The Women of Tiger Woods

The Women of Tiger Woods
by Antenna Wilde

They’re all hookers.

Tiger Woods, one of the greatest golfers of all time. Tiger Woods, beloved family man endorsed by a host of multi-national corporations. And Tiger Woods, adulterous sex fiend. Every day another women steps into the media limelight with a new Tiger Woods sex story, yet questions remain: is he really a nymphomaniac, did his wife know about the cheating, and is he hung more like Arnold Palmer or Ben Hogan?

As for the girls, they all have two things in common: they’re all hookers, and they’re all… I guess they’re all hookers. They’re also all white—there you go—and I’m sure there’s other similarities, let me know if you think of any, like they all have the clap for example. But don’t say, “They’re not hookers, most of them have jobs working in night clubs.” Because right there, I rest my case. (Don’t get me wrong, just because you’re working as a cocktail waitress doesn’t mean you’re a whore, but whores often get jobs as cocktail waitresses to meet new clients.) And that’s exactly what’s going on here; hookers posing as night club employees to legitimize their profession. Admittedly, Holly Sampson is a former porn star and Joslyn James is a current porn star, and I say kudos to them, because at least they’re not phonies.

Here’s the line-up:

Rachel Uchitel: Club hostess/hooker.
Jaimee Grubbs: Cocktail waitress/hooker.
Kalika Moquin: Club manager/hooker.
Jaime Jungers: Lingerie model/hooker.
Cori Rist: Aspiring model/hooker.
Holly Sampson: Former porn star/hooker.
Joslyn James: Porn star/hooker.
Mindy Lawton: Waitress/hooker.

OK, I *kind of* get it, except for Mindy Lawton.

Harry Potter Had a Sex Change

Mindy Lawton? Pul-EESE! Put a pair of glasses on this bitch and she turns into Harry Potter. Maybe Tiger was drunk, maybe she cast a spell on him, but say it ain’t so, man, say it ain’t so.

Apparently Tiger likes paying for sex. He even offered his wife Elin 60 million dollars to stay with him. Of course, this is in addition to the money she’s already entitled to under their pre-nuptual agreement, a figure the NY Post reports as 300 million.
And it seems that she’s cashing the check, so…

…as we watch this spiraling flurry engulf Tiger in a media shit-storm, we should consider who got what out of all this. The tramps finally got the attention they desperately wanted, his wife doubled her multi-million dollar assets, the media got a whole lotta dirt, and Tiger got… laid. He should have stayed on the golf course. Too bad for his kids, but they can afford the best shrinks in the country. Elin is the real winner in all of this. Embarrassing, sure, but considering the extra 60 million Tiger’s doling out, each affair cost him (and earned her) a whopping 7.5 million. Do you think she’d have him un-do it all? I wonder. As for Woods, he should have stayed in Vegas. But then again… that’s where he met Kalika Moquin.

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Why I Love Wonder Bread

Why I Love Wonder Bread
by Antenna Wilde

It’s like biting a flour-cloud. Softer than a marshmallow, yet strong enough to hold the turkey in place; leftover Thanksgiving turkey with lettuce, tomato and mayo… a pinch of salt and pepper. Yes, Wonder Bread, that malleable-fluff-bread, complaisant actor in the movie called, Sandwich! Where would we be without it, as a society, a culture, a people?

I remember as a child, my father bringing it home, held soft and safe under his arm like a fragile Christmas package. My mother, however, was aghast. She said it had no fiber, no nutrients, no validity. My father flipped the plastic bundle around, red-white-and-blue, revealing the vitamin-enriched “fact” sheet: Vitamin D, calcium and Riboflavin; Iron, Thiamine and Niacin.
“Hogwash!” she cried, “It’s unnatural!”

Mother was right, it is unnatural, and father was right, it is vitamin enriched, but they’re both wrong. They missed the point, which is that, Wonder Bread is not made to be healthy, or natural, or even delicious. Wonder Bread is made to be a carrier for deliciousness, the altar upon which we lay our sacred fillings and processed deli meats. In essence, it merely amplifies that which you put within it. On its own, Wonder Bread isn’t that great, but add a mere slice of American cheese—or any kind of cheese you like—between two of those fluffy white pillows of Wonder, grill it with butter in a frying pan, well… I’ll be right back!

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llama Kill by Cousin Inbred

Antenna Wilde welcomes special guest blogger, Cousin inbred from

llama Kill, a Retort
By Cousin inbred

First off, u should read Purdy Poo’s blog befor readin mine.
Now, Purdy Poo done think she can go steelin the spot-lite wit her storeeze of poopin lambas, and how rightieous she is by settin ’em free? Well, yer cuzins got sumpthin to say bout that., cuz it just so happens that I waz the one drivin the pick-up truck that killed them lambas, and i didn’t feeel bad about it one buit. Fact is, I fed my whole family wit thos lambas, cuzons and all.

I waz drivin the trusty ol Chevy on route 2, same as any night after workin the night shift. It waz 6AM i rememebr cause that’s when I always have a “just-got-off-werk” shot off Jaxk Dansliels (special reserve) And these giant turkeys come staggering stupid-like across the road, and I hits em intenshunal-like cause i’m all happy when i gets a good road kill fer free, no worries on the highway gettin it fressh right there. But these lambas were big ol heavy fuckerz! HA! You shoulda seen them smack dab BAM fuckin SLAM on the hood and roll on out over to the sides of the road. One was dead fer sure and the other was brethin coughy rasp until i took my shotgun an plugged his head real good and overflow.

So i skinned em at home, gut em clean an fixed up the periferals. We called lots of people, lotz came. Cuzon greg came by wit some grease form Amy Bahkers and we made all kinds of funny edibles. Point is, you can feed a great many peoples with 2 llambas. Purdy Poo’s gota keep that in mind, how to see it in the true lite of nature; we being hungry animals and all, and needin feedin. Llamba poo may smell horrendible, but the meat is purdy sweet marinarded in beer and spices, put on the spit a while. Come on down, Purdy! We wont bite —much! heh heh heh.

Couzin Inbred

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Llama Poo, by Pretty Poo

Antenna Wilde welcomes special guest blogger, Pretty Poo, from


Llama Poo
by Pretty poo

Let me tell you something about Llama poo, like, something that you probably don’t know. It totally stinks! Llamas have smelly, scruffy brown hair, like a dusty old floor mat, one of those dirty tan hemp mats. BTW, have you ever flipped over a hemp floor mat? Nothing but dirt and dust!
But ANYWAY, llama poo is the worst smelling poo I’ve ever known, and believe me, The Poo knows her poop!

I was house sitting for this crazy old animal talker. That’s someone who talks psychically with animals,—or so she tells people. (But people DO talk psychic with animals, I talk to my cat all the time, and she listens! I say, “Here Sheeba here” (in my mind) and she’ll prance over, then up onto my lap, “Yeay Sheeba!” And she’ll purr in my ear, and I’m pretty sure she’s saying, “Luuuvvvhyuu Rrrr.” So that’s like, psychic communication.)

But ANYWAY. This crazy old woman had nine stinking cats who poohed all over the house, and a couple dogs who poohed regular in the yard, and then there was the two llamas, and they poohed in pebbles; big pyramids of poo-pebbles that cascaded onto the floor of the fenced enclosure. (GOD I hate caged animals!) They had nowhere to run! No fun! No one to save them, —except for Poo, that is!

I made the decision after catching one whip of that stink… that horribly pungent STANK! Llama poo is so offensive it’s like putting your nose under a warm crock-pot full of methane and ammonia; burning your nose with it, hearing the crackle of mucus! They should tap into the essence of llama poo instead of drilling for oil in foreign countries. Give Poo a chance!

But ANYWAY, the llamas natural habitat is not to be enclosed in a 10 x 12 space, and these two llamas were already up to their ankles in ammoniated-methane-poo, so I made the decision to set them free. It was better for them, the environment, and yours truly (who has an especially sensitive olfactory system.) You should have seen the look of joy on their camel-like faces!

But those llamas died. I don’t know when they died, only that it was a little after I set them free. I heard about it later on, when the crazy old woman tried to sue me, (until I poohed in a newspaper, rolled it up, snuck into her room while she was sleeping and left it on the pillow next to her head. She saw it there the next morning, and knew. She knew not to fuck with The Poo!)

But ANYWAY, I was pretty sad about those llamas, I didn’t realize they had no survival skills in the wild. But don’t judge the Poo, I’m telling you some things you didn’t know,—and don’t think that I should feel bad,—up yours! The Poo has her pride! Those effing llamas never had it so good as when I set them free. And even though their sorry llama-lives were cut short, remember this: the star that burns twice as bright burns half as long. So you’re WELCOME llamas, and PS: your poo stinks!


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Banana Leaf Tamales: A Letter to the Chef

Dear Chef,

I tried very hard to control myself, managing only to leave the house before devouring all but the last of those delicious, banana leaf tamales, which only got better as they sat in the fridge overnight, longing to be consumed. I even tried to eat the leaves themselves, as they were calling to me, or perhaps it was the hungry gnome who lives in my stomach (he also likes, and requires, tequila). Please tell me what corn paste, chicken/chili foodstuffs you need to create more and I will buy them immediately. I know you are busy this weekend, but sometime soon thereafter—and before I wrap a towel around my head and explosives to my chest, demanding tamales in retribution for… uh… for a lack of tamales, that is—could we make more? And when I say could I mean, really, God damn it, we need more fucking tamales! —sorry, that was the gnome, not me. ANY hoo, back to the tamales; would it be possible to make a few more, when convenient; and by more I mean many, and by convenient I mean, as in ASAP? I could be an assistant of some kind, in a bartender-like capacity perhaps, or at least a dishwasher thereafter. We could videotape the event and post it on uTube, and then, when you’re famous like Martha Stewart (minus the whole tax-evasion/sent-to-jail “thing”) I could receive a stipend for my services, in the form of seven tamales a day, for example. Why seven? I don’t know, seven came to mind… but then again, how about nine? Alright, great, it’s settled: nine tamales in exchange for a uTube video of you making tamales,—and of me then eating the tamales, I think that would be fabulous. I’m pretty sure there’s a Top Chef on the horizon here… so then, what else… there was something else… did I mention the tamales?

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The REAL Story of Saint Valentine

You may have recently asked yourself, ‘Who was Valentine, and why was he the cause of so much trouble?’ Some say we celebrate Valentine’s Day because Claudius the Second started beheading Roman priests for marrying Christians, while others simply attribute it to the writings of Chaucer in the fourteenth century. But none of these people know about the very real and politically active Valentine living in Brussels during the late thirteenth century; Baron Archibald Fellini Valentine.

Baron Archibald Fellini Valentine, or “Val” to his closest friends, became deeply immersed in the Sexual Renaissance that was taking place in Belgium at the time. Repression of the Christian faith had caused an adverse reaction among the people, and soon wild stories began circulating about the raw and unpredictable sex-capades taking place in bathhouses after hours. Through external forces Valentine was thrust into the heart of these sex-capades, although his politics, personality and endowment alone were enough to catapult him to historical infamy.

Valentine was very well-hung, in fact, and it was said that he once lifted a full-grown pumpkin—still on the vine—with a powerful erection one night outside of Rodderdam.
Rumors circulated, the press became involved, and at some point during a cunnilingus competition/tea-bagging festival on the 14th of February, 1381, he was arrested for buggery with a Llama. Although there was no specific law against buggery with a Llama in 1381 Belgium, Valentine was imprisoned by the Duke of Burgundy, Philip the Bold.

Legend has it that Valentine’s execution was ordered to take place one year from the date of the offense, February 14th, and the Duke himself was there to witness. Evidence suggests that the Duke was jealous of Valentine’s sexual freedom and massive love muscle, prompting him to—at the moment of Valentine’s beheading—hold a chalice under the flow of blood in hopes of somehow obtaining some of Valentine’s favorable attributes. Many believe this is where we get the robust flavor of burgundy wine.

So now that you know the truth, remember to celebrate this Valentine’s Day the way it was intended; by having a jealous Duke drink the blood of a fiendish priest in hopes of getting invited to an orgy, or of growing a big dick, or both. Meh, forget that. Buy some chocolates, flowers, and a bottle of red. Good luck!
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Job Hunting is Easy

Recently I’ve been spending a LOT of time on Craigslist, trying to find a little part time work to supplement my income (something that pays more than 3.50 an hour and free day-old baguettes). Sometimes I find a post that sparks my interest, like this one:

Mascot Performer – Scuba Sam

Aquarium of the Bay’s Scuba Sam mascot is a male scuba diver, and the costume has built-in robotics that allows the performer to speak. If you are a guy who enjoys working with kids and being the center of attention, try out for Scuba Sam.

This job is right for you if you are:
– Friendly, energetic & outgoing
– Reliable & team-oriented
– Physically fit (you will be constantly on the move)
– Between 5’7 & 6′ tall (to fit in the costume)
– A person who enjoys working outside on the waterfront

Send cover letter and resume with “Scuba Sam Mascot” in the subject line.

* Location: Aquarium of the Bay at Pier 39
* Compensation: DOE

I got really excited and wrote the perfect letter to land the job:



My name is Antenna and I’m applying to be your mascot, Scuba Sam. I understand the job description is to wear a scuba costume with built-in robotics that allows me to walk around talking to people. I’m not a scuba diver, but I don’t need to actually know scuba diving equipment because Sam is never in the water, correct? If so, this is the perfect job for me. I know you asked for a resume, but I think after you read this, there won’t be any doubts about my qualifications. My only question is regarding the compensation, which said: DOE or “Depends On Experience.”

Now I’m sure there’s a truck-load of guys out there experienced in walking around on dry land in talking robotic scuba suits, so I’m not sure what my chances are. I’m an excellent swimmer, but it seems that you’re just looking for guys who have experience walking around in scuba suits, and particularly those who are experienced in talking through a robotic voice amplifier while doing so? With the economy in shambles and all, I’m sure there’s plenty of experienced robot-like scuba divers looking for work at this very moment, and so I was wondering how I could fudge my resume’ in order to score big on the pay. At first I thought of telling you that, for the past four years on Halloween, I’ve worn a walking, talking, robot-like scuba diving costume, and that I’m probably the most experienced dry-land robotic scuba guy currently on the market in San Francisco. But my great grandmother (The Great Edna G. H. F. McGoodery) told me as a wee child, “Just be yourself.” Therefore I’ll go down your list to see if this job is right for me:

“Friendly, energetic & outgoing” —check
“Reliable & team-oriented” —check (especially with teams at giant aquariums)
“Physically fit” — Well, there seems to be a large chicken burrito that lodged itself in my lower colon, right around the belly-button area. I believe it happened sometime over the holidays last year, but I think I could sweat it out in that scuba suit. Give me two weeks.
“You will be constantly on the move” —check (I’m actually walking around my apartment while I type this —wearing a football helmet, incidentally— for practice)
“Between 5’7 & 6′ tall” —No, unfortunately I’m 6′ 1″ Damn! But wait, I could probably lose an inch if I shaved my head? I would also consider having a segment of my shins removed. So there, it’s settled. Now what’s left? Ah yes, “a person who enjoys working outside on the waterfront.”

I love working on the waterfront! Just call me Marlon Brando. Better yet, call me Scuba Sam. I’ll need 22 bucks an hour and a bowl of soup—clam chowder—when my shift is over. You know I think this will be really great, and kids love me by the way, so do their parents. I’m also quite knowledgeable in matters of the sea. I Tivo the Discovery Channel, own a copy of When Sharks Attack! and read Hemingway every chance I get. So I think it would behoove Aquarium of the Bay to hire me immediately. It may not behoove you, but I just love saying ‘behoove’ whenever possible. There’s just one more thing. Like Hemingway, I too am a raging alcoholic and would need to drink heavily on the job. Could we attach some kind of beer helmet on Scuba Sam’s head? The beer could go right in through the snorkel without raising suspicion, and I could wear a catheter or fashion some kind of “cock-hose” to pee in, as I imagine going tinkle isn’t easy for Sam. Is that why the last guy left? Anyway, back to my drinking. It’s best for me to start with a little whiskey at least a half hour before getting suited up, as we wouldn’t want Scuba Sam to get irritable, would we? Other than that I have no pre-conditions. I look forward to hearing back from you and will be checking my email over the next 72 hour drinking binge, which began shortly after reading your Craigslist post.


Antenna Wilde

PS: I actually want an interview

So that’s it, there it is. I figured they’d appreciate my sense of humor and hire me, or at least have me in for an interview, no? I’m never sure of the odds on these things, but what do you think my chances are?

UPDATE: As of 12/08/08, Aquarium at the Bay has not returned my email. What the fuck?

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Flittery Glitters!

Flittery Glitters!
by Antenna Wilde

I was hit in the face by a fish today. It’s true! I was swimming in the Gulf of Mexico, minding my own business, trying to catch the occasional bodysurf when a strange fluttering emerged from the sea. The first cluster was spread out like a mini-van, approaching from 10 yards away, then exploding in unison, arching themselves from the water in silvery glitters. A man behind me yelled, “Did you see those fish?”
“Yeah!” I said, turning in surprise. But when I turned back, another strange fluttering came, until the surface was breached and more silver, glistening dive bombers shot out in rapid succession, lobbing themselves at me,—I turned—but was hit! The slippery weight of a wet fish bounced off my cheek before careening back into the ocean.

It was a mullet. I checked with one of the life guards—who had been hit himself once, long ago—and he assured me that it was indeed a mullet. Then for a brief moment I wished I was a redneck who had a mullet haircut. Then I wished that, not only did I have a mullet, but that the mullet who hit me had hit the mullet instead of my cheek. And then I wished the mullet had been caught in my mullet, because I could have taken him home and had him for lunch.

That truly would have been my lucky day! But alas, I sit here eating tuna fish, wondering if I should go back out there with my fishing pole. I don’t think I will ever go swimming in the ocean again without thinking of those flittery glitters; those silvery shimmers, launching at me in defense of their playground. Or perhaps it was a game: maybe they were playing—like the dolphins—because after all, how do we know what a fish is really thinking? So if the fish was being friendly—giving me a kiss, perhaps—then I shall name him Flitter. Flitter the Mullet.

NEW UPDATE! Apparently flying fish are not uncommon, but I never thought they went THIS crazy!

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Hooters : You Came for A Sandwich?

by Antenna Wilde

Honestly, I’ve walked into two Hooters in my life, and it was the same cluster of sad, drooling losers trying to act like they’ve come for something other than booty shorts and fake tits. “But hey, the GAME is on!” Anyway, I walked by a Hooters last night—and yes, I had to peer through the window for an ogle because, let’s face it; Hooters doesn’t hire fatties.

Now isn’t this just the poor man’s version of a strip club? (Where Hooters girls end up, incidentally, if they don’t make it to the Annual Bikini Finals.) Personally, I prefer strip clubs. There’s something authentic about a strip club: the girls are whores, the guys are horny. But more importantly, nobody’s trying to pretend that they came for a sandwich. Check out Hooters website. Ah yes, there’s nothing like eating a Hogie with a boner.Hooters Makes You Hungry AND Horny?

Wow, look at that sandwich back there! I can almost taste the… uh, what is that, ham? It could be smoked turkey… legs… yes… definitely legs. According to this advertisement, the Hooter’s formula is: Hot chick + “makes you happy” = (can you guess?) Oh yeah, they also have sandwiches.

And Hooters sponsors sporting events too, like the NGA Tour. That’s right, it’s The Hooters Classic! I don’t know about you, but when I think golf, I think Titties! It’s likely the event will increase your handicap, but then again, you might not care.

Neither does anyone else. I did a google search on Hooters and found this: “Hooters Girls: The Finalists – 19841 views – 0 comments”Nobody Cares

It’s shocking really, that 19,841 people viewed the page and NOT ONE took the time to say anything. Not even, “Hey, nice tits!”

A lot of people think Hooters should be sued for only hiring hot chicks with big tits. And actually, they have been. But oddly enough, the biggest lawsuit settlement went to men, who wanted to be, uh… “Hooters boys”? Weird. And here’s something else weird: in the Hooters girl handbook, one of the conditions of employment requires Hooters Girls to sign a statement recognizing they may be victims of harassment: “I hereby acknowledge…the work environment is one in which joking and innuendo based on female sex appeal is commonplace.” So you could say that, making a “nice tits” comment is not only appropriate, but encouraged. So come on girls, just show us your tits, because who ever came for a sandwich?

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Obama: More Gray than Black or White

by Antenna Wilde

Ever since Obama’s speech on 3/18/08, one segment keeps ringing in my brain:

“I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents.”

Wow… even Eskimo? This guy is good; he’s genetically associated himself with every person on the planet—in just one sentence. I’m sure that nailed down the Siamese-twin and hermaphrodite vote as well. All he has to do is get those aliens from Area 54 registered, and he’s a shoe-in. I’d like to suggest the perfect running mate: Tiger Woods.

I’m kind of jealous, that’s all. I mean, I’m only English, Dutch, French and Scot (my Dad claims we’re Swedish too, but I think he just had a great vacation there). Maybe with the help of genetic engineering, I could infuse the rest of the races into my biological code—and throw in a dolphin, leopard and chimpanzee for posterity.

Obama, Clinton and McCain’s genealogies are here. Pretty weird, though interestingly enough, Obama has the most links to former presidents.

Now, if only we can get him to speak dolphin…

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