This week however, CIA officials have reached a new low by simply sitting back and letting local authorities do their dirty work for them:

Jimmy Shao, a Sacramento resident who is regularly forced to endure remote CIA brain-squeezing, stomach-pressing, and intestine-stirring, has recently been calling 911 to report the CIA’s cruel and illicit activity. As you can imagine, that didn’t do him any good at all:

[Click here instead to see the video without that stupid fucking ad]

One can only imagine the intensity of the pain that could have possibly Mr. Shao to make such a tragic and elementary mistake.

This guy is clearly out of his mind: How could ANYONE – with all the literature that is available online – not realize that local authorities are simply a puppet of the larger shadow government. Never call the cops to report government harassment; what are THEY gonna do – arrest their own bosses?!

The most disgusting part of the video above is the newscaster calling Mr. Shao a “prank caller.” That’s what passes for journalism?

A lousy two minutes of research would have revealed what was really going on.

—BENJAMIN LEO

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Here is her self-description on Twitter:

Physical Therapist. Strong minded woman. Dominant. UltraConservative. Confident. Perfect Afro. If you thought I gave a shit what you think, you are wrong.

Her Twitter feed is loaded with the “N” word, and no, we do not mean “nougat.” Her Facebook profile features scads of pics of Dianne and her Rob Tyner-sized Afro not giving a shit, much less two shits, about anything.

Should any of us give a shit about this? What is it with people who say they don’t give a shit, but they actually give just enough of a shit to inform you that they don’t give a shit? And if she doesn’t give a shit, what if no one else gives a shit about her? Friends, that would be a whole lot of withheld shit. It’d be a constipated world—exactly the kind of world that Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Ganda, Euell Gibbons, and Charles Manson fought against.

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Have you ever seen a bull up close and looked into its searching eyes? My Uncle Leonidas owned a bull farm, and as a boy, I’d visit there in the summer and spend countless hours from behind a tall and sturdy fence admiring their strength, their nobility, and, yes, their musculature and sometimes even their impressive endowment. (My Uncle Leonidas subsequently lost a slow and painful bout with cancer, which I think he deserved for kidnapping and imprisoning bulls for most of his life.)

I only have one thing to say to the author of this horrifying piece that never should have seen the light of day—sure, go ahead and let the bulls chase you, Mr. Tough Macho Golden Gloves Boxer Guy. But don’t be surprised if one day, you miss a step or two and wind up with your ass impaled on one of the bulls’ horns. Or even if they don’t catch you, sure, go ahead and slaughter it and eat its precious flesh as if that’s something cool to do.

But realize that when you eat its flesh and take it into your stomach, that’s when the Revenge of the Bulls begins. That bull, whose flesh is not only highly unnatural to eat, it’s completely sinful in a totally atheistic way, will start eating you alive from inside. Its flesh will slowly and deliberately cause polyps to form on your colon, then colon cancer, and then, as you’re hooked up to thousands of wires on a hospital bed shitting blood all over the sheets, you’ll realize that maybe, just maybe, you should have been just a little bit nicer to the bulls.

—LACTO-OVO-VEGETARIAN LINUS

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Nathan J Winograd’s story “PETA’s secret slaughter of Kittens, Puppies” for the Huffington Post made me laugh so hard I nearly cried tears of bloody joy.

The article alleges that PETA exterminates 96 percent of the animals that come into their care. Wowzers, PETA! Those are pretty phenomenal numbers; you’re some puppy-killing motherfuckers! Even Mike Tyson didn’t come close to putting that percentage of his opponents to sleep. I mean, man! Gee-whiz! You are one murderous band of animal-rights activists.

But wait, PETA—you’re not in the business of killing, are you? Not last time I checked, anyway. Aren’t you guys supposed to fucking protect animals or something?

I have a puppy. It’s a puggle, and I never wanted a lap dog. During my whole childhood we had rugged, bird-hunting dogs that killed just about every animal they encountered. The very thought of a lap dog completely disgusted me. I find it strange that pet culture has created these ugly, childlike, furry monstrosities. But when my sister was planning to send the puppy she’d bought for my niece and nephew to its inevitable doom in a shelter, I couldn’t look into those sweet little puppy eyes and know it would soon be sleeping that long sleep. So I saved her from the clutches of murderous groups such as PETA and today she is a plump, healthy puggle and one of the bright spots in my day.

The Huffington Post article stirred up animal-rights activists all over the country. Later they posted a video of one of the online debates.

Jessica Harris, a former euthanasia technician and current animal-rights activist, unleashed a humdinger:

When you’re in a county municipal shelter and you literally have kittens by the box load coming in through the door and you have nowhere for them to go, you don’t want to kill them, but you do. It’s the worst thing in the world, you feel like the biggest traitor.

Earlier in that same video, Laura Gruen, Professor of Philosophy at Wesleyan University, said something that was absolutely spot-on:

We need, as advocates for animals, to get a better grip on death.

That’s when I said to myself, Yes. Yes you do.

Death is a natural and inevitable part of life. Mankind has been ruthlessly hunting and slaughtering animals forever. It ain’t nothing new, guys. In fact the consumption of large amounts of meat is one of the few things that separates us from apes. Science proves that the huge amounts of fats and protein in red meat and fish are what made our brains grow.

The added psychological strain in solving how to kill large game also helped develop the human mind. Hunting is also one of the key factors that led to the development of communities that stretched beyond familial bands. Without sophisticated weapons it takes a whole bunch of people to kill a deer or a large bovine, but the reward is a party and food for everybody.

Which leads me to why I even care about this issue at all: bull running, something PETA never hesitates to attack with its well-funded buffoonish public-smear campaigns.

An encierro (bull run) is an ancient hunting technique. It’s an enclosing or a trap. The runners are meant to lead and surround the herd as it moves up the street guiding the beasts to their final end—the killing ground in the plaza. Then the fiesta-goers eat the bulls in a spicy concoction called rabo de toro, or bull stew.

Encierros take place to this very day in the wild. African tribes run herds of animals into traps to sustenance-hunt on a daily basis.

This form of hunting has taken place in and around Spain since the dawn of man. Look no further than the Chauvet Cave paintings in Southern France. They look like Picasso and Hemingway grabbed some paint and a case of absinthe and went for a hike, found a cave, and hung out for the day painting, drinking, and telling stories.

Toward the end of Herzog’s documentary on Chauvet there is a long shot on a cave painting of a beautiful and majestic brown bovine. I’ve seen that breed of bovine with my own eyes on the streets of Pamplona and other small towns in Spain. It is a very specific breed known for its ferocity and power. The Spanish call it Toro Bravo.

Before developing sufficient weaponry, early man needed to trap that animal or send it on a panicked run over a cliff. They did this by running encierros with these animals. Evidence of Native Americans running buffalo encierros is rampant in their oral histories. It is the way primitive man hunted around the world.

A great bulk of humanity feels the subconscious urge to run with animals like their ancestors did. Over a million people converge on Pamplona each year, and there are thousands of lesser-known runs across Spain and Latin America. All of this validates a vital point: Encierros are not just a Spanish tradition. They are a human tradition.

I’ve been to several bull runs. I feel at one with the beast, yet I also feel a deep oneness with my origins as a human being.

More sophisticated hunting is also a human tradition. Corrida, the ritualized public slaughter of bulls, has inspired several of our greatest artists. Picasso and Hemingway pop up a lot, but there’s also Goya and even recent Nobel Prize winner Mario Vargas Llosa. There’s no doubt death can be a beautiful and glorious thing.

Prehistoric man didn’t just run encierros to kill large game. They also ran them to capture and cultivate livestock needed for large-scale agriculture, another element that led to historic man.

We come from hunter-gatherer societies. I don’t have a problem with the consumption of vegetation. It isn’t mass murder to cut down a cornfield. It’s great. Veggies keep us healthy. We couldn’t live without them, but we wouldn’t be who we are without meat.

Why has there been this recent absurd divide in Western society between hunter and gatherer? Meat-eater v. vegetarian. It’s pretty obvious we need both, dummies.

What if when the Hemingways and Picassos of the tribe got back to the cave with their kill and started to paint and tell the story of the hunt, but then the gatherers of the clan piped in to protest the killing of animals? I’m pretty sure the Hemingways and Picassos would have taken big rocks and cracked the gatherers’ heads open. Just imagine what they’d do to you, PETA pea-brains.

But I keep forgetting, PETA: You are hunters! You hunt unfortunate homeless puppies like my dear Puggles and you slaughter them in back rooms and throw them in the trash. But I understand. Hey, it’s just part of life for pets. But here’s where I have a problem with it: I eat the bulls that I hunt in Spain. How about you start eating the puppies and kittens you kill in America?

Who knows—maybe your brains will grow a little.

Murderers. You’ve been hoisted on your own PETArd.

—BILL HILLMAN

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It’s been a week or so since callous remarks from Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch, slathered the Internet like suet on a double chin.

He admitted…without so much as a side dish of remorse…that Abercrombie and Fitch does not make clothing for fat women. I know it’s unbelievable, but it’s true. They also don’t make adaptive sweaters for hunchbacks and Jamba Juice doesn’t sell venison. These are the times we live in.

That kind of thing is a nasty slap in the body image’s chops, and the chicks are fat ’n’ furious. They’ve raised their voices with such righteousness, you’d think Abercrombie & Fitch was a government agency that refused to make crosswalks wide enough for them just to be dicks. The ladies’ resentment is clear. Attracting people to attractive people is ELITIST. Limiting sizes is SIZEIST. Having a target market is EXCLUSIONARY and is a demonstration of HATRED directed toward the sisterhood of the jowly and cumbersome. I mean, how dare they? Having a clothing store that doesn’t provide for all body types is like telling black people they can’t come into your house, which I’m pretty sure is illegal.

Never mind that there are other avenues by which the plump ’n’ tubby can clothe themselves. A medium shirt at Walmart is the width of a fireplace and it gets roomier from there. But the wide are then ghettoed, and besides, this issue is about helping fat women into mall clothes.

Who better to help than Greg Karber? Greg Karber is perfect for the job, as he is a smug, womanly, and predictable fellow from Los Angeles. If Abercrombie & Fitch won’t mumu the merchandise, The Karberator is gonna stick it to ‘em and make ‘em sorry! To counter their brand association with the snappy, sassy, fuckable jet set, Greg Karber wants to make A&F synonymous with people who are the opposite of that…the homeless! Karber launched his “Fitch the Homeless” campaign by way of a YouTube video in which his precious, cheeky self stars as the grand proxy handing out wardrobes to the unwashed. The kinetic sculptures made of beef jerky and cat teeth known as the people of Skid Row hesitantly took the clothes, Greg flapped his bearded valve of outrage, and thus a little movement was born. The news agencies you’d expect chirped away with enthusiastic support, as did celebrities Kirstie Alley and Ellen Degeneres. (She’s the lady who played the mean guy in Karate Kid.)

Am I alone in thinking it’s a teensy bit hypocritical and maybe just a smidgen cheap to try to punish the evil capitalist for being superficial by linking him with an arsenal of ugly poor people? Apparently the crusaders see no incongruity in claiming to help the homeless while using them as props to literally and figuratively stain the name of Abercrombie and Fitch. If anything, it proves A&F’s marketing department is right, but alas, Greg Karber is too busy being goddamned wonderful to notice.

—LORIN

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Police in New Orleans have arrested two brothers in connection with the Mother’s Day parade shootings there and, by “brothers” I mean they have the same mother, not that I’m calling them “soul brothers” in effect or was referring to them as “brother-man” or anything to show I’m down with the Negro like so many other newsmen and newswomen are so wont to do.

Why not just do their little newscasts in blackface? “Now looky heah. We be back afta dese words from our sponsors an’ shit.”

Right on, “bro” or “sista.”

Authorities are pleased to have arrested the parade rainers-on before the upcoming Arbor Day and Panama Canal Day Parades take place or the weekly Wednesday Parade.

Their citizens should be able to prance contentedly while holding umbrellas for no reason in relative safety now. It’s like every day is Gay Pride Day there. No wonder Little Richard cut his records there. It’s the only place he fit in.

New Orleans is in the South, so it goes without saying that it’s really weird and bizarrely backwards and violence-prone and its “people” tend to be developmentally arrested, uncouth, and unappealing. Duck Dynasty is filmed in the South, for example.

What I don’t understand about the New Orleans Mother’s Day parade is this: Where were the floats? Where were the marching bands?

I’m not suggesting that’s any reason to shoot at it, but let’s see some batons tossed in the air. Where were drum majorettes? Where were the tassels?

I didn’t shoot anyone for Mother’s Day this year, but I bought my mom an edible arrangement. My brother decided to go that route, too. Then again, we’re from the North.

One day the South is seceding from the Union, the next day they’re playing banjos while fryin’ up a mess o’ catfish.

Pick a lane, y’all.

They’re big on enslaving others and boiling peanuts. Who does that?

If Honey Boo Boo was born into a less primitive culture, say isolated hunter-gatherers from the remote Alaskan outback, she would have been set adrift on an ice floe at birth for the greater good of the species.

Not everyone in the South marries their first cousins. Those are just the people who can’t get a date with their siblings.

Ever see that documentary on the South called Deliverance?

Ever hear the words “water moccasin?” “Jim Crow?” “Clay Aiken”?

If you’re lucky enough to attend a parade down there and a rampaging rap enthusiast of African descent doesn’t shoot you, Jerry Lee Lewis probably will.

—SHIFT

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livefast_mag I used to be Snow White, but I drifted. ~ Mae West

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Look at you. What a happy camper you are.

Life’s treated you well. You have a loving family and an army of friends who’ll always be there for you. Your mental and physical health are in tip-top shape, and when you look in the mirror, you can’t help but smile. This is it. This is the good life.

Well, fuck you, buttercup, you’re living in a dream. Everything around you will eventually crumble and be taken away from you. Everyone you love will die, and you will, too. And it’s not at all certain that you’ll die peacefully of old age, surrounded by your loved ones. Sudden horrific violence, painful diseases, as well as the indifference and malice of your fellow man—they’re always just around the corner, ready to meet you. In this cold and indifferent universe, darkness will forever hold sway.

You made a huge mistake, glitter-bug: You thought you were special. Misery, bloodshed, and tears—that’s something other people experience. Not you. You’re God’s special child.

Well, pucker up and bend over, Twinkles, because you need a reminder that your blissful moment in the sun can sooner or later turn into a lonely and cold journey through the dark woods at night, and tender kisses are sometimes just a prelude to a horrible session of brutal ass-fucking.

I only do this because I care for you. I swear. Now if you’ll just kindly bend over so I can spit in your asshole.

Here are three full documentaries, all dealing with different forms of human suffering, that will hopefully spoil any idea you have of a benevolent God and caring universe. Misery and existential crisis ahoy!

DEAR ZACHARY: A LETTER TO A SON ABOUT HIS FATHER

When Andrew Bagby was murdered by his pregnant girlfriend, his friend Kurt decided to make a cinematic scrapbook for the unborn child, Zachary. But things didn’t exactly turn out that way, and by the time this absolutely devastating film is over, two more lives will have been snuffed out. This film will drain you.

CHILD OF RAGE

Sexual abuse can do horrible things to a child’s mind, and no film shows this more effectively than Child of Rage, a heartbreaking and extremely disturbing little television documentary from 1992 about Beth Thomas, a little girl with a strange emptiness in her eyes. Child of Rage will hopefully teach you something about how fragile a child’s mind can be, and chances are it’ll linger in your mind for a very long time. Good, because it should be mandatory viewing for everyone.

TITICUT FOLLIES

Banned in the US for a number of years, this 1967 documentary calmly follows the patients/inmates of Bridgewater State Hospital for 29 awful and unfortunately quite normal days. Whatever demons are tormenting these lunatics in their own fragile heads, chances are they’re absolutely charming compared to the hospital’s abusive staff. And considering what we now know about Bridgewater, some of these “lunatics” weren’t actual lunatics until they for various silly reasons arrived at the damn place and had dehumanizing “medication” crammed into their bodies.

—LASSE HOLMBERG JOSEPHSEN

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The question of whether it’s OK to cum on a girl’s face speaks to a fundamental relationship dynamic.

I recently came across the following TED talk by Cindy Gallop, founder of MakeLoveNotPorn.com. In it, she talks about men who like to cum on girls’ faces. It’s always a fun topic, especially since it speaks to a fundamental relationship dynamic no one ever talks about.

The money shot, so to speak, starts at 1:50 and lasts ’til 2:30.

What do you do when a girl gets upset when you cum on her face? What if she throws a tantrum? What if she cries? You can either:

1. Apologize, feel bad for even wanting to cum on a girl’s face, and promise you will never do it again. Or,

2. Affirm that you like cumming on girls’ faces, and if this girl is going to continue dating you, she’ll have to get used to it.

To the guys who went with #1, there’s no delicate way to put how wrong you are. You were raised by Christians and feminists, and you live in a culture created by Christians and feminists. These two schools deny men one of their most basic desires, a desire that is the keystone of every masculine-feminine relationship: selfishness.

The most concise way I can explain what selfishness means in a relationship is this: The girl will put first whomever you put first. If you’re a wimp who tolerates second-class behavior and caves in to her emotions, she will nag and spend your money and cheat on you. If you put yourself first, your girlfriend will rub your feet and tell you she loves you no fewer than 100 times a day. Not to mention blowjobs galore, because the currency of love is blowjobs.

The corollary of selfishness is respect—when you put yourself first, the girl respects you. As a result, she has little problem changing her preferences to make you happy. What makes you happy will come to make her happy. There’s only a limit to this maxim if you’re a psychopath.

It’s worth mentioning that Gallop admittedly only cavorts with twenty-something men. Well, rarely does a twenty-something man deserve respect—rarely has he learned to be selfish. Therefore, of course Gallop is going to hate it when these boy toys cum on her face. They’re probably trying to be sneaky about it. If a selfish man came on Gallop’s face, she would love it.

So, should you cum on a girl’s face? As we’ve discussed, it’s about what you want. Personally, I like to cum on everything, and a girl’s face is a thing, so yes, I will want to cum on it. My wanting to do it makes it good, and my doing it makes my relationships good. Sure, some girls prefer I don’t cum on their face, but some girls also prefer I don’t fart in front of them. And if they really don’t like it, they know where the door is.

Cumming on a girl’s face has been called misogynistic by the Vagina Monologues crowd. Their point is too mind-numbing to refute. All I can say in response is this: Girls have squirted on my face, and in no way did it make me feel emasculated, degraded, or disrespected. And who doesn’t love getting pussy juice all over your face while eating out a girl? I love girls and I love sex, so of course I’d want to be as close to those two things as possible.

I have consistently praised the virtue of honesty as man’s most powerful weapon when it comes to attraction. But Gallop’s talk reminds me that selfishness is right up there. In fact, selfishness is the other side of the honesty coin. Honesty is a selfish act, and selfishness is an honest act. If, however, you’ve gone to too many sermons or Lilith Fairs to be selfish, then find the nicest girl possible so she’ll at least feel bad when she walks all over you.

—MARK DERIAN

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I was going to say that the chickens are coming home to roost for Barack Obama, but after careful reconsideration, I realized that using the word “chickens” could possibly be perceived as stereotypical and racist.

In the past few weeks, Mr. Obama—a MAN whose vice president is another MAN, just like all the previous presidents and vice presidents throughout history—has been rocked by one scandal after the next: Benghazi (where Americans were killed, so I approve of that one), the IRS targeting asshole right-wing groups (I also approve of that one), and the Justice Department spying on Associated Press reporters (who are mostly male, so I approve of that one, too).

Don’t get me wrong—I voted for Obama both times, and the first time he was elected, I sat in my room and cried for three weeks. Half of my tears were for joy that we’d finally elected a black president. The other half were tears of sorrow, because Obama had picked some asshole MAN as his running mate rather than the highly capable and utterly adorable Hillary Clinton.

But as any rational crusader for social justice knows, Goddess works in mysterious ways, and you DEFINITELY don’t want to piss her off when she’s on her period. Me and some of my friends at the weekly gender-studies workshop at my local anarchist bookstore sat around yesterday casting the I Ching, which told us that there is a reason all this is happening to our president.

It’s because he’s not a woman.

Women, you see, have suffered through nearly 100 million years of rape, abuse, maltreatment, harassment, rape, torture, rape, insults, cruelty, and rape.

I say: ENOUGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We need a black female president, and we need one NOW!!!!! I also believe they should be gay, so my first choice would be Wanda Sykes. I also believe that their vice president should not only be a black lesbian, but also severely disabled. I suggest Azalea Cooley. I’ve always thought she had such a pretty name.

And guess what?! I don’t care about what you say about me in the comments, scrubs!!!! I’m on the right side of history, and all you Neanderthals can go and die, at which point I’d gladly shit on all your corpses. Fuck YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

—MR. INJUSTICE

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