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By the way-get Billy Ray Cyrus on the phone and tell him to start stock-piling that rehab money right now. You wanna talk about bipolar? Billy Ray's daughter performs LIVE IN CONCERT as Hannah Montana AND Miley Cyrus. And she's only fifteen years old. You don't need a calculator to figure out the math on this one. Christ-you could do it on an abacus.

By the way-if you don't know what an abacus is-throw this book into the trash can right now.

YOU

I don't mean you personally.

Unless you are fat, loud and wear low-slung hip-hugging jeans with your fuchsia thong underwear and two inches of backfat, a half inch of side-slop and what looks like white jelly but is in fact a whole extra ass hanging off your stomach and over the front of those jeans. Which are six sizes too small.

Or you insist on eating at McDonald's even though you're in Paris, France-not Texas.

Or you think black socks and sandals are the zenith of summer style.

Or you refuse to have your back waxed before the family trip to Europe.

Or you're over the age of thirteen but still just LOVE Adam Sandler movies.

Or you spend your entire tour of the British Museum going "Ewww-I just saw some dead dinosaur bones-can you believe I'm in London'n yer still in Cincinnati but we're both still talkin' live to each other?" into your cell phone.

Or you spent four months bitching about Janet Jackson's tit and how it ruined your children when she exposed the nipple during the halftime show at Super Bowl XXXVIII but didn't blink an eye during the five hundred and sixteen erectile dysfunction/"get a hard-on for a whole weekend" pill commercials.

Okay.

I take it back.

I do mean you.

MTV'S SWEET SIXTEEN

If you haven't seen or heard of this particular program you either spend far too much time sitting alone reading or suffer from a severe case of autism. If the first case applies-wake the fuck up. If your condition includes the second case-congratulations. You've been spared.

Not only does this program make a fine, upstanding and fairly normal red-blooded American like myself want to gather up every teenage girl with raging hormones and absolutely no sense of real-life limits, stick 'em in a pair of standard-issue fatigues and drop them chuteless into the middle of the Iraqi desert, but what's a day at a warm and breezy beach compared to what would lie in store for their parents.

Ya plant carrots ya get carrots.

In between bouts of whining and texting and whining WHILE texting and soporific party-planning and stomping their Jimmy Choo-clad feet because their dads didn't book 50 Cent for their party these denizens of designer clothes and high-end vodka, these future mental vacuums harangue their moms about seven-thousand-dollar place settings and gold-engraved invitations.

No jobs. No discernible talent. Not even one good blow job available from the entire batch.

They are living breathing Bermuda triangles.

Loaded with cash but not one iota of interest in anything other than the mundane.

Problem is-the terrorists get basic cable too.

TRUMP VODKA

The Donald doesn't drink.

At all.

Ever.

But some brilliant business guy came up with the idea for Grey Goose vodka-a smooth, sensational drink that would be distilled in its best form and become the best vodka in the world and be delivered into your hands in the most gorgeous bottle you could imagine.

Years later he sold the brand for over one billion dollars.

The Donald couldn't keep himself away.

He came up with an okay vodka that is distilled in an okay form but comes in a gold-plated bottle that is worth far more than the drink itself.

He went on CNN and told Larry King that even though he hadn't tasted the stuff himself, the people who worked for him guaranteed it was the best-tasting vodka ever made. And oh, yeah, boss-by the way-no one ever makes fun of your hair.

See, no matter what you might think about extreme Islam and its fevered believers, one thing you can take as a guarantee is this: they have a really truly madly deeply held passion for the things they love/hate. In