Adam welcomes newsgirl Suzy McCoppin back to the show, and immediately talks about female guests who sit with their feet on the couch.

Click Here To Listen To Suzy “do” The News

Fuckin’ Edgy.

Playmates are so horny.

I was a pre-teen social leper, but I was able to make one friend:
My libido. Some kids had imaginary friends, I had my clitoris. I
once heard in a psychology class that its characteristic of children
with low self esteem to masturbate to excess. This bombshell
revelation explained a lot. My ability to self gratify would provide
me with hours of distraction from being a social leper. And, in the
process, I also discovered that I was something of a creative genius-
that nestled within the sublime loser that was me simmered the soul of a perverse prodigy. I would delight in finding many ways to flex this new muscle.

Bush Gardens. 1985. I had hit the jackpot. On a family trip to the amusement park I won 2 life sized stuffed animals-a polar bear and a lion. My parents, rejoicing over my victory, photographed me with my trophies, and an unmistakably lustful look in my eye- for my only thought in the wake of this triumph was the realization that these toys were roughly the same size as me, and would therefore serve as excellent substitutes for an inflatable sex doll, which would otherwise not be available to someone of my tender years.

A budding artist, I poured every creative impulse into autoeroticism. I would labor over elaborate sets in which I would be a Medieval damsel in distress, an evil dominatrix distressing, a high class hooker and so on. I would play the part of the director, producer, stagehand and of course leading lady. Each set would come complete with the appropriate sound track, lighting and costuming.

Putting the final nail in the coffin of my already strained
relationship with my brother was his accidental entrance into one of
said scenarios. Allow me to set the scene: It was a crisp fall
evening in a regal English manor and I was in the midst of seducing a
dashing Knight, played to perfection by the polar bear. The scene was
set, the lights dimmed, and I, naked save for a strategically placed
Hello kitty sweatshirt, straddled the bear and uttered, in an English
accent, “I want you, only you, and you alone.”

And then, dismounting the bear to lock the door, I discovered my brother Richard standing in the doorway, aghast, horrified. It would
be years before I would mount a bear through an unlocked door again. The next morning we had to ride the bus together. Awkward.

Bloodied but unbowed, I continued on my quest for hairy palms and
blindness. The housekeeper must have found puzzling evidence of my affairs in my bedroom. Objects that had no apparent relation thrown into a corner: a stuffed animal, a candle stick, Vaseline and a
clothespin. But for me they joined in harmony in my perverse little world.

I remember trying to excuse myself from the family room whenever even the most benign sex scene would grace the screen. Oddly, even Tampax commercials proved effective triggers. “I’m gonna go do my homework.” I was out, like a phantom in the night.

My thinly disguised excuses were obvious, but who in their right mind would suspect the bizarre sex play their 11- year- old was about to engage in. They must have at least thought it odd, that considering
how frequently I did “homework,” I never earned above a C+.

Even though I was multi orgasmic, this hobby could only provide a limited respite from my dreaded existence. After years of relaying this misery, my mom finally buckled and transferred me to a public school where I continued to fail academically and excel at picking my nose. The usual ostricization ensued and I was forced to develop a new
hobby: vengeance.

Not a pro-active Columbine style vengeance, though it did cross my mind, but a long term, multi level point plan that would attack my enemy at their core. I was going to move to Hollywood and make some shit happen. And they would rue the day they picked me last for kick ball. Those fuckers.

I shifted my focus from masturbatory fodder to composing my Oscar speech. “I would like to thank God, the Academy, and Shannon O’Malley, whose unbridled evil has served as the fuel to my rising star. I would then cram in the name of every wrong doer who had crossed my path until I was drowned out by Oscar music and cut off by a commercial break. …

I don’t wanna brag, but I used to be a model. In New York City. That’s right- the fashion capitol of the world. OKay. So I didn’t have a seven-figure deal with Revlon and I never strutted the Parisian runways, but people took my picture for money.  After college I signed with an agency called Stars, right under the 59th street bridge, and a half – block down from Scores, the world famous strip club. My agent was a bed-ridden paraplegic known simply as “Timmy.” He claimed he was run over by a cement truck while jogging through central park one night in the early 90’s, but I always found it a tad askew that if Timmy was fit enough to jog, how was he not able to outrun a cement truck?
Laurie, Timmy’s star model, had another explanation. “Timmy ripped off Miss July, and she goes out with this guy that’s in the mafia. He sent his goons to throw Timmy out a six –story window.” Whatever the case, I was a model.
Stars specialized in cheese. The one constant in my career was the presence of baby oil. I did swimsuit calendars, lingerie ads, motorcycle magazines. About six months into my low fashion career, Laurie turned me onto a web site called “Onemodelplace.” I registered right away and discovered that it offered “modeling” and “acting” gigs well outside the confines of the average human imagination, mostly fetishistic in nature. But still, in my mind I was “modeling.” My brain selectively chose to zero in on the portion of the story that had me getting paid to travel to a location to be photographed. The other details hung in my consciousness like a gnat, but with enough concentration and a sprinkling of denial, I could ignore them, it. Whatever. Plus fetish modeling effectively fostered this delusion because it didn’t involve nudity as much as it did just plain weirdness.
I got a steady gig “modeling” for a website called “Wetlook.com,” which catered to fetishes with a highly specific tastes. My job was to wear a business suit; blouse, skirt, pantyhose, pumps, and blazer, and once sufficiently outfitted, submerge myself in either a swimming pool or a hot tub. Wait. It gets weirder.
The wetlook.com was a fully clothed/underwater/tattle site. Apparently there’s a demographic of the population titillated by wet, dressed girls tattling. So I did it. I was hungry. I needed the money. “I saw Jerry from accounting using the company car on the weekends, and I told my boss,” I earnestly confessed to the camera, finally putting my NYU theatre degree to good use. “And I saw this lady at the grocery store eat a grape,” I testified. “And she didn’t pay for it. I marched right up and told the cashier.” Justice must be served. And I would serve it up, in soggy Naturalizers. As seduced as I was by the pay check and the free train ticket to Tenafly New Jersey, the curios nature of this enterprise was not lost on me. “How did this site come about,” I asked thewetlook’s mastermind. “How might such a proclivity originate?” He paused, pensively and furrowed his brow. “There’s just something so naughty about a girl who’s so reckless she’ll get her whole business suit wet-even the shoes. And tattling? Well, that’s just hot.” Sounds reasonable. I wanted to delve further into this psychological schism, but there were more weirdoes out there, and they beckoned.
Another equally idiosyncratic facet of the population I entertained was the “sweater bondage” enthusiast. This ultra glamorous photo shoot had me and another girl tie each other up with wool sweaters whilst posing provocatively. Well, ‘wool’ is a strong word. They were more poly-blends, but just as binding as even the finest knit. We shot at a studio, and by studio I mean the photographer’s Newark apartment that he shared with his rotund cat ‘Stinky.’ Enticed by the flash of his owner’s Polaroid, Stinky kept creeping into the shot.

“Stinky! Shoo! Shoo- Get out of here!”
“Why do you call him ‘Stinky?’
“He has really bad gas.”
Eventually I accepted that “Onemodelplace.com” isn’t really a modeling site as much as it a vehicle for lonely perverts with cameras to get girls to their house. My modeling career ended abruptly about two weeks after this realization when a Onemodelplace “model” was stabbed to death, wrapped in cellophane paper and buried in a make shift grave a long, long way from the Parisian runways. But at least when I’m old and wrinkled I can look back at my modeling shots and say, “Look! I used to be really, really….stupid.”

International Men of Mystery
WTF? Why do DJ’s get so much ass? Because they know how to work i tunes? I know how to work i Tunes. It’s really not that hard. And yet, some how, your average Hollywood DJ’s list of conquests would turn David Blaine green with envy. Which leads me to a more pressing point, why does David Blaine get so much ass? And for that matter, why do magicians get so much ass? Is it magic? If so, refer to my second question. (why does David Blaine get so much ass) He’s not even doing magic. Standing in a tub of water isn’t magic. Neither is standing on a ledge. He’s basically just standing in different locations and calling it magic. There’s no top hat. There are no rabbits. There’s no hocus friggin’ pocus. Yet he gets higher ratings than the Super Bowl and yes, tons of ass. Ass from seriously top shelf bitches. I’m not talking about the ones whose blonde hair and blue eye pas them off as attractive from a distance but closer inspection reveals an uncanny resemblance to Owen Wilson. I’m talking super models. Bonafide Victoria Secret Eastern block shit. The loftiest shelf in all the land. David Copperfield does magic. I’ll give him that. One time he made the Statue of Liberty disappear. But that’s nothing compared to nailing Claudia Schiffer for five years in the mid nineties. And he treated her like shit. One time he even sawed her in half. The humanity. Sadly this gives credence to ancient dogma: hot chicks are stupid. But I digress. Back to the injustice at hand.

Let’s ‘Break Down’ the illusive allure of the DJ:
1) You wear cool sneakers. Vintage Nikes, old school Adidas. We’re all very impressed.
2) You end most of your statements with the phrase “and shit.” For example: Me and my homies were getting’ mad stupid and shit.” If you’re a wannabe DJ, avoid the temptation to end statements with the phrase “and such.” For example “Ima ‘bout to throw down some real old school beats, and such.” It’s not quite as punchy and is liable to expose you as Caucasian.
3) You’re Caucasian, but seem to have no idea. (see above)
4) Many of your loyal followers were Bar Mitzvahed with you.
5) Your ego is largely based on your extensive collection of bootleg electronica. Oh, that and the fact that you bang supermodels.
6) You probably have an assortment of gay hats. Not homosexual gay, gay like we used to use in 7th grade.

So why is it that I find this imbalance so vexing? It’s not like I’m trying to nail supermodels. (at least not since that one time in college, and it was her idea). I’ll tell you why. Because I know a lot of these guys and they’re a bunch of ungrateful douche bags. You’d think if God smiled on you and converted your turntables into a vagina magnet, even though you couldn’t get laid in high school, you’d have a little gratitude. You’d recognize your good fortune and pay it forward, by, I don’t know, maybe being nice to people other than Giselle Bundchen. But no, you don’t, becasue you’re a douche bag. I see DJ’s out all the time. They won’t give me the time of day. Not even when I stand on my toes. I once saw David Blaine at Bungalo 8 in New York. He handed me his empty glass and asked me to refill it, which may not seem that offensive, but I didn’t work there. What a douche bag.

I got this from my college boyfriend, and I’m still not over it.

Dearest Suzy,

I regret to inform you that this may be the end of our relationship. I don’t see how I can go on pretending anymore. I have too many responsibilities as dictator of a small Central American country. The advisors insist that I continue my reign as “el presidente” for at least another five years. By the time my term is complete, you will probably be fat and unattractive. Even though we may never marry-actually I will guarantee you here and now that we will never marry, I want you to wait for me any way. Also, I have been abusing my powers as “el presidente” and have been sleeping with every peasant girl in the land, even the really ugly one. Just because I can.

Love Always,
“El Presidente”