Hey, Mel, what the hell, dude? Sixteen months to go in your first U.S. Senate term, and you're pulling out on us? Not cool, Martinez, not cool.

OK, so we understand that Washington hasn't exactly been kittens and rose petals. But really, whose fault is that? Nobody asked you to be the GOP's point man in 2005 on that Terri Schiavo embarrassment, or to pass around that memo to your fellow Republican senators saying how totally awesome it would be to use this poor brain-dead woman as a political football. In fact, that memo — authored by your aide, supposedly without your knowledge (cough bullshit cough) — even called it a "great political issue. … This is an important moral issue and the pro-life base will be excited that the Senate is debating this important issue."

That was low, but you were a rookie and we're forgiving, so we let it slide. But then just a year later, you once again jettisoned your moderate, pragmatic reputation to become Karl Rove's bitchboy at the Republican National Committee. Everyone knew what the deal was: The 2006 elections had just given Congress back to the Democrats and Rove had seen his dream of a "permanent Republican majority" evaporate into the autumn breeze. So he concocted a solution: Appoint a Cuban to the RNC and those Hispanics were certain to follow. Foolproof! You, Sen. Martinez, were but a willing pawn.

But it backfired. You became a Bush sycophant just as support for him began to crater. To make matters worse, you negotiated a Bush-backed illegal immigration reform bill with none other than Ted Kennedy. The xenophobic base of the GOP didn't care for that one bit `see "Hatin' on Mel," July 19, 2007`. By July 2007, you were polling in the 30s, and we could all see the writing on the wall. Less than a year into your term as RNC chair, you quit. A year later, after another GOP ass-whupping at the ballot box, you announced you wouldn't seek re-election. Now here we are.

The rumor is that you're angling for the vacant gig as Florida State University president. And hey, if that's the case, we can't blame you. You've been suckling the public teat for this long; what's a few more years going to hurt? But we here at Happytown™ are savvy political prognosticators, and we know what's going on, even if the Main Stream Media refuses to accept the truth.

Palin/Martinez 2012.

There, we said it. And with a tip of the hat to former Weekly scribe Ed Ericson — who wrote about you when you were a lowly Orange County chairman — we even present you with some surefire campaign slogans, free of charge. Sure, we know you can't really be president, on account of your being born in Cuba, but those are just details. Besides, that little Kenya thing hasn't exactly gotten in President Obama's way, has it?

So, without further ado:

"Public service is a duty and an honor, until it's no fun."

"Quitting for freedom."

"Country first! Until it gets boring."

"We can see Russia and Cuba from here!"

So Melly Mel may want the job

of FSU president, and sure, he may be "qualified" to run a 160-year-old campus with over 40,000 students, but will he buy you a drank? Will he encourage our future leaders of tomorrow to "take it out your pocket/and show it, then blow it"? Is Martinez, in fact, consistently on a muthafuckin' boat?

Those are the questions being posed by a group of FSU students who have apparently taken the news that they no longer attend the top party school in the nation as an opportunity to work on their sense of humor. The website tpain4fsuprez.com ("Give Pain a Chance!") advocates the Auto-Tune—abusing rapper and Tallahassee resident T-Pain for the seat left empty by T.K. Wetherell.

"We're calling on the Florida State University Board of Trustees to elect Faheem Rasheed Najm (‘T-Pain') as the next President of FSU," proclaims the site.

Now, we're not saying that T-Pain wouldn't make a terrific head of academia, but c'mon: Have you seen what he charges for a mix-tape drop? FSU has budgetary cuts to concern itself with. Besides, if you absolutely have to hire Tallahassee-native rappers as your president, we endorse Dead Prez.


This week in the gay: Hey, shrinks, leave the homos alone!

Last week, the American Psychological Association instructed mental-health professionals that they should not tell gays they can become straight through so-called reparative therapy. The vote passed 125-4 and pretty much codified what most psychologists had realized ages ago: Lesbians and gays don't choose their orientation, and it's not a disease to be treated. Take that, Exodus International! Right?

We half-expected our favorite local "ex-gay" ministry to react to the news by screaming about liberal atheists hijacking science or some such, but no. Instead, Exodus press-released respectful disagreement: "While Exodus does not fully agree with the APA's criticisms of clinical techniques such as reparative therapy and its view of sexual orientation change, the report does recognize that some choose to live their lives in congruence with religious values."

In other words, therapy can't fix the queer, but you can still pray away the gay.

The minute we at OW stop making fun of embarrassing things, that's when we cease to exist. It's like how sharks have to keep swimming or die, only with far less of the fishy smell.

Therefore, it is our obligation — nay, our lifeblood — to point a finger and chuckle at Emily Schlansky, owner of the local doggie day-care shop Dog Day Afternoon, for making an event out of what would normally be considered a lapse in sanity.

You see, Schlansky's dog, Peanut, turns 13 this week and to celebrate — already you see the problem here — she's hosting a … wait for it … "Bark Mitzvah."

"This is a fun event for people and dogs of all faiths. Peanut has participated in pet blessings at churches in the past and is excited for this event," Schlansky anthropomorphizes in a press release. A rabbi and a wedding DJ will be on hand for this gathering of lonely, lonely people; all dogs will have a chance to "wear yarmulkes" and play "doggie games including musical sit and doggie limbo."

If there's any good to come of this, it's that the admission ($5-$12) benefits the SPCA of Central Florida (who just last month were forced to kill over 40 dogs thanks to a viral outbreak), which should comfort the attendees the next time their mothers lecture them on why they'll never get married.

Oh, dear. We promised ourselves that after our last snatch at the low-hanging fruit of the dead Billy Mays tree, we would cease this insensitive nitpicking and move on with our cruel lives. But then somebody — a Hillsborough County medical examiner — had to go and turn Mr. OxiClean into a cokehead.

According to an autopsy report issued last Friday, Mays — who never showed any signs of being an amped-up bear at a "let's talk about me!" party — may have been of the Peruvian-powder persuasion. Gasp!

His wife Deborah was quick to chime in with an official statement of widowly disbelief, saying the family was "totally unaware" of any illicit drug use beyond the piles of painkillers for Mays' ever-replacing hip, and anyway so what. When we visited Mays last September `see "Mad man," Oct. 16, 2008` — and, no, we will never stop bringing this up — he scoffed at the notion of partying, saying mainly that it was something he used to do, you know, before he became a third-person commodity and could ruin his career with the grind of a jaw. Then again, he was losing a lot of weight.

Anyway, his son, who is in no way a famewhore in the nepotistic-detritus vein, was quick to chime in on his Twitter feed with some fresh college-dorm rebuke from Molière (who totally pumps our 'nads, man!): "One should examine oneself for a very long time before thinking of condemning others." Here's looking at you, kid.



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