Once again, I am flummoxed by the scientific minds of this age. How did our modern brainiacs become so dorky? Ben Franklin had one hand on his kite string, and the other firmly clamped on a tit, but leave it to the nerds of today to build a female android that doesn’t even want her breast squeezed.

The video posted features a “fembot” built by some strange cat named Aiko who apparently likes his women in a wheelchair. He also seems to like them to be dour and unapproachable. It makes me curious to know what his past experiences with the ladies have been. I mean, why would you bother to make a prototype female robot that tells you when you are hurting it…unless your run-ins with women have always leaned in that direction? Imagine the thought process: “Hmmm…I need to have her react to human touch—to say something. But what? Well, what have I personally seen women do? What do they always say to ME? Oh! I know! “Stop it, you’re hurting me.” Yes, yes, that’s gold. Oh! And: “Let go of my breast.” Excellent. Hmmm…maybe one more thing. Ahhhh (snapping fingers), I know, “I would like you to leave now.” PERFECT.

If it were me, I would have had a shawl placed over her legs and would have added the phrase, “After my Bill died I never remarried. I was 17 at the time.” And maybe, “Please close the window, my ankles are so cold.” This is a must: “Your brother came by last week with that awful woman of his. I don’t know what he sees in her. He brought me some groceries but I don’t care for the supermarket he shops at. They never have the canned cabbage I like and the clerks are very very rude and it’s always so cold in the pie isle. Then he got so angry because the stove burner was on and he said I could have burned down the whole house but it gets so COLD in here and I can never find the thermostat. Are you still dating that Jewish girl? I wish you wouldn’t. Are you going to sweep the leaves out of the walk? Why are you leaving so soon?”

The future is brimming with promise.

Lately there has been a plethora of articles from the New York Times website describing the habits, follies, and hardships of the upper crust, and every time someone in the desperate bullpen of Jose el Retardo’s editorial department runs across one of these tasty items, there is much retching and shouting, and without fail, our lazy yet trusted janitor—lil’ Tommy Lyon—must be called in with his steam carpet cleaner to suck the pools bile from under our Ikea desks. We’ve talked about it before; you can read a previous article by clicking here, or view our brother site Medium Happiness for their take on the subject. Today, we spied another article regarding the plight of the modern rich and how life for the financially advanced can be a precarious balance. Check it out here: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/01/fashion/01rich.html?em&ex=1212552000&en=d3fe3d03622d334b&ei=5087%0A

It would appear that the worst-case scenario is unfolding before our very eyes in this, our moderately decent nation: the super rich are becoming slightly less super-rich in recent months, and their egos are taking a real beating. I for one was absolutely shocked to find this article, because I must say, I thought the upper classes had been doing just fine; but little did I know the hits they have been taking—not only in their pocketbooks, but in their personal relationships and, perhaps most importantly, in their sense of self. Take a look at this frightening quote from the Times article:

Interviews with the people who actually see the bank statements, like divorce lawyers and lenders, say their clients are definitely living on less than they did a year ago, regardless of how expansive the definition of “less” may be. Hairstylists and private jet rental companies say the wealthy are cutting back on luxuries like $350 highlights and $10,000-an-hour jet rentals. Even nutritionists and personal trainers notice a problem. The wealthy are eating more and gaining weight because of the stress.

If your heart didn’t just break, you might want to try going back and re-reading that quote one more time. They are so stressed out that they are eating more and gaining weight. GAINING WEIGHT. This is unhealthy to the extreme, and sends these unfortunate wealthy souls into an inevitable shame cycle, from which it may take days or sometimes weeks to recover. Conversely, when you or I run into times of financial adversity, we cut back on the extras and generally tend to LOOSE weight, which is fantastic. It’s almost as if having less money to spend is a good thing for you and me—it’s downright healthy. We look better, feel better…our work uniforms fit us better, giving us greater mobility—which, through the added exercise, takes off even MORE pounds. We can’t go wrong. Hell, no wonder our federal and local governments are constantly striving to ensure that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Like it or lump it, it’s the only way to make absolutely certain that a proper balance is established, and that a general sense of public well-being is maintained. If you cannot find the sagacity in this sound and prudent policy of fiscal disparity, then I pity you, sir.

I can tell from your smirks that many of you—the faithful readers—are skeptical of my concern for America’s distressed well-to-do. I am asking you as a friend to withhold your judgment until you have read this passage, from the same clipping:

“Even if they’re not in danger of not paying their mortgage, there’s still a psychological change,” said Chris Del Gatto, chief executive of Circa, which has watched its business jump by 50 percent in the last year as wealthy clients sell their spare diamonds and Rolexes. “The economy is an issue even for people who don’t need the money.”

Can you imagine how it must feel to lose your spare Rolex? It must be like selling off your own organs. In many parts of the world, the poor will sell their children into slavery or prostitution in order to make ends meet, but again we see the same pattern of underlying benefit for the underprivileged. Anyone who has raised or been around children knows how much of a monetary and mental toll they can take on a household. By selling the child, the parent makes a few extra dollars, while at the same time cutting expenses. Win/win. Meanwhile, the child learns priceless job skills (free of charge, btw) that they will keep for a lifetime, and are immediately given a gift that can never depreciate: job security.

But a Rolex…ahh…this is not something so easily disregarded. How could one forget the moment of purchase? The expectation of extreme consumerism, the elation and discovery at the time of procurement, the weight of luxury, and the glory of fine craftsmanship—one does not embark upon this humbling responsibility of sumptuous ownership lightly. One enters such a relationship with a lavish object assuming it will be for life…and yet…one day you awake and find you must part with this item so beloved, and most likely at half its original price. It’s demoralizing and criminal, and we must find some way to put a stop to it before anything worse can happen.

Oh, but wait. Something worse IS happening:

On a spring afternoon, a half-dozen hairstylists to the very wealthy talked about how customers are stretching their $350 highlights and $150 haircuts to every eight weeks instead of six weeks. Some women are cutting out highlights entirely, saying they would “rather be brunettes.”

Rather be brunettes?! You must be joking! I almost threw my computer out the window at the very thought. With any luck it would have crushed a hobo. I would have ran downstairs, taken the change cup from his cold, stiffening hand, and personally delivered the money inside to Ted Kennedy. My lord, it makes me so angry. It makes me INSANE. I hear people all the time prattling away on the television about fighting for public education funds, about revitalizing the docks with scenic public parks, the rising costs of public transportation and fuel prices, and everybody so goddamned concerned with the healthcare needs of a growing population of blue-haired old bitches whining and crying about “my brittle bones” this and “my swelling prostate” that. OMG people, FUCK that! There are very rich women out there threatening to no longer be blonde. People, can you even imagine what kind of chaos could follow? Can’t you see that money and good looks is the only thing keeping most of these power couples together? I suppose you assume that the rock-solid marriages of the rich can withstand any petty beatings we dole out. They can not.

The drop in wealth has also exposed other personal problems, like bad marriages. Money—which bought jewelry or extravagant vacations—helped smooth over many of these difficulties, said Kenneth Mueller, a psychotherapist in the East Village who works with many Wall Street bankers and real estate developers. Now, he said, his clients “catastrophize” smaller bonuses or shriveling stock portfolios.

The marriages of the rich are falling apart, and new alliances will never be formed because of yet another trickle-down effect of the crises of the American wealthy:

Clay Burwell, a personal trainer to many Wall Street executives, said that his clients were also feeling the toll. A year of eating more, drinking more and working longer hours has started to hurt their health. “They come into the gym with a dark storm cloud over their head,” he said. “They look like hell.”

Fattened, ugly, mousey, and not quite as rich as before, these titans begin to crumble. They fail to procreate (decimating the nanny industry), severing chains of sovereignty forged in a time when people knew their place. Despondent, with nothing better than a cheap Timex strapped to their wrists to count off the dreary seconds of their now-paltry existences, the once-affluent begin to disband and walk among us, the filthy and undeserving proletariat. And so comes crashing down around us the nobility of America.

I hope you’re all happy.

Yes, yes I do. And although I believe he deserves some kind of psychiatric help as fast as humanly possible, I hope like hell that the machine does not crush his monster spirit.

I’d like to give a big shout out to Chrystal for bringing this gem to my attention.

We here in the Political Crow’s Nest at Jose el Retardo are far from being members of the Rudy Giuliani fan club, but we must send him sympathy as he deals with the Asshole Cardinal Egan.

Rumor has it that the Cardinal is getting on Rudy’s case for receiving the Eucharist (known as communion to laymen like you and me) during the recent Big Bad Pope-A-Dope visit. It seems that in 2000, when Egan became the head of the Archdiocese of New York, he made Rudy promise to never take communion again because of Rudy’s abortion beliefs (read more about it here).

You must be joking. Lest we all forget, Egan got into hot water back in 2003 for concealing the names of a bunch of child-molesting priests. He’s been found on lists for being one of the most complicit Cardinals in the whole cover-up of the Catholic Church sex abuse scandal. So which one of these men has it in for kids? It seems bizarre that Egan would want children born just to sit back and let them be traumatized by the very men he has ordered them to respect.

Giuliani is far from an angel. He made it difficult for kids in New York City to get decent education or healthcare during his term as Mayor. However, at least you can say this for him: he didn’t aid in their molestation. He didn’t have to. We have Cardinal Egan for that.

Thank you, Cardinal Egan, for being such an ass-biting jerk. You make my job easy.

Good readers, I don’t know what to tell you. Earth Day has passed. It is gone. Did you celebrate? What present did you give to your great, blue mother? If you have yet to make a decision, fear not. Common etiquette states you have at least six months to give this magnificent bitch that special gift she truly deserves. And we in the Ideas Bureau at Jose el Retardo are here to help you become the best tenant on the global block.

I know what you think you should do: Green up. Recycle. Take the Hummer to the crusher and buy the Prius. Mesh grocery bags. Purchase corporate carbon credits. Do all the things that our friendly celebrity monarchy tells us we must do in order to sleep soundly this evening.

But is all this do-gooder status maintenance really in the best interest of our home planet? Many would argue that the solution isn’t as simple as a couple of million people making a change in their ‘carbon footprint.” Even if we here in America started to give a shit about climate change and greenhouse gasses as early as tomorrow—and we won’t; check out this article from last month’s Science Daily—we would, as a nation, have little effect on the actions of developing nations like China and India, neither of whom give the slightest crap about what you or I think regarding anything. But even setting this “stinkin’ thinkin’” aside, read this blurb by noted environmentalist Patrick Michaels from a 2004 article on climate change on the PBS website:

So here’s the real answer: We can do very, very little about human-induced climate change. If every nation on earth that signed the Kyoto Protocol on global warming, which reduces emissions in most developed countries roughly 6 percent below 1990 levels by the period 2008-2012, the amount of “saved” warming by 2050 is a mere 0.07 degrees Celsius. Because human-induced warming is a linear (constant-rate) phenomenon, that works out to 0.14 degrees Celsius in a century. Consider that the normal year-to-year variability is about 0.15 degrees Celsius, and you must conclude that we couldn’t even find the “signal” of our attempt to slow warming within the year-to-year “noise.”

He goes on to say that nothing can be effectively changed until we shift completely away from fossil-fuel based energy, and that just costs too much money, people. It takes limitless ingenuity that the oil companies would do anything to prevent. And it would mean making too many sacrifices. What would we store our food in? Make toys out of? Listen to music from? What would we make our dance clothing from? How would we make our bicycle helmets? What would we insulate our super-efficient households with? How do we keep the lights on? Or the refrigerators? Do you like elastic? What else would hold up your undergarments? From what would you make cell phones? Carpet? Buckets? Remember, we aren’t talking about the fear of running out of oil—if that was it, we could very easily use those oil-shitting organisms that Craig Venter is building (click here to read about it)—we are talking about the temperature of the earth. And to halt the warm-up, it’s so complicated as to be impossible.

And that isn’t really going to help mother earth. I say that this task—helping her—is really much simpler than we had previously supposed.

One could argue that humans are the worst thing to happen to this planet since the surface cooled. It won’t be healed until we are gone, and the faster the better. Rip the Band-Aid off, right? Global warming isn’t killing the planet, it’s killing HUMANS (and leading up to the release of tons and tons of methane gas into the atmosphere, where it will wait for ignition by lightening and then explode like hundreds of nuclear bombs) and the faster we’re gone, the faster the earth can get on with the methodical task of cleaning up after us.

So lighten up, America! Just keep doing what you’re doing! Buy those SUVs! Eat pounds and pounds of meat! Spray your deodorant in the air like ya just don’t care! If we keep it up, we can really go out in style, turn the whole planet into something magical and tropical for ourselves (mmmm…I can taste the pina coladas and the margaritas already, yum yum), and for our children, and maybe even our children’s children, and then after that, does it really matter that much?

In review: the best gift we can give the earth is to die, so let’s go out with a bang.

The end.

It always blows my mind when I hear someone from a lower income bracket sympathize with anybody from the Richie Rich set. What is there to feel sorry about? Have no doubts: the lives of these people are full of wine, women, and song. They wake up in the morning to a squadron of sexy chamber maids in low-cut blouses ready to wash them thoroughly with warm bath sponges and gentle suds; cleansing their palette with chilled champagne and feeding them ripe strawberries; dressing them carefully in the finest wool blends and silks. Then, the Lord Fancybottoms of the world receive their perfectly creased Wall Street Journals parked expertly next to their steaming hot cup of Hacienda La Esmeralda coffee—hand ground by immigrants and brewed to perfection inside of a flawlessly polished French press. And then it’s off to work! where they spend much of their time “cultivating relationships” at some damned English sporting event or on the back nine of the most “exclusive” country clubs while some poor slob of a loading dock worker back at corporate headquarters is peeling dead rats off of glue traps and making stew out of them for the kids squealing hungrily back at the shack. Later, Prince Softskin will eat lobster salad and roast duck off of silver platters, sipping cognac, wearing satin slippers, and so on, and so on…

I hate them. I wish I was one of them.

Why am I talking about this? Because I spotted an article today that sited a new report by a couple of smarty pants economists named Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers from the Brookings Institute (a place where smarty pants hang out and study cool things and stuff) which states, basically, that money can in fact buy happiness. To be more exact, it buys the things that can make you happy. Better healthcare, more time to visit friends, and the piece of mind that comes when you don’t worry about spending the night out on the sidewalk. You can see the report in its entirety by clicking here.

So big deal. I think most of us instinctually knew this long before Betsey and Justin decided to make some charts illustrating the numbers (click here to see one). I guess I like it because now I can roll up a copy of this report and keep it handily in my coat pocket so that whenever some wealthy punk-ass saunters up to me in his deer-skin jacket and Moss Lipow sunglasses and tries to bemoan how he has pain like any man, that his tears are just as salty, that all hearts break the same, and how he always wanted to pitch for the Yankees and never got past watching his dreams slowly die right in front of his pampered eyes, I can take out this report and stab him in the throat with it.

Christ. I wish I had a swimming pool.

Yes, I’d love to be rich. I would fucking LOVE it. I would have loved to be born into it and not to have had to work for it. I would love to win the lottery today. And I can guarantee you this: I would never talk to any of you pitiable assholes again.

A visit from the Pope to your homeland is always frightening, and is bound to cause some level of anxiety in all but the most stouthearted of us, but the sense of terror that travels in the papal wake need not take control of your life. Always remember that while he may be a member of the undead, reviled for traveling in shadow to feed off of the precious life-force of the living, his true dark power lies in his ability to cloud your mind with fear, suppressing your ability to take action and wriggle out from under his horrifying, suffocating grasp. This being said, there are ways to fortify your spirit against this oppressive presence. Follow these simple, Jose-tested, common-sense rules, and you should find yourself sleeping more soundly over this trying week:

1. Remember, the Pope cannot enter your home unless you INVITE HIM IN. Seems simple, but don’t forget: it’s important to make sure your entire family has been trained in denying the Pope entry. Even if only ONE person living in your dwelling invites the pope inside through any door, window, or ANY other opening, then the Pope is allowed free entry in and out for eternity. Talk to roommates and visitors as well.

2. Fashion a garlic necklace. The Pope HATES this. Infuse garlic with olive oil and spray it on your outdoor plants and walkways. It helps keep him at a distance, therefore diminishing the chances you’ll need to enact Rule #1. You can also soak in a garlic bath, but this is usually deemed a trifle excessive. The necklace seems to work just fine, and keeps you getting laid.

3. Keep a mirror within handy reach. If you are confused as to whether or not you are dealing with the actual Pope, hold it in front of him. If you can see his reflection, you’re cool. He’s not the real Pope. However, dealing with an impostor can be just as dangerous, as it could be a way of distracting you while the real Pope is sneaking up behind on tip-toe, preparing to pounce; get yourself to a safe place immediately. If you can’t see his reflection in the mirror, well…honestly, if you let him get that close, you’re a goner anyway. If you’ve properly handled Rule #2 it should never come to this.

4. While it’s true that the Pope cannot stand the sun, this is generally dealt with by keeping the old coot constantly lathered in a thick coating of aluminum-based sun block. You will also notice that his handlers keep the “man” dressed in heavy white cloaks and hats at all times. This reflects the sun’s rays harmlessly back into the atmosphere. So with these considerations, it’s crucial to not rely on sunlight to save you.

5. The whole crucifix thing is an utter myth spread by the mealy minions in the Vatican. They WANT you to use it, for the cross is actually a source of much strength for the Pope, and if you produce it while defending yourself or while fleeing, your ass is grass.

6. Wear a priest collar. Not a costume collar, but an authentic clerical collar from your local priest uniform store. They are heavily reinforced, and have been specifically designed to protect the devoted from the Pope’s bottomless hunger.

That’s the short list. Print it out and stick it to the fridge, loyal readers. It’s going to be a long week. Jose out.

SAINI SUNPURA, India (JeR) — On March 11^th, sources informed the Jose el Retardo International Desk that an infant with two adorable faces was born to a dirt-poor family on a northern India farm 25 miles east of New Delhi. Apparently, this development has raised many eyebrows—as well as hopes—in the halls of the United States’ legislative branches, spawning many rumors of a dawning golden age in American politics.

The father of this tiny miracle, 23 year old Vinod Singh, has said that he believes this precious angel, named Lali, is the reincarnation of the Hindu goddess of valor, Durga, reportedly a rather bitchy divine spirit with lots of arms and a trio of peepers. As it happens, doctors believe differently, and say little Lali is suffering from an extraordinarily rare deformity known as craniofacial duplication. However, the town remains adamant, and throngs of visitors keep pouring in, hoping to lay eyes on the deity incarnate. The father remains fantastically upbeat, stating, “”My daughter is fine—like any other child.”

Back in Washington DC, members of both houses of Congress are looking at the matter from a slightly different angle, albeit just as optimistically. “Hey, this fucking kid’s got one head and two fucking faces,” raves representative Todd Akin of Missouri, “From a politician’s standpoint, you can’t beat it with a stick!”

Speaking strictly under the conditions of confidentiality, Representative Chip Pickering of Mississippi’s view was more illuminating, and brings into sharp relief an idea commonly shared here in the capital: “Think about it. Most politicians spend their entire lives practicing the art of merely speaking out of both sides of their mouths. Very few ever get around to truly perfecting being two-faced. If this child could be brought over here and taught our ways…I mean, could you imagine what might have happened if a true patriot like Strom Thurmond or Trent Lott had been given such a gift from God?” When asked what he thought of the reports from Saini Hospital’s director, Sabir Ali, claiming that dear Lali “…drinks milk from her two mouths and opens and shuts all the four eyes at one time,” Pickering grabbed his head with both hands and exclaimed, “Oh my Christ, we’ve got to get this girl over here. Whatever the cost.”

Chuck Schumer, the New York Senator, was demure regarding the prospects of bringing the bi-facial child to the states, however he did surmise, “I wouldn’t doubt if the White House is already way ahead of all of us on this one. I mean, just recently my office was asked to reach out to Madonna’s handlers regarding her ability to take on more mothering duties—and let me be clear that I’m only speculating here—but it doesn’t take a genius to do the math.” When asked what he thought it might mean to Lali’s parents to have the girl stripped from their modest shack so that she could be bathed in the glow of celebrity and raised under the strict conventions of American public service, Schumer was apathetic. “Eh, you know, what can you do?” he shrugged, “The good of the many, right? I mean, you have to admit, she’d make a hell of a cabinet member.”

Back in India, the politicians there had more immediate concerns. Saini village Chief Daulat Ram is working to convince the Indian Government to provide funds to build a Durga temple in the town, and is asking for assistance to be given to the Singh’s for the care of their little sensation.

When told of the plans for the shrine, a source close to President Bush scoffed. “A temple to WHO? Look, I’m sure if we tell President Patil over there that we’ve got a whole slew of phone jockey jobs to send her way, you know, she’s gonna give us the kid. Please. They’d trade their own mothers over there for a pint of clean water.” When pressed to say whether this was an admission on the part of the White House to attempt to claim the girl, the source ruffled. “Look, we’re just talking here, right? Don’t go walking around saying shit like that, okay, cause you’re just gonna cause problems for everyone. People get hurt over crap like this. Nice people. Nice people like you, and your very nice family.”

Rep Pickering seemed less secretive, possibly because he was speaking anonymously. “Hey, America’s in need. Look at our political landscape. It’s a mess. It’s like you can’t tell a decent lie anymore without everybody getting all pissy and bent out of shape about it. We need a true two-faced ringer. We need a hero. America needs Lali Singh.” Then Pickering sighed, and opening a Fresca, he ruminated, “She’d have to change her name, though. ‘Lali.’ It’s silly. Maybe something like Susan Reed, or Barbara Lewis, or Amanda Hugginkis—something solid like that.”

Mr. Singh presumably does not have a phone, and therefore could not be reached by the offices of Jose el Retardo for a statement.