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In This Issue

• Todurken: Hot Poultry Threesome
• New York City Hates The Homeless (Surprise!)
• Pope Lives It Up In Final Days
• Letters to the Feditrix: We Want Orangutans!
• Columbia's Investments Are Really Shady (Another Surprise!)
• Italian Neo-Fascism: Sexier than Ever
• Hidden Origins of your Favorite Holidays
• Macy's Parade Unites Jaded New Yorkers in Disgust
• Slow Motion Gunfight Saves Christmas
• Barnard Feminists Full of It (You Guessed It!)
• Reality TV to follow Nike's Lead, Exploit Third World Women
• Fed Staffer Admits Inappropriate Santa Fantasies
• Family Time Blows (Got you Again!)
• The Obligatory Vegan Option: Tofurky
• Why Holiday Diversity Scares Me
• A Paris Hilton Holiday Comic
• Your Retirement Fund
• Silent Vengeance: Book II
• Wacky Fun Whitey
• Robot Ninjas vs. Zombie Vikings

If you're ever lucky enough to be in my bed, do not be frightened by the hairy Italian guy watching over our sweet, sweet love-making.  Don't you dare be aroused by him either.  He may be a sexy pinup, but that big hunk of guinea glory sticky-tacked to my wall is all mine, bi-atch!  Who could this guy with the gargantuan nose and luscious lickable lips be?  There's only one Italian Stallion in my life: (well, besides Bruno, from Saturday night, oh and Rocco from a month ago- sweet Dio, the hands on that man)  Anyway, where was I? Oh right: Silvio Berlusconi, Prime Minister of Italy, European Union president, sometime Sicilian Songster, other time Sicilian Gangster, and all around dark, hairy god. 

Why, Kristen, you ask, would such a sweet girl as yourself want to love this wop's nob?  Where to even begin.

I don't know what got me, but I think it began the first time Berlusconi told a German European Parliament member that he'd be perfect for the role of a Nazi prison guard in a concentration camp movie.  You don't often see that mixture of chutzpah and gusto all rolled into one small Italian man sporting a Maserati's worth of gold nestled in the hairy acreage of his chest.  Just for all you "racially-sensitive" people out there, this darling of a man was afterwards considerate enough to compare himself to that efficient, machine-like race.  "Work, work, work- I am almost a German" he explained to the German newspaper, Bild.  Brilliant!  He not only salved the Germans' wounded feelings, but at the same time proved that he's not a lazy bum like all those other Italians, but is actually a workaholic like the stalwart Aryans.  Way to kill two birds with one stone, my sweet Italian cupcake!

There are so many more things I could go into, such as his recently-released CD of lusty love songs, sending my heart aflutter and my nipples erect, or the way he diplomatically manages to piss off every foreign dignitary he meets.  Seeing as it's pretty difficult to get me into bed (and by pretty difficult I mean: piece of cake!) any guy is going to have to make a hard sales pitch to convince me to drop my knickers: even the prime minister of a sorta-important, backwater European power.  Of course with his particular persuasive powers this PM should have no problem wooing me into his casa of coitus.  Not to mention that word on the street is he carries a pretty big stick.

In any case, I've rarely had a more satisfying obsession (not that I actually have many obsessions- I'm not a freak or anything- for example, I've never asked someone if I could moan "Silvio" instead of Josh, or whether I could teach him a few choice Italian words to yell at the climax of our passion, or whether he'd braid his beard, wear a pirate's hat, line his eyes, and call me Elizabeth Swann like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean- mmmmm. Oh no, never)  As I was saying, my obsession, um, admiration, has been incredibly fulfilling, except for one disturbing incident last summer.

As I was spending some time this past August with my grandma, her homemade meat sauce, and a Murder, She Wrote marathon, we flipped for a moment to CNN.  I almost shouted merda santa! when I saw that shiny pate of love reflecting both the glare of the TV lights and my red-hot stare.  Unfortunately, I also heard my grandmother, perhaps a little drunk after too much wine with her pasta, mutter under her breath, "Mama mia, I'd like to lather that signore up in my homemade meat sauce and show him what a real Italian woman could do!" I didn't hear the rest because I was already in the bathroom gagging up every last chunk of meat sauce I'd eaten that night. 

This might sound weird, but despite the nauseating revelation that my grandmother and I finally bridged the generation gap through our mutual lust for one man, my Italian blood still simmers for Berlusconi's Mediterranean lovin'.  And if I ever do get the chance to meet him I already know exactly what I'll say (pieced together from my one semester of Italian and the Internet):  Hai un'ucello peloso, tu uomo piccolo.  Vieni a mamma. Ahhhhhh. (You have a hairy penis, you little man.  Come to mama- ohhhh yeaaaaahhh.)