So Malaysian cops now have the right to confiscate anybody’s cellphone to see if they have porn on it, and then erase it. Apparently, kids in Malaysia are having huge sex orgies, taping them with their camera phones, and then sending it to everybody. Porn in Malaysia is very very wrong, and if you have it, it’s like getting caught with 20 pounds of hash, and they can go all Midnight Express on your ass. Your sweet, sweet, heart-shaped ass with the little thong straps sticking out. Um, I have to go.

The FDA has decided to postpone the decision “indefinitely” on whether to allow the sale of the so-called “morning after” pill, prompting the director of the agency’s Office of Women’s Health to resign in protest. I guess I’ll be passing out candy this Halloween after all.

It just cost me $32 to fill up the Super Neon. My NEON. THAT HAS A SMALLER TANK THAN A REGULAR NEON.

To which I have two questions, both with two parts:

1) Where was the SRT-8 Charger in 1999 when gas was 79¢ a gallon? And why were we all driving Hyundais and Civics like a bunch of tools?

2) Do nuclear weapons hurt oil? And if not, do we have drill bits that can cut through the enormous glass ocean I want to turn the Middle East into?

There’s a lot of anti-intuitive laws out there – suicide laws, affirmative action, progressive taxes, sodomy laws – but the one that makes the absolute least sense to me is this crazy pedestrian-right-of-way horsecrap. And don’t even get me started on cyclists. You know who has the right of way? The guy behind the wheel of 3500 pounds of steel hurtling down the street. You know what trumps that? An 18-wheeler. And guess what cars and trucks don’t mess with. That’s right. Trains.

I don’t drive on the sidewalk. If I did, I’d get in a lot of trouble. Because sidewalks are for walking. If I’m walking, and I want to cross the street, I look both ways to make sure there aren’t any enormous piles of metal speeding toward me. Cars aren’t bats or crackheads. They’re fairly predictable and tend to travel in relatively straight trajectories. It’s a hell of a lot easier for you to not put your foot on the asphalt than for me to slam on my brakes so you can get to Van Puffinstuff’s Candles and Mirror Shoppe six seconds faster.

If you’re the kind of person that steps in front of a moving car because you think you have the right of way, you’re probably the kind of person who thinks they have the right of way wherever they go. But let me tell you, if you get hit by a car, you deserve it for not staying out of its god damn way. Believe it or not, there’s something that deserves even more respect than you, you pompous entitlement-happy douche. It’s called physics.

With all the coverage of the flooding and damage the hurricane caused, there’s one thing I haven’t seen in the national stories. And no, I’m not talking about the vast improvement to the aroma and cleanliness New Orleans will experience after sitting under twelve feet of raw sewage.

An anonymous PMF correspondent, who we’ll call “My Aunt,” reports it’s a looting extravaganza in the French Quarter. Local suburbanites, and by suburbanites I mean people too poor to live in the French Quarter, have descended on the poo covered cobblestones with shopping carts and rafts fashioned out of dead hookers lashed together with Mardis Gras beads. I guess Katie Couric doesn’t want to talk about the realities of human nature when there’s a cow on top of a barn.

Homeowners are on their roofs with guns to scare off the bargain hunters, but if I know my looters, it’s going to take more than that to keep them from all those delicious voodoo chicken feet and beignets.

Luckily, this completely unrecognizable man has receipts for all those Starter jackets in that bag.

I was driving through Little 5 today when I saw what might be the most confusing bumper sticker ever. Now, I’m pretty well versed in the culture that is pop, relatively aware politically, and I still can’t make heads or tails of it.

“Learning is for Homos”

Is it pro-homo? Anti-homo? Pro-hetero-illiteracy? Hate speech? Bragging? I don’t know. Is this some sort of absurdist slacker humor like the very funny ”Homosexuals are Gay” that I’m just not hip enough to get? I crept up on it to see if there was a logo or some other telltale clue, but nothing. And it was a real bumper sticker, not like the one I made on an industrial label maker that said, “I brake for bacon.”

Compounding the mystery was the vehicle it was attached to. A late model Ford Escort hatchback in surprisingly good condition. Possibly the most politically nondescript car ever. Who was inside? A vegetarian lesbian? A bow-hunter? I just don’t know.

If anyone knows what this means, please, please let me know before I get a nosebleed.

Colleges are funny. In movies like Animal House, they make it look like it’s all toga parties and handjobs. But it actuality, it’s just a place for crazy old guys with tenure to tell kids there’s no such thing as free will and nobody’s liable for anything because mother nature made us do it. Believe me, I wish there was no such thing as free will. I’d be flinging my poo left and right like a monkey, and I certainly wouldn’t be allowed around cute 23-year-olds.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until about halfway through this editorial about poor Heather’s unfulfilling sexcapades. I did enjoy the comparison to assembling Ikea furniture.

In honor of Hillary Duff’s Greatest Hits album debuting at #1 on The Billboard Charts, I’d like to release Pull My Finger’s Top Five Posts of my three and a half month career.

#5 Fill My Prescription

#4 Wine Tastes Good

#3 They may be salty, but they’re yummy

#2 Repairations

#1 I Heart Mandy

Stay tuned for Volumes II thru IV, sometime next week.

An English high school is instituting a 5 F-word limit per class for its colorfully speaking pupils. Teachers will keep a running tally on the blackboard. Student with highest score without going over gets a pizza party.

In what I suspect will become the basis of a heartwarming film starring Denzel Washington and Tom Hanks, opposing-aisle Senators Barack Obama and Most Awesomely Named Dick Lugar were locked in a room together in a Russian airport. No word yet on dissolution of bullshit two-party system.

We always had a problem with #31. She was constantly, “You’re gonna wear that to the jerk? I can’t take you ANYwhere!”

I didn’t mention it before, because I don’t like dragging new friends into the public scrutiny that is PMF, but then I see Mandi today and she’s all, “You didn’t even mention us in yo blog.” So to make amends, I was at Six Flags with Mandi and her easy queasy hubby Ross, and we had a great time, even if Mandi doesn’t know when to keep her shoes on.

So I went to Six Flags today. I think the last time I went was with Dan about 8 years ago. Rode a bunch of roller coasters. The first one I went on was “Superman – Fight of Fancy” or something, and I actually got a little messed up. First time ever. I guess I’m just getting old. After a few more I got in the swing of things and nothing really fazed me. “Deja Vu” was pretty cool. Very, very fast. Lots of jowl flapping on that one. Ended the day getting totally soaked on “Thunder River.” Drove home wet. Good day.

Arrested Development returns September 19th. It’s on Mondays now. Go buy a TiVo. Now.

Some things are totally cool. Some things aren’t. I kind of want one of these. Make up your own mind.

Some guy with some hard core arrested development has made adult-sized Big Wheels. And every year, he has a rally. For people to ride around on their Big Wheels. In public. I need a shirt that says, “If you can read this, will you pretend to be my bitch because my Mom thinks I’m gay?”

Loyal Gothamite readers can go ahead and skip this, because I know you can’t cross the street in New York without running into some quasi-celebrity. Literally. I was trying to simultaneously walk and shove a slice of pizza into my face once when I smacked right into Isaac Mizrahi. I can tell you with a fair amount of personal experience that he is a very large, easily angered gay man who does not like pepperoni grease anywhere on his person.

But local readers may be marginally piqued by my less volatile encounter at the Chik-Fil-A in the food court at the mall today.

Despite the lame camera phone picture, I promise you that is Saturday Night Live double quota filler Horatio Sanz ordering a #1 combo with a sweet tea. No value size for the big TV star. He don’t need no stinkin’ value. He was there with one of the guys from VH1′s Best Week Ever I didn’t go to college with.

Not that you’ll believe me, but I was totally going to order the same thing even before I saw him.

Anybody out there reading this that doesn’t know me probably thinks, “Huh, that guy has some weird shit happen around him sometimes.” Well, believe me, if I told you half the stuff that I see, hear, taste and smell, your brain would shut down Schiavo style. I’m like a weird shit superconductor.

You ever find a homeless guy in a girl’s closet?

You ever get arrested for giving a guy a ride to a crack house?

You ever seen a guy whose parachute didn’t open land 30 feet from you?

You ever have a Jehovah’s Witness break into your house and try to save you while you’re taking a shower?

You ever have a next-door neighbor build an airplane in his living room, and then blow his own head off because he couldn’t figure out how to get it out?

You ever mow the lawn of a CIA safehouse and realize somebody screams every time the lights flicker?

You ever been been robbed sitting in the drive-thru at Taco Bell, and then get yelled at for not being able to pay for the Mexican Pizza you ordered?

And don’t even get me started on “Clothing Optional Weekend.” Seriously.

And that’s just the stuff I tapped out off the top of my head. I’ve forgotten more craziness than most people can make up. Once a week someone says, “Hey, remember that insane thing that happened to you?” and I’m like, “Oh yeah. I forgot all about that Pulitzer Prize winner who tried to talk my parents into making me spend the night with him for my own good when I was 12 and turned out to be a child molester” or whatever.

I’m also one of those people that others seem comfortable talking to, about things no one should feel comfortable talking about to anyone. I guess it’s my kind eyes.

Yesterday I got a call from a former employer, who pretty much single-handedly takes up vol. 4 of Devon’s Time Life Series of What the Fuck Just Happened?!? That particular volume has luxurious Zig Zag endpapers.

“Hey, can you get any weed?”

“uh…”

“My son really wants some.”

“uh…”

“He just got out of rehab, and he’s pissed.”

“uh…”

“Seriously, it’s not for me.”

“uh…”

“I swear.”

“uh…”

“I know you don’t smoke a lot, I just thought you might know someone.”

“uh…”

“You sure? It’s just that I promised him I’d make some calls. He’s really being a pain in the ass.”

“uh…”

And trust me when I say, it’s actually 100 times crazier than it sounds.

Let me take this opportunity to yell from the rooftops the praises of Ann’s Snack Bar, home of the bootylicious Ghetto Burger. Nobody makes a burger like the lovely Ms. Ann. Even the conspicuously uncredited and random AmericasBestBurgers.com ranks it #9 in the country. #9! The Vortex is like dog food compared to Ms. Ann’s. Seriously, if you eat meat, and you live within a hundred miles, you owe it to yourself to walk in and proudly order a Ghetto Burger. Skip the Hood Burger. It’s good, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the Ghetto. I don’t have a lot of sex, but this monster of mouth mayhem more than makes up for it. Or causes it. Whatever. Just shut up and eat it.

A woman walked into a police station in the outback Wednesday, claiming to be an all-grown-up and not-digested-at-all Azaria Chamberlain, the “dingo ate my baby” baby.

She said she had flashbacks to when she was nine weeks old and found herself between the jaws of a dingo.

I have that same flashback all the time. Except it’s not a dingo. It’s Goofy at Disneyworld, and that felt covered bastard won’t stop tickling me.

Full of crazy paranoid chicks thinking I’m taking pictures of them in their dorm rooms, and then getting beaten within an inch of my life with an iron. Oh wait. That did happen to me.

The hard hitting exposé on the Starbucks nation of Edgewood hit the paper. Reporter Phil Kloer dropped the ball when he didn’t describe the Barnes & Noble manager’s reaction to his questions. When asked about the Starbucks in his book nook, Phil told me the French History doctoral candidate/Itty Bitty Book Lightâ„¢ vender looked at him “like I took a dump in his store.”

Phil also managed to spell my name wrong.

On the connector. I don’t know, maybe you were fighting with your Eagle-Eye Cherry looking boyfriend and just looking for anybody to go totally menstrual on, but fucking with me and The Rumbler is not a good idea. You can give me the bird, ride your brakes to get my attention, and scream at me as you illegally change lanes all you want. The fact that your man obviously couldn’t care less about me and was actually covering his face as you popped a blood vessel in my direction assures me that I didn’t do anything wrong, and you are a crazy bitch. But I knew that already, because I’m me, and you’re a chick driving a car. Jeez, I sound like Smoove.

Horniest. Antiperspirant. Ever.

Mitchum, the men’s grooming brand one step away from Barbasol, is looking to reinvent itself as the Maxim of underarm sticks. Their new campaign includes such gems as, “If your best friend is holding your bachelor party pictures… you’re a Mitchum Man.” Some things need to just give up the ghost. It’s Mitchum for Christ’s sake. The stuff The Greatest Generation used to not smell like Schaefer while they gave their women fat lips for burning the liver. Look, Lord knows I don’t have a problem with using sexy humor when it’s appropriate (see: Las Vegas – “Ted really had his fill… of the loin“), if it’s done right. And it’s actually humorous. But any company that ever hired Norman Rockwell, in person, should never, ever be allowed to use “Menage A Trois” in an ad.

A few weeks ago, an Ohio girl I know said to me, “Ohio girls are the coolest.” I had no idea what she meant at the time, but now I do. Although, considering her aversion to people touching her, she may not be the best poster child for Ohio girls’ particular millieu. There’s a high school in Canton that boasts a 13% pregnancy rate amongst its female student body. The editorial blames things like movies, TV and video games.

Once again, this brings up an interesting dichotomy. Movies, TV and video games are things I do in lieu of making babies. In fact, my mad skilz at Halo 2 are pretty much the best birth control I can imagine.

That ship has passed, and at this point, I’m glad I never bought a ticket.

So the Ad Council’s new pet project is to get kids to… do something or other. The new campaign is called Fight Mannequinism!, and it’s trying to get kids to not stand around with sweaters over their shoulders I guess. It’s all very PC and non-partisan, as there are a lot of “I volunteer for the candidate of my choosing” testimonials, along with “I like to watch the news on TV.”

There’s an odd blog-like section that cought my eye for some reason: the Personal Journal of Devon, that claims to be from a 21 year-old girl “with normal problems – work to do, guys to date, mannequins to save” that’s so vanilla I assume it’s being written by a Microsoft random thought generator. Or a real 21 year-old girl.

Ok, so I’m officially hooked on Rockstar: INXS like crack. At this point, all the singers are pretty damn good. It’s a little bit rediculous to think that INXS is going to pick the Corey Glover clone to be their new frontman, or any of the girls for that matter, but they’re still crazy good at what they do. Part of the appeal is my insane passion for covers, but I have to say, that house band is maybe the best band I’ve never heard of.

Holy Homoerotica! DC Comics is up in strong arms as they slap the Kathleen Cullen Fine Arts gallery in New York with a cease and desist order regarding Mark Chamberlain’s experimenting Dynamic Duo. Gotham is the original Sin City, biyotch.

Watch your recommendations get really interesting.