Did you hear about the party crashers at the White House state dinner?

Of course you have. That sh*t’s been all over the news since the story broke last Wednesday.

When I first saw the headline, I was expecting the article to be about a bunch of naked college guys running through the White House lawn, or universal healthcare protestors waving signs about killing old people—or naked college guys protesting universal healthcare with messages about killing old people painted on their butts.

I didn’t, however, expect to see a picture of a well-dressed, middle-aged couple smiling with Joe Biden, who looked more than happy to be photographed. But that’s exactly what I was looking at when I clicked on the headline, and no amount of screen refreshes was going to change that into a picture of naked college guys.

Once I got past my profound disappointment, I started to wonder why that couple decided to crash the state dinner in the first place. I mean, of all the events to go to sans invitation, they chose the option that was most likely to ignite a major sh*t storm. We’re not talking about a little kid’s birthday party here. They crashed a dinner party at the President’s freaking house.

The wave of articles and updates that followed the initial news break didn’t mention anything about the couple being protestors, terrorists, or even plain ol’ crazy. The only assumption I had left was that they were hired by the CIA or something to do a quality check on the Secret Service’s security measures. After all, some companies hire hackers to exploit potential weaknesses in their computer databases, so maybe the husband and wife were hired to do something similar.

And then I found out that the couple had been trying to become reality show stars…and all of a sudden, their crazy-ass behavior made sense.

I find that to be extremely sad. There used to be a time when the “aspiring reality television star” excuse wasn’t a valid explanation for bad behavior—it actually made things worse. Things were bad enough because you acted totally irrationally, but your belief that anyone would want to watch your dumbass on television was just insane and rendered you unfit for society.

Those days are clearly long gone, and the “reality T.V.” excuse has become the only one we are able to accept. Single mother of 14 young children who were all conceived through in vitro fertilization? What the hell is wro—oh, you were trying to score a reality television show like the Gosselins and the Duggards? Never mind then. Lied to everyone about your young son floating in the sky in a giant birthday balloon, even though you knew he was hiding in your attic while authorities and volunteers were racing to save him? I’d tell you to go f*ck yourself, but you were trying to get your own show so you wouldn’t have to keep appearing on “Wife Swap.” So again, never mind.

We can now include the White House party crashers to the ever-growing neighborhood of douche bags who do stupid sh*t in hopes that it’ll help them score their own reality television shows. And the neighborhood is most likely going to continue to expand—which is fine with me. Really, it is. I mean, I think these people are all garbage and hearing that another one of them has made the news can become rather irritating. But I can put up with all the asinine assholes that rely on a tired-ass formula to achieve fame because so far, none of them have been successful. Instead of getting a television show, Nadya Suleman ended up with 14 kids and a new nickname, the Heenes got court dates, and the party crashers could get criminal charges. As long things stay the way they are—i.e., douche bags aren’t rewarded with airtime on any television network—the world will be able to avoid the total annihilation that will inevitably result if the delicate balance between good and evil is disrupted any further.

That’s right: I said “disrupted any further.” Let’s be honest, people, and call it like it is: the good/evil balance has been unbalanced for a long time, and we’re pretty much on the brink of the end of the world. Forget 2012—the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could show up any second now if networks keep producing visual diarrhea like “The Real Housewives of [major city]” or “Denise Richards: It’s Complicated.” And by the way, whoever came up with the idea to add the “It’s Complicated” to the latter title must not have seen a single episode of the show. If he had, he would have noticed that the only thing complicated is how Denise Richards got her own show in the first place. A more appropriate title would be: “Denise Richards: Pile of Dirt.”

Here’s to hoping that Pestilence doesn’t show up at my doorstep.

On Thanksgiving, people often reflect on all the things they are thankful. That’s why it’s called “Thanksgiving”…you know, because you’re giving thanks. Ah, the creativity–it’s like I named it.

Hearing what you’re thankful for is great, but honestly, if you’ve asked one person to tell you what he’s thankful for, you’ve basically asked us all. Yes, yes, family, friends, health, blah, blah blah. What I’m more interested in is hearing about all the things that didn’t make your list. That’s where the real fun begins because everyone’s going to have a unique answer–except the swine flu people. They just respond with whatever illness has been featured most in news headlines. This year it’s swine flu; in 2003 they said SARS and bird flu; in 1995 they said mad cow disease…next year they’ll be saying snail flu or flu-flu-flu.

Anyway, here are a few things that didn’t make my list this year. I have more than 3, but it would take years for me to write about all of them.

        I. Nostril Pimples

I actually have one in my left nostril right now, and it’s turned my life into a living nightmare. Scratching, blowing, picking—the freedom to do whatever I pleased with my nose is gone, replaced by a new reality that even the slightest contact with my nostril will erupt in crippling levels of pain.

Why do those damn things hurt so much? The other members of the pimple family tree aren’t painful, but having a zit in your nostril is like a death sentence. That probably means it’s the “black sheep” of the family, right? The one no one wants to associate with because it gets drunk all the time and tells bad jokes.

        II. Plastic Surgery Face

There are a number of reasons why I will never have any plastic surgery done on my face: (1) I like the face my parents gave me, and (2) I don’t want to have Plastic Surgery Face.

My basic Paint skills aren’t enough to help me draw a version of Plastic Surgery Face, but it’s all in the person’s nose, lips, and skin. Look up Shauna Sands, Kris Jenner, Daisy from “Daisy of Love,” and all the “Real Housewives of Orange County.” They’ve all got Plastic Surgery Face: their noses are shaped like ski slopes that are abruptly cut off by an unnaturally sharp-looking point, and they have giant lips that look even more monstrous when they wear pale pink lipstick (which they all do for some reason). And their skin doesn’t even look like real skin. There is something off about it—like, it actually looks as if they had plastic melted on their faces or something.

I don’t know if they look like that because they requested it, or because that’s the extent of our technological advances in plastic surgery. But there is something very wrong about being able to tell you’ve had work done on your face without even seeing a picture of what you looked like before. That result just seems like the antithesis of plastic surgery’s purpose. It’s supposed to make you look better, but I don’t think “better” means looking like a half-assed mannequin.

        III. Seitan

I’ve only eaten seitan once, but that lone experience is enough for me to say this with the strongest of convictions: If there was any part of me that was open to becoming of a vegetarian, then consider that part dead. Very, very dead. I will never, ever give up eating meat. And you vegetable people can go ahead and criticize my love for dead animal flesh, but I would rather eat carcasses than ingest a bite—no, an atom—of that disgusting fake meat you call “seitan.”

Seitan is imitation meat made from wheat gluten. It’s used as a substitute for real meat, and is claimed to be “surprisingly similar to the look and texture of meat when cooked.” And that would be true if real meat looked like diarrhea, and had the texture of…of…hmm, how should I describe it? You know how a Chicken McNugget has a layer of spongy goo between the chicken and the fried skin? If you were to scrape off that layer and remove all the delicious Chicken McNuggety flavor out of it, you’d get the texture of seitan.

I think seitan should instead be called “Satan,” because eating it is like going to Hell. In fact, I’m pretty sure I read somewhere in “Dante’s Inferno” that one of the punishments was eating that sh*t for eternity.

And in case you didn’t know: there may not be an “i” in “team,” but there is an “eat” in “meat.”

Today we will be focusing on the Douchelogic that is often employed by Crap Talkers. Just to be clear, when I say “Crap Talkers,” I am not referring to the entire human population. Even though we have all talked crap about others, and have had others talked crap about us in return, the Crap Talkers relevant to this discussion is a subspecies of human—i.e., humans who think Douchelogically.

The Crap Talker Douchelogic goes something like this:

I know people like this, and this is really how they think–and I don’t get the logic at all! It just doesn’t make sense to brag about how great you are at being someone’s fake friend when you purposely hide your true feelings whenever that person is around. I mean, why are you hiding how you really feel? Because you don’t want that person to find out how much you really hate his stank ass! There’s nothing mysterious about it. And with a 5% failure rate (factoring in the people who can’t keep anything to themselves…and big-mouthed children, like the little girl in the Swanson’s chicken broth commercial. You know, the one where the little girl promises to keep the family’s secret ingredient to herself, but then immediately turns around and asks a nearby kid, “wanna hear a secret?” Argh! She really pisses me off! So what if the secret ingredient is a can of chicken broth? Keep that sh*t to yourself! At least for grandma’s sake!)–the only reason why anyone would feel compelled to gloat about being able to pull off a “talk about you behind your back” routine is because that guy’s an asshat who thinks Douchelogically!

Later that day…