Attention Lady Gaga: I hear you like meat

Dear Lady Gaga,

I seen that meat dress you were wearing. If you like meat so much, then how about a bone?

Fuck PETA. PETA can kiss my goddam ass. She was wearing a dress made out of beef, not panda or goddam albatross. Who's to say that meat wasn't cooked up and eaten after the VMAs? Who's to say it wasn't I, Mick Aloha, who ate it? Who's to say I didn't eat that meat and then make out with Lady Gaga? She's probably the one to say that, and that's why I'm goddam pissed.

See, I have a theory. Have you seen that goddam movie with Jodie Foster where she switches bodies with a prostitute with a heart of gold and ends up an FBI agent on an airplane where her daughter disappeared and then she ends up in some ridiculous goddam room with no escape routes? Yeah, it reminds me of that movie. That guy who likes to keep girls in wells and tuck his junk is trying to use the skin of fat-ass girls to make his own girly skin or some shit like that. I can't remember, really. I seen that back in high school, and if you'd wrecked your truck and taken as many blows to the head as I have, you wouldn't remember a goddam thing. So, I think Lady Gaga wants to be a cow. It's ok, Lady Gaga. Mick Aloha doesn't mind. Get your cow on and all that. Cow-abunga, Lady Gaga. Wanna make out?

Before you say it, shut up. I know you're wondering why I want to make out with Lady Gaga. I know she's gross. But, let me be clear; I'd make out with pretty much any girl who didn't have a mustache. Actually, one night I made out with all kinds of girls who didn't have mustaches. Best night of my life. Worst night of my life? Same night.

So, Lady Gaga, I know it's tough being a celebrity and crazy, so here's an idea; put on that meat dress (or better yet, a similar dress with fresher cuts), and then get your hottest lady friend to put on a suit of fries. Then, have your second hottest friend put on a suit of Coca-Cola. Then, all of you ladies need to get really, really drunk (at your own expense), and then give me a call and we'll see what happens. Don't worry; I can TiVo my shows. Hell, I've got my own hotel room.

OK, now on to Cher. I hear you're 64 years-old. Despite your incredible age, I have to admit I liked seeing you dressed up like in that video on the ship that I watched a few thousand times. Really, you were never that much to look at, but, well, you're doable. There, I said it. Now, I know your outfit was sexy, but do you have anything that more closely resembles a Coca-Cola? Either way, if you're looking for a man half your age, and you don't mind pretty much supporting me for the rest of my life in a good-life fashion, let me know.

5 Ways I'm Going to Profit from the Oil Spill

Everyone's crying about these oil-covered birds. Boo-goddam-hoo. I hate goddam birds. All they do is make noise and take dumps all over the place; they're like little Apocs with wings. Back where I'm from in Kentucky, we've got these goddam crows the size of two crows. I hate them. Everyday this week I seen those oil-covered birds on TV, and every goddam time I thought How can I make money off this oil spill? I have some ideas.

1. I'll get naked and pour motor oil all over my body. Four minutes later, I'll go out on the street, preferably during some busy time like "morning" or "late afternoon," and I'll sit there staring like a goddam oil-covered bird. As soon as someone comes up I'll say, "Give me some money, dude, this oil isn't going to wash itself off." Later on, I'll send a bill to BP. They'll be so busy paying out money over the next few decades they won't even notice. I'm hoping this method also helps me pick up chicks. "If you like those goddam oil-covered birds so much, then why don't you do me?"

2. Short BP stock. I don't goddam know how to goddam do that, so fuck that idea. Fuck it with motor oil.

3. Dress up like Jesus. Tell people on the street that I'm going down to the Gulf to fix the goddam devil oil spill. Collect money from people as I go. When I reach the Gulf, I'll sidestep Anderson Cooper and Bobby Jindal and walk on the goddam water. Then, when I get to the oil I'll slip. Then, I'll sue BP. I'll also turn water into gin sours.

4. Flood my apartment with oil. File a police report and tell those goddam dirty pigs that some rough looking "teenagers" did it and as they were running away they were talking about seeing the oil spill on the news. Sue BP and Mike Judge.

5. Forget the whole goddam thing, get drunk, and go to the strip club.

Don't forget to send me money. I need the good life. My fishing business is ruined.

comedy routine, hooker sensitivity, Sarah Palin

I was looking for some great content on the web the other day and came across this site. I thought, "Wow, whoever wrote this is a goddamned genius. Superb. Indeed, superb." I was about halfway through reading this great content when I realized I'm the one who wrote it. I'm so awesome I amaze myself, which is how it should be. Then I thought, "Hell, might as well give the hungry masses a new post so they'll give me some money." Then I thought, "A gin sour's sounding pretty good right about now." I got drunk and woke up in a laundromat. I don't even use the laundromat, unless I need change for the Coke machine. You know, a Coke's sounding pretty good right about now. Anyway, here's a new post. Send me money.

What have I been doing since my last post? Working on my comedy routine, that's what I've been doing. Here's the only joke I've written so far. "What do synchronized swimmers and hookers have in common? 1) They both wear too much makeup. 2) They spend a lot of time with their legs up in the air. 3) They both fuck for money." But seriously, folks. Now, I just need to write about 50 more of those, ok, more like 30 if you factor in the laughter, to get me a Comedy Central special.

Speaking of hookers, do you think they get offended when people talk about dead hookers? You know, you're at a party and you're all, "Yeah, so anyway, dude, I used my disposable income to get myself a new Ford and you should see the trunk space. Do you know how many goddamn dead...oh, uh, cats I could get in that trunk?" See, the part where you changed is where your hooker friend walked up, and although you don't care too much if you offend her or not, you'd still like to do her.

Speaking of hookers and ladies I'd like to do, how about that Sarah Palin? She's landed herself a gig over on Fox News, which just teaches you that quitting pays. Why aren't they hiring me over at Fox? They could put on 24 hours of Aloha and the ratings would go through the roof. So anyway, ol' Palin was talking to Glenn Beck and he asked her who her favorite Founding Father was and she said, "All of them." That dumb bitch uses that same goddamn answer for every question.

Interviewer: In how many buildings in Wasilla have you made sweet love to Mick Aloha?

Sarah Palin: All of them.

Interviewer: How many members of that synchronized swimming team would you like to get it on, lesbian style, with?

Sarah Palin: All of them.

Interviewer: How much money should readers be sending to Mick Aloha?

Sarah Palin: All of them.

Favorite Founding Father is a goddamn easy question. Hell, I bet even the MMD could answer that one, and he's a goddamn Canadian. Here are Mick Aloha's favorite Founding Fathers in order.

1) Benjamin Franklin
2) Ulysses S. Grant
3) Andrew Jackson
4) Alexander Hamilton
5) Abraham Lincoln (not the penny, though)

Who don't I like? Washington. Unless I'm going to the strip club.

You've heard that there are trace amounts of cocaine on each $100 bill, but what about the non-trace amounts of Aloha's fingerprint on Franklins? Aloha takes cash. Send it my way. Make me rich! If you make me rich, maybe I'll stop stressing out about getting rich and my hives will go away for good. Dehive me, fools!

On giant chickens and saving the world

I've had two great ideas recently. Actually, since I'm Mick Aloha, I've had about a million great ideas recently, but I'll share only a couple of them with you. If I shared all of them, your head would explode in a bad way.

Sometimes, I think about what I would do if I was in the Thunderdome and had to fight some fool to survive. I think, "What if I was in there with Darth Maul? What would I do?" I know what I'd do. I'd kick off the business ends of his double-bladed light saber and then put him in the figure-four. But, this isn't about that whoosy. This is about a giant chicken.

I love chicken. I mean, I love to eat chicken. Boxes are good. Buckets are better. But, what if I was in the Thunderdome and I had to fight a human-sized chicken? What would I do?

I think chickens, no matter how big they are, love chicken feed. So, I've decided to carry me around some chicken feed in my pockets wherever I go. I'll have to make room in my pockets among all of that disposable income, but I figure I can work something out. Anyway, I'll toss the chicken feed on the ground and wait for the giant chicken to peck. Then, I'll kick his legs out from under him, kick him in the beak, and then fry him up and serve him with mashed potatoes. Some KFC's sounding pretty good right about now.

My other idea is a way for you to survive and me to make money. Have you ever heard of the Plutonian Super Measles? Well, you should have. It's the most deadly...well, I was going to say virus, but it's not really a virus since it's alien. Pretty much what happens is this thing gets into you, messes around a bit, and then your cock falls off. That's right. The Plutonian Super Measles is a cock-killer, just like Drew Barrymore. Zing!

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Mick Aloha, I have all of this extra cash and I don't want to get the Plutonian Super Measles because I like my cock right where it is. What can I do?" I'm glad you asked. Well, you're in luck, as I, Mick Aloha, have developed a cure for the Plutonian Cock-killing Super Measles. For three easy payments of just $29.99 you can have this cure. Now, when it arrives and it looks like a half-eaten Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, don't worry. It's a medical disguise to trick the Plutonian Cock-killing Super Measles. Just eat what's left of it and your cock will stay right where it is, unless you're watching porn, in which case it might move a bit. I'm not responsible for that.

But wait! There's more! If you send me three easy payments of $29.99 in the next five minutes, you also get, absolutely free, a cock sticker that reads "Mick Aloha saved my cock and all I got was this lousy sticker." What a deal! That sticker's made in Germany, and you know those god damn krauts make good shit. So come on, don't delay, send me money and save your cock.

If you're a lady, I'm sorry, I can't help you. The effects of the Plutonian Cock-killing Super Measles on women are unknown. If you send me your picture, preferably in a bikini or naked, I'll get right to work on it, though.

Joe the Plumber sucks

Everyone's talking about Joe the Plumber, but they should be talking about Mick the I.T. Guy. I have needs, too. Why is there so much attention on some rich plumber who already has the good life? Give me the good life, then talk about taxes. What about Mike the Fisherman? How about Apoc the Slacker? What about Slingblade the Blade Slinger? Has anyone considered HHH the Video Game Sales Representative, Student, and Pornographer? Does anyone care about the MMD, the Bollywood Star? How about the Evil King Macrocranios the Evil King? Give us some attention, fools.

Lots of people are talking about the economy, but what they should be talking about is my disposable income. That's what runs the economy. Warren Buffett+Bill Gates=chicken feed. Mick Aloha=important. Instead of following Wall Street, they should be following Mick Street. Did Aloha go to KFC today? Yes. Did he get himself a bucket and mashed potatoes? Correct. Okay then, the market's going up! Buy, buy, buy!

Speaking of donating to Mick Aloha to give me the good life, I know times are hard, but I don't care. Send me money, fools. It's the only way to save yourselves (and me).

Dear Madonna: I'll make out with you, but that's pretty much it

Dear Madonna,

I seen on TV today that you're getting a divorce. I just want to let you know that I'll make out with you, but that's pretty much it. I know you're wondering how you can make out with Mick Aloha and then take it no further, but don't worry. If it starts to go further, I'll run away. See, I'm always looking for escape routes, Madonna, so it won't be a problem.

I don't know what you ever saw in Guy Ritchie, anyway. I seen two of his movies, and I didn't understand a god damn word anyone said. I couldn't even understand Brad Pitt, and he's a god damn American. Speaking of Brad Pitt, he and Angelina "Rode Hard" Aloha like to adopt babies from places no one wants to go, just like you. Maybe you could work your way into that relationship. Maybe they could make you their pet. Who knows? The possibilities are endless. Hmmm, Brangelina. How about Brangelinadonna? Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it, Madonna?

I also don't know what Guy Ritchie ever saw in you. Sure, you're dirty as hell, but that only goes so far. Eventually, you have to talk to each other. I bet your fake British accent drove him crazy. I bet he was all "Gorblimey! This 'ere sheila be trying to speak like a Brit. Pip pip! Tut tut! It's me bloody tea time!"

So, Madonna, take solace in the fact that you can now make out with me. I have to protect #1, and that's me, so nothing below the belt, thank you very much. Pip pip.

My interview with Sarah Palin, dude

Well, it took me nearly a month, but I finally got an exclusive interview with Sarah Palin. Instead of providing full video or audio, I'm instead going to just show snippets of transcript. I don't know why, but that seems to be how the networks roll, dude, and I roll as they roll when it comes to journalism, except I'm awesome and they suck big donkey balls.

MA: Hello, thanks for joining me today.

SP: Thank you, Mick Aloha, you're awesome and I think I might be in love with you.

MA: I seen that, dude. So, please tell everyone your name, Sarah Palin.

SP: What do you mean, Mick?

MA: I mean, what's your name?

SP: Ah, name. Well, Mick, that's a very good question. Names are very important. Heck, hockey moms have to use names just like big wigs down in Washington. Shoot, when Vladamir Putin starts rearing his ugly head, no one's going to say "Hey, look at that giant head that belongs to the guy that we have no word to identify," oh, heck no, they're going to use his name. There are lots of names. George. That's a name. Fred. Louise. Louisa.

MA: Okay, but what's your name, Sarah Palin?

SP: Name? Well, let me tell you, as governor of Alaska, the great state of Alaska, there's an important, and very big and large, yes, there's a very large and enormous responsibility to use names.

MA: Goddam it. You use too many adjectives. Whenever someone asks you a question, you just spit out adjectives.

SP: That a very big, nasty lie.

MA: So, what's your favorite color?

SP: What do you mean?

MA: I mean choose a color.

SP: Oh, heck, I like all of them. I'd have to say all of them. You know, I'm just a regular old hockey mom from the great state of Alaska.

MA: Regular? I heard you're a millionaire.

SP: Oh, well, that's, you know, there, that's, uh, well, see, hockey mom, you know, there, executive.

MA: What makes you think you have the experience to be president?

SP: Yes, definitely.

MA: Damn it, it's not a yes/no question.

SP: Correct.

MA: Damn you, Palin. Now, you're using my line against me.

SP: Correct.

MA: What TV shows do you like?

SP: All of them.

MA: What's your favorite food?

SP: All of them.

MA: In detail, please tell me what you ate for breakfast this morning.

SP: Lots of things.

I had to walk out on my own interview there. I came back, though, and the rest of the interview is in safe keeping until I'm given the good life, just like Sarah Palin.