Dear Murray,

My fiance' was in an abusive marriage before I met her.  Her ex-husband is like the King of Douches.  How can I deal with this problem without involving police, or at least becoming a suspect?

Overprotective in Wisconsin

Haha. Sucks to be you! Here, you thought you were just settling in for some easy regular action. Now, you've gone and gotten yourself in the plot of a Lifetime movie. On the plus side, at least you're banging Valerie Bertinelli.

There are two main reasons a dude beats his woman. Either she taped over the Super Bowl with some RuPaul Drag Race bullshit, or the dude's got a dick about the right size to fill an ant's twat (and still leave room for a reacharound). Since you didn't fess up to beating her any, too, we're gonna have to guess it's the latter.

So, here's the other part that sucks for you. Lifetime movies always end the same way. Someone burns a bed, and your ass gets sent to the pokey. Now, if this was HBO, there'd be an insurance policy out on you, and she'd be banging Christian Slater.

Let's take a little quiz, and see just which movie you're in. Don't anybody go and steal my thunder and start a Facebook "Which Domestic Violence Movie Are You?" quiz, either. I've got dibs on that shit.

Is your fiancee...
Attractive? (1 point)
Uglier than Blair's retarded cousin from the Facts of Life? (3 points)
Ridiculously Hot? (5 points)

Is her ex...
Fat and Hairy? (1 point)
Danny Glover? (3 points)
A creepy-looking dude with a porno 'stache? (5 points)

Are you...
As dull as a Disney character? (1 point)
More afraid of your fiancee than of him? (3 points)
One of them sensitive drama teacher types? (5 points)

Now, add up your score, and let's see how you did.

1-5 points:
You're Beauty and the Beast.
Dude may talk some mad shit, saying "I can change!" but all in all, you've got nothing to worry about. Your problems are G-rated.

6-10 points:
You're The Color Purple.
You may feel like you want to like you want to cut the dude's junk off while he's sleeping, but he ain't worf it, Miss Seeley. Call that dude's bluff one time, and he'll be all apologetic and sending her flowers. If he starts sending you flowers, then that's a different movie, entirely. Sleep with one eye open and, whatever you do, don't drop the soap.

11-15 points:
You're Sleeping With the Enemy.
Dude, you're fucked. There's gonna be bullets flying, and one of you is gonna die. You'd better take that woman to a shooting range, because it's gonna be all up to her at the end, while your ass is knocked out on the floor.

Now that you know what you're up against, there's only one thing left to do. RUN! While you still can.

Now leave me the fuck alone.

So, I was sitting here thinking about how they say dudes will fuck anything, and I think it's time for a new regular feature. This game is simple. I'll show random shit, and you tell me if you'd fuck it. If you fuck this up, you're in the wrong fucking place.

On to the goods...

The empty toilet paper roll.


It's shaped just like your dick, and if you're staring at it, your dick is probably already out, so what the hey? Bitch is asking for it.

.. ..

The half eaten banana


Hey, it's soft and gooey, and it provides a built in depository. Sure, it's a little cold at first, but aren't they all?

..

The Sea Anemone


As I like to call it, "the pussy of the sea." It looks just like one of them rubber pocket pussies, but buyer beware. Those tentacles sting!

..


The Dirty Sock


Hey, that shit needs to go in the wash, anyway. Why not get some extra use out of it?

..

Now leave me the fuck alone, you sock-fucking bastards.

Dear Murray:

Do you have much knowledge or thoughts on 12 step programs?

One of my questions, can you recover from addiction to crack cocaine but be able to drink socially at some point?

You know Murray ain't never needed any 12-step program. The first step would be them telling me how to live my life, and the next 11 steps would be my feet on their face and tit. HOP-SHUFFLE-STEP. HOP-SHUFFLE-STEP.

I did once bang someone in a 12-step, though, which makes me infinitely qualified to make fun of it.

There is nothing better to talk about on St. Patrick's Day. If you plan on drinking green beer tonight, 12 steps aren't enough. Bitch, you're like 1/100th Irish, twice removed by adoption. Save it for May 5, when you go down to the old wing bar to celebrate Mexican Independence Day with all the other assholes. Mexican Independence Day is in September, by the way.

AA ain't nothing but another DRUG. Some people are hooked on meth. Some people are hooked on dirty martinis. Them bitches are hooked on healin'. I've got a tip for ya. If you don't feel like you can muster the self-control to ever live life for two weeks without attending a meeting, you're STILL A FUCKIN' ADDICT. Different day, different drug.

I know you may feel like if you pop open a beer, it will be like opening the box in Hellraiser. Pinhead is going to pop out and say CHOOSE YOUR FATE, and you'll wake up 37 hours later, with no clue where you are, and bleeding from the anus. I only have one thing to say about that. What the hell are YOU drinking? I gotta get me some of that!

So you can forget all that bullshit. If you wanna join up with that shit, you might as well go all out and sign up for one of those cults where you castrate yourself and let the leader bang your wife and daughter, because, well, he plays GUITAR.

Murray's gonna help you out. I've devised a 12 step program, guaranteed to help you break the addiction. Here we go.

Step 1: Don't be a dick. No, really. Don't be a fuckin' dick. Look in the mirror and ask yourself: "do I look like a dick?" If the answer is no, ask someone else. If they say no, come ask me. The answer is ALWAYS yes.

Step 2: Floppy Dong Hat. Yeah, you could go apologize to whoever you were a dick to, BUT THEY ALREADY KNOW. So you need to let the world know that you're a dick. The floppy dong hat works just like a dunce cap, but have you ever tried creating spreadsheets with a big rubber frenelum smacking you in the face? I have, and the truth is that it's less of a soul-killer than doing them without the dong.

Step 3: The Hair of the Dick. By this, I don't mean sucking dicks in an alley. We're not to that step, yet. What I mean is that if you can't drink without being a dick, the goal is to fucking drink without being a dick. So, give it a go. If it fails, hey, everyone already thinks you're a dick, so nothing's lost.

Step 4: The Sober Roast. You're just not getting it. Time to let everyone else show you. Get a bunch of people together who hate your ass, and they get to make fun of you, smashed off their asses. The only catch is that YOU can't drink a drop. No, your ass is gonna feel what it's like to babysit a whole room full of drunken assholes, MUCH LIKE YOURSELF.

Step 5: Waterworks. No, I'm not talking about a sequel to that shitty movie Waterworld, unless Kevin Costner's vision included your sorry ass sobbing uncontrollably in the shower, cupping your balls with one hand, whilst wiping snot bubbles from your nose with the other. Come to think of it, if you've ever seen Waterworld, that's probably exactly the fucking sequel he had in mind. Take that shit into the shower. We don't need to see that shit.

Step 6: Man the fuck up. You feel better after your little cryabout? Well, it's time to buck up, because now you're not only an asshole, but you're a crybaby asshole. Is it still illegal to abort in the 163rd trimester?

Step 7: The Lucky Step. Hey, I was gonna charge your ass for this step, but it's your lucky day. You're getting this one for free. What? You want advice? I'm already giving you this one for FREE. Goddamn. Want. Want. Want.

Step 8: Use Your Forces for Good. Hell, you've worn the dong hat, you've been made fun of, you've even cried, and you're still an asshole. Donate some of that to charity. You're a legendary asshole in your town. Volunteer to man the old "Throw a mallet at the asshole" booth at a local fundraiser. You'll bring in millions.

Step 9: Drink something else, for piss' sake. So, when you drink whiskey, you're a total asshole. When you drink wine spritzers, you just start bitching about everyone's fashion choices. Better yet, go for something harder than whiskey that will knock your ass out even FASTER. The faster you go unconscious, the less time you're spending being a DICK. Everyone wins.

Step 10: The Lockjaw. Wire that shit shut. You've been given too much free will, and you can't handle it. So close that mouth up, for good. You'll still be able to drink all you want, through your little sippy straw, but none of us will have to listen to your bullshit!

Step 11: The 'Don't Daddy, it Hurts!' Remember when you used to get all drunk and beat on your kids? Well, that kid is 6'3" now, and your jaw is wired shut, so nobody will even hear you scream.

Step 12: Just accept it. Face it, dude. You've tried it all, and you're still a dick. Water finds its own level, and your level is underground, in an outhouse. You always have, and always will be, a total dick. It's ok. The world needs dicks to make the rest of us look better. Keep on keepin' on.

YOU'RE CURED.

Now leave me the fuck alone.

So, in case you missed that shit, Jim Cramer was on Jon Stewart last night. Here's the unedited version of the interview:




Aww. That poor fuckwad thought he was gonna go and play rabble rousers for a bit, nudge each other on the shoulder and call it a day. What he got was a complete ass-raping that could end his career, if not land his ass in prison.

Anyway, that bald fucker isn't the problem. He deserved every bit of what he got last night for sticking his ass all up in the air for the past week. The man does a shitty assed show where he just yells at people, and gives them horrible financial advice. Let's face it, you're better off getting financial advice from this fucker:



Still, he's just a small part of the problem. I'll tell you what the motherfuckin' problem is. The problem is YOU ARE LETTING THESE FUCKERS DISTRACT YOU AGAIN.

We've been having this bickering bullshit over SOCIALISM and REDISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH. Oh my god! You can't tax the rich! If you tax the rich, they might not throw a fucking quarter in our little tin cups that we also use to drink, piss, and shit in! NOOOOOOOO!

Who the fuck cares? I know you bitches don't really give a fuck. The rich don't really give a fuck. Instead of taking home $200 million in a year, under the new taxes, they might take home $198 million. Boo fucking hoo. My mistress is gonna have to drive a Mercedes instead of the Bentley I promised her! THE WORLD IS SHIT!

Fuck you. The rich don't give a shit. Seems to me the only people who give a shit are these broke ass fuckers who WANT to be rich someday, and galllldamnit, I don't wanna pay more taxes.

FUCK YOU. Turn off your goddamned TAY-VAY.

These fuckers have done a good job of buying up all the media, and telling them what to spoon feed your asses. We've been pounded with this shit. It's socialism. It's redistribution of wealth. It's poor people's fault that the economy is in the shitter! Blame the UAW!

Blame the rich fuckers running this shit into the ground, and collecting millions to do it. Blame the fuckers who thought it would be a good idea to sell $500,000 houses to the guy who works the night shift at the Plaid Pantry. That fucker sold every broke ass motherfucker on a pyramid scheme mortgage, and cashed the fuck out.

Blame the motherfuckers playing quarters with your granny's 401k. They push the stock market up and down with imaginary money, take their cut and pay fewer taxes on that shit than the dude at the Pantry pays on his income. (Oh yeah, thanks for that capital gains cut bullshit, by the way.) And then, when all the imaginary money disappears in a poof of sweat and greedlust, WE have to bail those motherfuckers out.

And you wanna talk to me about redistribution of wealth? We've been redistributing the wealth 'round here for fucking decades, just not in the direction that you think. Those cocksuckers have bled the turnip dry, cut a hole in it, and fucked it raw.

They've sent your jobs to Vietnam, they've stolen everything you own in various bullshit schemes, and they've bought your goddamned brains so you think it's ALL POOR PEOPLE'S FAULT!

Let me tell ya, the poor people aren't hurting with this economy bullshit. If you lose half of nothing, you know what's left? FUCK YOU!

And then, there's this cuntwhore.



Rick fucking Santelli. I'm SO MAAAAAAD! Hey! Wall Street suits are PISSED OFF. What? We're gonna give people free money and all they did was buy a house? It took us a decade to drive the whole DOW into the ground and get 10 times the free money they're giving the poor people. MOMMY! It's not fair!

Fuck you, Rick Santelli, and your bullshit fake populism. Tell me, between sucking corporate cock on your way to becoming a hedge fund manager and your on air circle jerks, where you bitch about poor people, when did you speak to Mr. Everyman? HELL NO WE WON'T GIVE THEM DOUGH. (We only fork out cash to people in suits, bitches!)

And no, I'm not talking about this dipshit.



I mean every man who has been fucked over by your bullshit. I mean every man who is fucking stoked that he's going to be getting a whole TWENTY FIVE extra dollars a week in unemployment. That shit's gonna totally help him catch up after a whole year on unemployment.

Every man wants to see you fuckers in prison. Hell, if I was dictator, I'd tax your asses at 150%. I'd put you on the streets in the stocks, gold-plated of course, so as not to get splinters in your tender little wrists, and let every granny in America that you bled dry beat you across your smug ass faces with their purses.

It won't hurt as much as it would have a couple years ago, of course, because THERE'S NOTHING LEFT IN GRANNY'S PURSE.

Seriously, fuck you.

Now leave me the fuck alone.

Dear Murray:

Your wit and wisdom has prompted me to write you...any thoughts on how to handle a messy bleeding broken heart?

I can think of younger days when living for my life
Was everything a man could want to do
I could never see tomorrrrrrrrrow, but I was never told about the sorrow

Well, for starters, if you want to stay broken up; don't listen to any AL GREEN. After +/- 5 songs from the Reverend, your weepy ass will be all calling his ass and saying:

I'm so tired of being alone, oh god please call me and come back home. I'm still in love with you so here I am. Come take me. OH GOD PLEASE. I am desperate for some love and happiness, so let's stay together.
 
I ain't making this shit up, that's straight from the track listings for tracks 1-6 of Rev. Al's Greatest Hits.

Come to think of it, in that sorry state, yo' ass is gonna craft serious emotional connections to any goddamned song you hear. OMG! THE ROLLING STONES VIA DEVO ARE RIGHT! I CAN'T get no satisfaction! Then you're bawling your eyes out in the produce aisle, and none of us need to see that shit.

You're banned from all music, lady. Get yourself some noise cancelling headphones, and wear that shit everywhere, unplugged.

You know what's become a long-lost art? Burning in effigy. You ever tried to take an old picture with 10 people in it and try to burn out just that one evil BITCHWHORE from ever existing? That shit takes skill. It's like a controlled burn of a California hillside, except, you know, with more alternating maniacal laughter/weeping uncontrollably.

There's the tried and true method of banging it out. Find someone who looks just like them, bang 'em, and drop 'em. Hey, it's not their fault that they look just like your DOUBLE AIDS INFECTED EX, but goddamnit, it's not Murray's fault either, you whore! Stop fucking calling me!

Whew. I feel better now.

That shit's a difficult tightrope, though, because chances are you'll get the same old attachment to a different dick, and this one's just a lesser version of the last dick, but you still end up curled up in the fetal position. And that's when you decide to start keeping cats.

And that's all you've gotta do. You have to stay somewhere on the spectrum in between fetal position and showing up on the dude's lawn with a chain saw. In no time, you'll meet someone new, and get yo' ass dumped all over again. I promise.

Now leave me the fuck alone.

Fuck all that losing weight bullshit. I'm gonna make some realistic resolutions, and you motherfuckers can hold me to this shit. Without further ado, I hereby resolve:

to drink more in 2009. It's gonna be a long fucking year, and there's only one way to face it: lying down, piss fucking drunk in a gutter somewhere. I'm starting my own batch of dumpster wine. It's fruity, it's nutty, with a mild aftertaste of despair.

to blog more in 2009. Yeah, yeah. I've been a lazy motherfucker for the past, oh, 70 years or so, but 2009 is the year I finally tell each and every one of you motherfuckers just what I THINK.

to make my nipples more perky. Some say it can't be done. GAWDAMNIT, I'm gonna be cutting glass with my manly man nipples this year. Personalized etchings will be by special request, and fetch top dollar.

alright, alright. I'm gonna lose weight. It's not what you think. I'm just doing it to make my dick look bigger.

to end these "zombie walks" for good. Listen, that's funny and all, but you bitches are crying "zombie" too many damned times. Next motherfucker who comes slow-shuffling down my alley is losing a head! I ain't takin any chances.

to clog the shitter at any bank that got part of the bailout. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect bottle caps. Some people throw molotov cocktails. Murray kills bankers' dreams. Invest in some rubber boots, AIG!

to foster world peace, better my fellow man, and slap that man upside his fucking head. A few years back, branding was all the rage. This year, it's gonna be Murray's boot print embedded in your fucking forehead. Who wants some?

Get in fucking line, bitches.

Let's be honest, here. This country was heading into the shitter, long before the letter W. invoked anything besides those cheesy letter people from first grade.



It was a slow, painful march off of the cliff, but a march, nonetheless. That changed, faster than we could have anticipated.

Once upon a time, to be elected as a Democrat, you had to have the spine and conviction of a warm bowl of Jello. Imagine, if you will, Al Gore won the 2000 election. Right now, we'd be finishing up Gore's second term. Joe Fucking Lieberman would be the "Democratic" nominee. We might be better off, overall, than we are now. However, we would still be on the march into the shitter.

The other W., our W., changed all of that. In fact, he changed it so fucking much in eight short years, that Americans are stoked to elect a Black Muslim Terrorist who aborted Bill Ayers' babies with his teeth. Ain't nobody give a fuck! As long as he ain't got an (R) behind his name!

So, thank you, Ralph Nader. If not for you fucking the election up in 2000, we would still be on our way downward. Instead, we took the express bus straight into the shitter. There is only one way to go from here, and that is up.

VIVA SOCIALISM!

Dear Sarah Palin:

Let's face it. You're not that hot. It's all perspective. Sure, in a shotgun to my head game of Fuck, Marry, Kill with you, Libby Dole, and Diane Feinstein, I'd be throwing it in you faster than you could say "Caribou." Compared to the rest of the population, though, you're pretty average.

If only Olympia Snowe were younger...

she'd be the VPILF, and you'd still be eating Mooseburgers with the First Dude.

Anyway, enough about my dick.

I know your first debate is coming up, and you've had a hard time lately, every time you open your mouth. First, there was the clip where Katie Couric asked you a question about the economy, and your response, where you just started grabbing every word that had something to do with the economy out of the air, like magnetic poetry pieces falling from the refrigerator and shattering on the kitchen floor.

As if that wasn't bad enough, I'm sure McCain bitched your ass out good Sunday morning after you made him look like a total dipshit on the TAY-VAY.



I understand. McCain can be a real cocksucker before he has his glass of Ensure.

But now, we hear that there's more to Couricgate, and it's getting worse. When old Katie (who I could't ever take serious after I knew what the inside of her colon looked like) asked you to discuss Supreme court cases, you said Roe v. Wade, then went silent.

Whoever the fuck is coaching you, it ain't working. That's where I can help. Murray's about to tell you everything you need to know for the debate.

Let's break it down, and relate it to some shit that you can hopefully remember. Your kids. We're gonna assign different aspects of governing the whole USA to each of your five kids, Trigg, Track, Alternator, Snowplow, Brick, whatever the fuck their names are.

The economy = Baby Trigg The economy is exactly like your retarded baby. The economy has been eating, shitting its pants, and puking all over the place. And no matter what you do, it's still going to be retarded. So all you can do is follow it around and smell its diaper. Just picture yourself sniffing Ben Bernanke and Hank Paulson's asses, and you'll know as much about the economy as our current President.

The war in Iraq = your soldier boy Track Much like naming your son Track, it's one of the dumbest things this country has even gotten itself into. You know how you made Track join the Army so he couldn't knock up some Eskimo girl? That's how we got into Iraq. Bush was all "oh noooes. Iran and Al Qaeda are coming at Iraq with the double-ended dong. We gotta stop that shit!" And, five years later, we're still stuck there guarding Iraq's sweet little pussy.

Welfare = your knocked up daughter, Bristol Just when you thought Bristol was gonna get a job, and get outta your damned house, she shits out a pup. Now, she's going to be stuck around the governor's mansion another five years, eating your moose burgers and stealing from your purse. Now picture all the black and brown people of the planet doing that, and you have the official Republican Party platform.

Atheists and Homosexuals (aka the Democrats) - your other daughter, Willow Seriously, you named your daughter after a lesbian witch on Buffy. You don't know which way Willow is going to go yet. She could already be working on getting knocked up out of God-fearing wedlock, like Bristol, or she could still enter the convent. ALL YOU NEED TO DO is beat the everloving shit out of her with a Bible. It works like that on gay people, too. If you don't believe me, just ask Ted Haggard.

Education = your daughter Piper There's still some hope for Piper. All she needs to do is spend enough time around Bristol's "fuckin redneck" boyfriend, and you'll scare that child into reading a motherfuckin book. If you don't do something quick, though, you can just forget all about that shit. Piper will be the last best hope. Which probably means that she'll end up a broke, lesbian, welfare mama, who wants to join the Army.

I hope this helps in your preparations. Fuck only knows you couldn't possibly sound like more of an idiot than you did last week.

Now leave me the fuck alone.

Dear Murray:

I was recently laid off by the company I've been working at for the last two years. They outsourced the whole department to Vietnam. What a bunch of dicks! Did I complain once when they asked me to design stupid fucking emails for herbal viagra and shit like that? Or worse, free ipod ads. It was a shitty job, but they paid me, so whatever.

On to the point. My girlfriend and I have been considering moving to Portland for some time. Now could be the time. She works part-time from home, so she can go anywhere.

It's cheaper living than LA, so it makes sense in a lot of ways. But, what about once I get there? Will I end up slinging lattes to a bunch of hippies, or what? What should I do, Murr?

This isn't about the earthquake. Ironically, the earthquake kind of made me want to stay.

-One foot in the moving van, the other stuck in the fault line.

Sorry, I have the Dead Milkmen song stuck in my head. Burn down your home and move to Portland!

Listen up, you whiny little fuck, I'll give you one good goddamned reason to move to Portland.



That's right. That's a motherfuckin maple donut, topped with bacon. What else does a man need (besides NFL Sunday ticket, a steady source of porn/warez, and breakfast burritos in the afternoon. That's right. In the afternoon. Breakfast burritos love you ANY TIME OF DAY.)

So, what the hell are you whining about? You gonna miss sitting in the 405 for 57 hours at a time? Or maybe it's the smog, or the smell of Murray's balls blowing through the streets, riding the Santa Ana winds? My ball stench does have the power to move mountains, and bring universal peace, but seriously, shut the fuck up.

The best thing about LA is the highly entertaining talent pool of up n coming crazy homeless people. LA is just like any other shit town, just with more shit. More shit than you can shovel sometimes.

So pack up your bags and get the fuck out, if you want. And if you don't want, then shut your whining about it, or I'll pack your goddamned bags for you!

Now leave me the fuck alone.

I'm sure you guys all remember Larry Sinclair, the tubby hillbilly who made a video on the YouTubes claiming to have performed oral sex on Barack Obama in the back of a limo, right after Obama smoked crack, of course. I made fun of him, pushed a few buttons and within no time, he wouldn't stop talking about Murray on whatever nut job conspiracy internet radio show would be willing to interview him.

Well, I got bored with that douchebag pretty quickly, but he's still trying. Until today, that is. Today, he had a press conference at the National Press Club. Yes, that National Press Club. You see, it turns out, anybody can rent out a room at the NPC and talk about whatever the hell they feel like talking about.

I've just now stopped laughing about exactly what happened, though.

As this recap on the Huffington Post outlines, that shit just may have been legendary.

I couldn't script this shit any better myself. If only ONE of the following events had occurred, it would make it the funniest shit ever:

1. Sinclair's lawyer (who recently had his license suspended in both Florida and D.C.) shows up to the press conference wearing a KILT. When asked why he was wearing a kilt, he replies "I don't know why men wear pants," he said with a poker face. "It's a function of male genitalia. If you're size normal or smaller, you're probably comfortable with [pants]. ... Those at the other end of the spectrum find them quite confining."

2. Sinclair rambles on and on about how the whole world is conspiring against him. He offers no evidence, other than some psychotic flow chart of the "paid Obama bloggers" who are conspiring against him. If anyone can follow that shit, please let me know. I can't figure out who is supposed to be paying my ass from that scribbled bullshit.


The Murray bone's connected to the... Googalicious bone???

Aren't you fuckers proud? There's no way the single most dysfunctional press conference in American history could possibly go down without mention of Murray! MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

3. The press conference ended abruptly when Sinclair told them there would be no more questions. There would be no more questions because Sinclair was apprehended by U.S. Marshals because of a whole shit load of outstanding arrest warrants for fraud. So, you pay all this money to rent a room, and you can't even leave that shit without getting arrested and extradited. Ain't that a bitch? You should at least get your deposit back.

Now, imagine ALL of that shit happening, all in one place, all at the same time.

I don't know if that shit could have been any funnier if Sinclair had lifted his "lawyer's" kilt and fisted his asshole for an hour and a half.

Well done, Sinclair. A perfect ending to such a worthless sack of shit. Have fun sucking dicks in prison!