Unless you're living under Iraq (rimshot!), you already know about my boy Mel Gibson and his a) drunk driving, b) referring to a female police officer as "sweet sugar tits", and c) anti-Semitic tirade. The time has come for somebody to get poor old Mel's back. Unfortunately, I cannot support action "a". Drinking and driving don't mix like two dicks with no bitch - you'll end up in some serious shit. Let's move on to "b" and "c". My question is, does she in fact have sweet sugary tits? If she does, than he was just being observant. If she doesn't, and Mel was being sarcastic, then I can't defend him. There's nothing worse than a sarcastic drunk. And to be honest, sarcasm in general is getting pretty old. I get it; you mean the opposite of what you're saying and you're indicating so by using a sing-songy tone. It's not clever, get over yourself. As for "c", fuck the fucking Jews. As Mel says, they own Hollywood and are responsible for all of the wars in the world (except The War of 1812). In fact, double fuck the fucking Jews. If Mel's right and they really do own Hollywood, then they're responsible for a lot worse than war. I mean, have you seem What Women Want? The shit is horrific.

Well my a train friend, first I suggest pillaging through our archives for Philabuster's illustrious Friday Freakouts. Want more? Here's a super Friday Freakout-worthy number from Norwegian garage band Cato Salsa Experience...

Still sleepy? Try a new one from The Futureheads that could be lovingly described as "musical ritalin".

And if Luda can't wake you up nothing will.

I can't stop listening to this compilation of female-sung soul songs from the 60's and 70s called Mama's Got A Bag Of Her Own. Buy this album.

Dakota Fanning goes nude, pre-pubescent tots anticipate first wet dreams. Hey Dakota, if you like skinny dipping and laughter, give a brother a call.

If you are a heterosexual woman and teenage Steve Windwood's cowlicked performance on Finnish television doesn't turn you on, then you are not a heterosexual woman. Stop trying to fool me.

Wowee Zowee! The best album you might not own because they said it sucked at the time to be re-released. I hate they.

When keeping it real goes wrong: NYC rapper spits detailed tales his drug trafficking exploits, leads to the arrest of him and his crew.

DJ Ben Ha Meen writes in: "Hey skinny slim (sic), I'd like to make a 'Stamps request for "Monster Mash" by Dr. Demento. The cover by The Misfits could also apply." What's with that Dr. Demento bong hit opening?

Did you buy that album yet? I'm not playing about buying that album.

Awkwardness. I've heard it exists, although the only time I've ever experienced anything like it was the time I spilled wine all over Bruce Springsteen. Thankfully I dodged any awkwardness by blaming it on the waitress. Then me and The Boss had a hearty laugh about the ladies. "Bitches," he said, "Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em." Ah, good times. But back to this awkward thing. A friend of mine, let's call him "Billa Puster", was asking me the other day how he can tell if he is in an awkward situation. Thankfully, there is one true sign: if someone says "so" with a lot of o's. Let's say you're newly out-of-the-closet Lance Bass, for example. You go over to Justin Timberlake's house to tell him you're a homosexual. There is a long pause as you look around the room in eager anticipation, your eye wandering between the paint-by-number portraits of Cameron Diaz and a framed condom from that first time with Britney. Maybe it's not awkward, maybe Justin's just letting the news set in. And then finally, he opens his mouth. But all that comes out is, "Sooooooooooooooooooooo..... have I shown you what Cameron did with our garden? You queers like to garden, right?" There is no way to recover from this devastatingly awkward situation, and you might as well say bye bye bye, Lance, cause you two won't be 'n sync ever again.

Sarah E. says, "Thanks for the Pipettes! They are the like totally the coolest girls ever! Give me more! More Pipettes!" Sarah, we like totally love The Pipettes too!

Rebecca "Sweet Eyed" Levine (it rhymes, trust me) writes in, "Can I get some Willie?" You got it, babe. Here's an important warning about cowboys and their erotic tendancies.

Bernard Broget emails, "I love the Girlfriend Track. I was wondering if I could dedicate "Winter Warz" to my girlfreind as a Girlfriend Track." Of course you can. From Bernard to Laura, here's some Ghostface.

Jimbo Maloney asks, "Have you seen [the HBO sitcom] Lucky Louie? I do believe it to be the finest show on the the telly. I particularly enjoy the episode where they keep calling their four year old a fucking asshole. Can you post the theme song. It's awesome. Do you know who wrote it?" Sure do. It's Mark Rivers, and I agree about both the show and the song. Enjoy, Stampers!

I was watching Extra last week (look, I don't have to explain myself to you, okay?) and drummer/lothario Tommy Lee was being interviewed. The chick asks, "Tommy, what are your turn-ons?" He smiles devilishly and responds, "Skinny dipping." He pauses, a serious, reflective expression falling over his face. "And laughter." I can picture all those fine upstanding women Tommy goes for thinking, "Laughter? I love laughter!" right before they take off their clothes and jump in his pool. But Tommy Lee's turn-ons not only move women of the world to get naked, they also move me to create art (file under: sentences no one thought would ever be written). His succinct summation of the joys of life inspired me to create an album of original tunes featuring guest vocalist Tommy Lee Jones. Well, maybe not an actual "album", but it did inspire me to create an album cover. Please check out my hard work here. Not to toot my own horn, but I do believe it has already joined the pantheon of great album covers, which of course include Tommy Lee's own solo offerings.

Friday night I step up in the club and go straight for the dancefloor. I spot a fine young hipster Rocker Mama and before you can say "Animal hunts prey", I'm swerving and grinding, gyrating and dipping with the sweetness. She be like, "SkinnySlim, why you dance so good?" and I be like, "BadmintonStamps, baby, how we do." It's on like an Axe body spray commercial, except without the Axe body spray, cause that shit is for herbs. Then things get interesting. Rocker Mama starts dancing all freek-a-leek, putting my hands in places abstinence kids aren't allowed to touch and getting semi-illegal on all fours (for further information please see the feature film Lambada: The Forbidden Dance). Then a little Asian midget motions to me, mouthing, "Let me tell you something". I'm assuming it's going to be, "That girl has syphilis", which is cool, I got that too. I bend down, eager to hear his wise words, and tell him, "Yes sir, how may I help you?" He proceeds to sucker punch me in the face, breaking my nose. Blood streams down like a running faucet and the vertically challenged jerk flees the scene. Before I jaunt to the emergency room, Rocker Mama is like, "Don't worry about my ex-boyfriend, baby, cause you're gorgeous", and tries to make out with me as I drip blood all over her. I go "Slow yo' roll, honey. I like to freek-a-leek, but never with a broken face."

Excluding a misguided turn in a music video, perhaps the middle-aged comedic actor's most profound rite of passage is the chance to play a little boy. Tom Hanks's portrayal of a pre-pubescent kid who's transformed by a magic parlor game into Tom Hanks is certainly the most revered, but he is far from the only lovable wisecracker to try his hand at this thespian challenge. Robin Williams' heartwarming and lovable embodiment of an overgrown tot in Francis Ford Coppolla's Jack gets me every time, as does Dudley Moore's sympathetic and subtle performance as a man forced to have Kirk Cameron's personality. And who could forget Judge Reinhold's masterful turn as 11-year old son Fred Savage in Vice Versa, which had Oscar watchers screaming, "He wuz robbed!" But my personal favorite comic-actor-as-kid is Martin Short's bizarre embodiment of a bratty youngster in the studio killing, Fellini-esque masterpiece Clifford. What I love most about this underrated treasure trove of Short shenanigans is that he plays a ten year old kid that is simply...a ten year old kid. No potions, no spells, no growth disorders, just unexplained absurdity and unadulterated Martin. And of course, the Grodin doesn't hurt.

George Bush, how I love you so. Just when this whole Israel/Lebanon/World War III thing was starting to depress me, you come through with a much needed plan. Like Bob Villa with an edge, you have a very simple and easy fix-it-upper for this whole mess. Seems all we got to do is get Kofi Annan to tell the President of Syria to tell Hezbollah to stop shooting at the Jews, and centuries of tension and warfare will end. The sagacious plan was picked up by a microphone during what was supposed to be a private conversation between Bushie and The Blair. President Bush: "I feel like telling Kofi to get on the phone with Assad and make something happen. See, the irony is that what they need to do is get Syria to get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit and it's over." Ironic indeed, George. And that potty mouth! Thankfully, mp3 blog "The NY Times" remixed the curse in question, speeding it up like a Just Blaze sample and then chopping and screwing it to perfection.

Trivia question: What day of the year are no major American professional sports (hockey, tennis, real football, baseball, basketball, golf, racey cars) played? If you said "The day after the Baseball All Star Game", you are correct. And that day, dear Stampers, is today. The Slim and the Buster are huge sports fans, which leaves us at a loss. That's why I've been looking into alternatives to quench my sporting thirst. Unfortunately, my options are limited. Turtle racing? Too controversial. Dwarf bowling? Too much bowling. Fox oring? Too non-fox related. Thankfully there's RPS, known to the layman as Rock Paper Scissors. It's a perfect game for me because I have a surefire strategy for victory. It's called "Throw the Rock". It always wins. And I don't want to hear none of this "Paper covers Rock" insanity. Since when does a thin, flimsy sheath of tree bark dominate over the dense, hard weapon that is Rock? Personally, I want Paper to cover me up. It's like, thanks for the blanket, Paper, I was feeling a little chilly after spending all day outside smashing the shit out of Scissors. Now go write on yourself. What's that? You can't because you don't have arms to hold a writing utencil? Too bad, Paper. You shoulda thought of that before you tried to step to the Rock.

Sound the motherfucking trumpets, 'cause SkinnySlim's got a new, exclusive BadmintonStamps feature. Joining the ranks of the Pony Track, The Friday Freakout, The Friday Jazzout, Link Parties, Five Questions, and Fancy Pants Reports, I bring you The Girlfriend Track. Defined simply as "A song that SkinnySlim deems sexy for a lady to feel", The Girlfriend Track is not about romance, flowers, or Barry White. It's not about chick music like Ani Difranco, the Beatles, or 4 Non Blondes. It is about moisturizing my situation and preserving my sexy. We're talking about songs where, if my girl said "Yo, turn this up", I would be turned on. And ladies, please note: I can still find you attractive even if you do not like a particular Girlfriend Track. In fact you probably won't like all of them. All I'm saying is that it would be cooler if you did.

Football. A sport so pussy they don't even use their hands when they fight.

Death Row is the label that doesn't pay me. Suge Knight files for bankruptcy.

Farnsworth Bentley strikes again (nsfw).

When I was a kiddum I thought Misson of Burma's "That's When I Reach For My Revolver" was hot with nine t's. Now I can't even make it through to the soaring climax. Am I old or was I naive? Decide for yourself over at No Frontin'.

The Madcap Laughs his last laugh, as Syd Barrett shines on from that crazy diamond in the sky. Classic rock radio to beef up today's airplay of "Wish You Were Here" from constant to incessant.

Speaking of crazy genius reclusives, new Sparklehorse?

Rejoice loyal subjects, for SkinnySlim hath posted a brand new playlist for ye withered ears. Entitled "The Monarchy", it celebrates music of the regal variety. We've got Kings, Queens, and Princes, but there shall be no Princesses. That's cause I'm keeping those fine young ladies locked up for safe keeping in my royal chamber, known to the common folk as my itunes library.

France is rife with anti-immigrant racism. Last winter's riots may have signaled a tipping point, but disdain for foreign workers has plagued the souffle-rich country for decades. In fact, the only thing the French feel more passionate about than their hate of immigrants is their love of football. Even racy photos (nsfw) of Brigitte Bardot and Jane Birkin can't make a French man's baguette harder than a World Cup victory. That's why this year's World Cup finalist team strikes me as a bit ironic. You got a country full of froggy looking/eating French Nationalists rooting their berets off over their overachieving team. But instead of players named Pierre or Francois, we got homies named Antonio Mavuba (aka "Greezy"), Florent Malouda (aka "Cosby"), and Djibril Cisse (aka "Sisqo"). Jacques Tati they ain't. On the other hand, Italy, France's neighbor and opponent, is filled with guidos named Azzurri, Peruzzi, and Maldini. Personally, I'm conficted on whom to root for in Sunday's final. A French victory rewards racist frogs, but at the same time it goes a long way towards their acceptance of immigrants as first class citizens. And, in the end, isn't that a most worthwhile goooooooooooaaaaalllllllll!!!!!!

So, Dan, I can get your girl's digits?

ahomoarcticmonkeysayswhat?

New Clipse: Good song, fun video, way, way, way too much Pharrell rapping.

Austin. Dallas. Dubai.

Sleater Kinney calling it quits, the world mourns. Ken Lay dies of heart attack, world mourns not so much.

Gary Mathews Jr. is a thief.