More More More (Blah Blah Blah)

Take your pick.
I've found so much in the news and the web today it's like over load time.

Seven Bates finds a site to tell every guy all he needs to know about selfabuse and then some.
http://advancedmasturbation.com/
Hmmm...... I may be offline the rest of the day. Repetitive motion injury ya know.

Beer & Present Danger on the LA Times
The game is simple enough for even your average registered voter to understand. Basically, every time Bush says "terror," "terrorism," "terrorist," "war on terror" or "Terror Dome," you drink.

Also drink when the president winks, nods and points at someone in the audience in rapid succession; drink each time he refers to 9/11 or uses the word "nuke-u-lar," and drink something bitter when he says that "the state of our union is strong."

Whenever there's a close-up of a sour-faced Democrat, drink. If it's Hilary Clinton, Ted Kennedy or Harry Reid, drink twice.

Hell I might have watched the damn thing if I were playing that.

A Religion That Grew From a Lot of Brew
On the South Pacific island of Tanna, beneath a volcano that rumbles and smokes, a guy wearing a fake U.S. Army uniform raises an American flag. Then 40 barefoot men march past, carrying fake rifles made of bamboo, their brown chests decorated with red paint spelling out "USA."

Later, a group of men slinging fake chainsaws sing a homemade hymn: "We've come from America to cut down all the trees so we can build factories."

This isn't a protest or a piece of performance art. It's a religious ceremony held every year on Feb. 15 -- John Frum Day, the high holy day of a South Pacific religion that worships a messiah who is, as Paul Raffaele writes in a wonderfully weird story in the February issue of Smithsonian, "an American god no sober man has ever seen.".........

Raffaele arrived in Tanna last February and within hours he was out in the jungle, drinking kava with some Frum worshippers. The stuff tasted "like muddy water," he writes, but it got him very stoned. After his third coconut shell full of kava, his guide carted him back to Raffaele's beach hut.

"By the seaside at my hut," Raffaele writes, "I dance unsteadily to the rhythm of the waves as I try to pluck the shimmering moon from the sky and kiss it."

Well maybe this flaming agnostic could get religion yet.

Both of these will probably disappear in a couple of weeks.