have had more confidence in my ability to dance and less in my ability to drive? Is there a meeting I'm supposed to be attending with other racially-ambiguous people like thespian Vin Diesel and former major leaguer Davey Lopes? Does it even matter? Should it? I hate to throw one of those big questions out there, but... well, I guess I just did.

All I know is that I've never been mistaken for Latino. But my sister has.

Oh, so that's what a Cape Verdean is!

A couple of updates...

Our blog is off to a slow start, but it's only because our standards are impossibly high. Any day now Kaiser Soze will actually feel the need to contribute, we suppose; it's likely he would have already if his invitation wasn't lost in my continuous drunken haze over the weekend. And note the update at the bottom of our very first post - we strive for accuracy in our anatomical citations, after all.

Also, everyone should know that a certain team member has already lost his admin rights, because he keeps changing the password, presumably because said password is in reference to said team member's said mother performing carnal acts upon certain other team members. Admin duties will be restored after an appropriate probationary period.

My Name is Rick Cartola...You Wack Off to My Mother...Prepare to Die!

Ever since I was ripped from the womb, slapped on the ass, then prompty stuffed back in momentarily, I've had a dream. That's right, I've had a dream, I have dreamt, and I am currently dreaming. I will have a dream. I dream that one day a person will not be judged by the color of his prejudices but rather the content of his humor. I have a dream. The length and girth of this dream rivals Rollo's affections for little children. Ungodly, lustful pedaphilia aside, I have a motherfucking dream!

Good day, fellow fappers. I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for apathy in the history of our nation.

One score and eight years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, fucked a giant turtle. This momentous bestiality came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of child molestors who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But twenty-eight years later, the turtle-love boy still is not free. Twenty eight years later, the life of the turtle-love boy is still sadly crippled by the manacles of political correctness and the chains of discrimination. Twenty-eight years later, the turtle-love boy lives on a lonely island of sobriety in the midst of a vast ocean of material humor. Twenty-eight years later, the turtle-love boy is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we have come to Worcester to cash a check. A bounced check...

[TEN MINUTE RANT ON BESTIALITY AND ITS RELATION TO THE STOCK MARKET]

...From the Hills of Grafton, Let apathy ring!

And so we sign that bounced check by crossing the line continually on this great blog. Welcome fellow, fappers. I look forward to shooting my mouth off and ignoring your criticism. I've got some teeth to pull.

Sincerely,

Dr. Rick Cartola, DDS

Hi, I'm Lex

It doesn't take a person very long to realize when they might be stepping in to something spirtually and emotionally damning.

From the moment of my own physical conception, I have dreamed of destroying a person from the inside. I wanted to eat away at the very fabric of stability and install my own twisted concept of reality. I wanted to break a person down and build them up, like a mini Lesotho clone.

...And then something happened. Well, lots of things happened, but meeting a support group of friends with hot mothers and sisters and sometimes both mothers and sisters and also brothers and sometimes fathers and maybe fathers who take pictures of mothers fucking stuffed animals and Shaw's cucumbers (with the little hairy bumps on them)...which really chilled me out.

Looking back, it was probably the insane relief I found while beating off to pictures of Rick's mother that I stole one night during a sleep over that finally put me in to a state of mind where instead of trying to destroy a person I just wanted to win their trust, and then have kinky, yet gentle and somewhat unsafe sex with them while Teddy Ruxpin watched from a corner with a faded red dildo strapped to his forehead.

I look forward to diseasing your minds!

=Lex

Welcome to the world!

Friends, this is a picture of a breach birth. A breach birth is when the baby (or baby-to-be, depending on your political status) exits the mother feet first. Every step in the delicate biology of childbirth is centered around the idea that the baby leaves the womb head-first. Breach births are dangerous to both child and mother, upset the natural order of things, and may cause birth defects.

Ladies and gentlemen, this blog is a breach birth.

UPDATE: Information has been made available to me (by my appalled wife) that breach births are not when babies are born feet-first, but butt-first. This makes perfect sense if you think about it - the fetus is in the fetal (duh) position, which means that the first thing you see is the ass. Somehow, this makes our breach birth blog seem even more appropriate. Prepare to see lots of metaphorical, and less-than-metaphorical, ass around here.