Remember that show about Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and their Mom?

"Let's Get Laid," a webseries launching February 17, is not your standard pre-menopausual sex comedy. The series centers around Melissa and Jenn , two entertainment assistants, who are klutzing their way through the Los Angeles dating scene; the land of ridiculously high expectations.  Unlike their New York matriarch counterparts, the duo is broke (one still lives with her folks) and are looking for Mr. Right Now rather than Mr. Right.

DEAR GOD! Has anyone else heard?

With the election of Scott Brown and the failure of Air America the progressive movement is dead. It's on all the news channels... even MSNBC!

Air America went under for the same reason why Martha Oakley's campaign failed. They were arrogant. They assumed folks would want to hear the truth. With Fox News polling as the most trusted news source in America, people want to hear what they want to hear.

Editor’s Note: I am always open to submissions. Ten years ago, I got this piece from a
young Ted Haggard and I didn’t return his emails because, quite frankly, he creeped me
out. I totally forgot about it. However, I stumbled across this piece while cleaning out my
inbox. Since he’s famous, and I am not, I decided to finally run it.

Last year, I was committed to Homosexual Rehab by my Father Pastor Bil and my
mother,  Mary Jessica . It all stems from an incident at someplace called “Trunks”
(Jimmy call me, you will be thrilled with my progress…you were right about everything
that night! Big hug!). But, frankly, my mother found underpants that didn’t have my name
stitched it in the next day.

Thank goodness they did this for me. Homosexual Rehab Camp was FABULOUS.

Greg Mills can also be read at the Bastard of Art and Commerce.

VO: Keith Richards. Gravelly, hoarse.

((SFX: Sounds like a dog whimpering))

Hello, I’m Keef Richards. You may know me as the legal guardian of Sir Mick Jagger’s stuffed corpse. Look for us on tour this summer. If you’re like me, human sex is long past dull. Every gaping maw starts looking the same, and choosing which one to penetrate in the writhing mountain of limbs and rubber goods one keeps handy in one’s sitting room gets to be just another chore, like pressing warm compresses to Ron Wood’s lumbago.