All blogs are works of gonzo journalism and should not be regarded as truth; they are but entertainment.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Jennifer Day Tv--So Bad It Even Sucks on Mute

For those of you with cable television, I must tell you there is a world you know absolutely nothing about.  Rightfully so I say, as you no doubt pay money to your service provider for the right to choose your retardation (yes I assure you: with few exceptions the majority of television programs are indeed retarded).  But I must confess that this unknown world I speak of has an undeniable charm, a certain life force that pumps out mediocrity shamelessly, for its ignorance actually believes its product to be intelligent.

I am speaking of antenna television.  Yes, it sill exists, floating all around the world in waves of stupid, floating blissfully above the heads of Americans and straight into the television sets of the poor and elderly every single day.  And iR watches these waves with the very same antenna system iR used to use back in the day.

Local broadcast stuff is hilarious.  The 'personalities' that make up this realm of entertainment are all 'personalities' that couldn't make it in the big show;' the clowns and buffoons with the talents and skills of a barnyard animal.  Camera presence is certainly not a given with this crowd.  These fools are like the broken hearted failures of Vegas; the dreamers reaching for the stars, despite any measurable talent whatsoever--the masses shuffled out of the realm of real television and forced to live out a meager existence in front of a perpetual audience of anywhere from zero to twenty people.  They are the casualties that are entirely necessary, their loss making winning all the more desirable for everyone else.  Why, with antenna tv, all of a sudden a Rob Schneider sitcom doesn't sound half bad.

Their 'stars' are people like Huell Houser, the most retarded man in the interview game.  This abortion can do a thirty minute show about drying paint--and can come up with about a hundred simple minded questions about the very process of paint drying.  His curiosity is like that of a cat, his mind like that of a slow child, his prostate like a swelling water balloon.  It is a wonder he even knows how to breathe (thanks Bobby D)

That's a tree Huell.  Cool huh?

People like the 'She's Crafty' chick, an awkward species that can teach you to make such questionable items as a coffee table made from an old snowboard, and a laptop cozy (because anyone who knows anything about computers knows they definitely perform more efficiently when overheated) made from an old polo shirt--and look! the pocket in front can be used to hold the mouse.  Aint that cute?  Butthole.

People like Wyland, a second rate Bob Ross whose particular fetish in regards to the natural world includes bottle nose dolphins and underwater sea caves populated by tremendous sea fans.  Like Bob Ross he provides a service to mankind, teaching the mass of men to paint generic nature scenes that entice no feeling whatsoever (and therefore are not worthy of the term 'art,') other than hilarity and shame for the artist.

But the queen of these swine , the residing whore if you will, is none other than Jennifer Day, an actual whore.  Jennifer uses her 2 am time slot as a platform to promote and sell her softcore pornography.  She has no qualms about whoring herself out for money, but don't you dare think that she's a one trick poney.  Oh no, she's not some airheaded nude model, she's also a horrible singer, actress and all around human being.  Her show sucks so bad it is not even good on mute--the inherent retardation and unwarranted arrogance of Jennifer Day translates without having to hear her thoughts (which are shallow, vain, and completely boring--I assure you.)

The show works like this.  There is no plot, no one is interviewed--absolutely nothing happens.  Jennifer is front and center, and the entire show she sings songs from her upcoming album that's just sure to drop soon (but in fact, never will) with the help of two other girls that pretend to be her friend but obviously secretly hate her.

They do all this dressed in bikinis, and the show is usually filmed in a hotel room, or sometimes in an actual hotel convention room, her horrid voice echoing over the PA system normally reserved for boring business lectures.  Jennifer sings her songs while she and her friends dance around shaking their asses--Jennifer utilizing all four moves she knows, all of them being a combination of horrid gymnastics and off-putting erotic dancing.

Sometimes she's also filming for her website, so there's another cameraman on screen, a woman also in a bikini.  Yes appears Jennifer doesn't have the common sense to keep her out of the shot.  She's skinny and gives off a vibe like that of the weird bag filmer in American Beauty.  She's there for Jennifer and the others to pick on and snicker at because she doesn't have fake boobs or a humongous ass, and her very presence in turn makes Jennifer appear more appealing by association.  But it's a weak one, and still ever present are those eyes of Jennifer's, all aglow with a douchery that ruins all notion of her being anything but swine.

If you're a guy who's into chicks you probably don't believe me; how could a show about a bunch of chicks in bikinis be bad?

Well, first let me reiterate that public television broadcasting, is generally horrible.  When you limit its audience to those who still use an archaic means of receiving television broadcasts--due to their poverty or stupidity, or both, you have television that is rancid to the senses and would not be viewed by anyone if these stations didn't have the need to fill empty air time and sell commercials.  These people are utter failures.  So now we have a failure.  So what?  She's still a chick in a bikini correct?  Well, with that said, it is necessary to further illustrate Jennifer Day, for better understanding.

Jennifer Day is perhaps the plainest, least striking woman in the world. Her assumption to the contrary makes her downright ugly.  She has spent so much of her time flirting with men all her life that she has the annoying habit of laughing stupidly after everything she says in an attempt to appear light-hearted and 'fun.'  She's like a stripper: always saying things you know not to be true, always bursting with false flattery--only she can't dance and has all the sexuality of a velociraptor. . .  This can be seen every episode.  She always addresses her many fans, operating on the belief that the people who turn to her show are conscious viewers, and not drunks (2 am, Saturday.  Think about it.) stumbling across her show in happenstance or thirteen year old boys with parent protected internet.

When dancing she always is in front, and isn't afraid to elbow a 'friend' if she's getting a little too overzealous.    And she has every right not to be.  Her last album came out ten years ago, already forgotten by everyone but herself.  Her first single made the charts, her second just barely, her last, not at all.

And so now she eeks out a living hawking tits and ass in a world full of tits and ass with a routine that may have been cute when she was a twenty-two year old, but at thirty-two is just sad and kind of pathetic.  Such is the life of mediocrity I suppose.

Jennifer's website can be found at, though there is very little to do there unless you pay a membership feet.  If you are in the Los Angeles area, you can watch Jennifer Day on KDOC 65-1, on Saturdays at 2am.

Friday, November 18, 2011

The Ryan Gossling Effect; Or The Death of Rationalization

The written word has been losing a long battle with other mediums since the invention of television and other institutions which require "less thought."  Yet still, magazines thrive, as many people still enjoy them while waiting for the torture of dentistry, or the vain efforts of a hairdresser. It has always been a mild distraction, to be picked up in times of utter boredom--perhaps when the cellphone is out of battery life, or the institution being visited is void of any free wifi. Sure, many magazines have folded over the years, to be forgotten forever by everyone except for a few die-hards, but Rolling Stone has been the written gospel for many a pompous music fan, and High Times has been a porno mag for stoners all across the country for just over forty years.  Quality has never been a precursor to whether or not a magazine survives, its all dumb luck and stupidity, a sort of survival in the coming waves of what is trendy and popular. People has survived under this distinction, and has for a long time been America's sort of secret, dirty obsession (beside torture, slavery, war, and robbing the poor).

In this light, People has been given the rather bullshit and unimportant task of naming The Sexiest Man Alive for many years, and during that time not a single scientist or working mind has been mentioned--only celebrities--the nonexistent and unimportant. Its obvious and understandable when one considers People only writes about celebrities, but when considering such an umbrella term as man, its just plain stupid. America's obsessions with these fools have been showcased over the years, and now it has finally turned ugly. . .

November 16, 2011

Sylvia Wormwood, aged twenty-eighty, sits at her kitchen table, with a legion of like minded followers surrounded around her in a ring of stupid. Their faces carry a shock and morbidity that would lead one to believe that they are looking at old LIFE photos of the Vietnam War, or the motorcycle hoodlum gang called Hell's Angels.  But they aren't gazing at a story of any real importance, they're looking at People's latest distinction of The Sexiest Man Alive, and quite frankly, they're beside themselves with terror and hurt.

"Bradley Cooper?"  Sylvia scoffs.  "Really?  Bradley Cooper?"  She shakes her head as one of her friends, with less than an iron stomach evacuates the room to vomit.  It sounds like her soul is being wretched out, and the smell of it proves she has quite an ugly soul indeed.

When her friend returns she finds everyone quiet, brooding.  Though the sun is coming in yellow through a front window the Vomit Girl can no longer see the sunniness she once knew in all her friends.  They seem grey. Sylvia seems black with darkness and shadow.  Vomit Girl is concerned for the very air itself seems heavy, and every face she peers into seems heavy, and her legs feel heavy, and the clouds outside the window look heavy.  Everything looks heavy.  Heavy, heavy, heavy.  So heavy she subconsciously mouths the word HEAVY.  Something big is on the horizon.

"Well, we can write letters!"  Vomit Girl blurts out, but no one seems to notice.  She looks around at all the faces with her small head, with its small eyes and tiny nose like somebody pushed it in long ago and it just stuck.  Her minute frame suddenly tries to be bigger than it is--a defense mechanism, her chest filling with air, the hands like tiny birds moving up to rest on her hips.  An air of authority.  "We can write emails!" she amends.  "We can take to the power of the internet.  Blast them with how wrong they are.  Start a real smear campaign.  With users and message boards and chat rooms and everything," she says, growing bigger with every word.

"Emails and message boards are for kids. . ."  Sylvia replies.  Vomit Girl deflates and steps back to hide behind the others.  "Or for your loving local congressman light with the wind of an upcoming reelection.  This is bigger than that."

"We can make a website!"  Another of the group adds.

"No, Eve."  Sylvia speaks quietly, as if to keep from going into a total rage.  Her painted lips curl down at the corners, hinting at that rage, and the trembling of her hands show how hard she is trying to suppress it. "No, we must show our strength, our numbers."  She rises up in front of the girls, speaking with the authority of a troop commander.  "They must see us, physically.  Not with emails or websites.  Those are intangibles. They are nothing--nothing compared to people--to the flesh.  Can a email scream?  Can a website cry?  Can a forum actually hurt?  Can any of these things exist outside of the realm of the internet?  Like real things? Hmm?  We must organize, we must show our strength, our numbers," she repeats.

"I don't know. . ." Vomit girl says.  She is worried.  She knows what Sylvia could do  when she lost her head--enough nights drunk at the club with Sylvia told her that.  "Look, I'm just as upset about this as anyone else--but let's not do anything rash.  It is just a magazine.  It is just a silly little title anyway.  I know my love for Ryan hasn't been hurt one bit by it. He probably doesn't even care."

"Maybe she's right," Sam, the only man present says softly, for not only Vomit Girl is feeling the tension building up in the room.  "I love Ryan as much as the next gal but. . ."

"But nothing."  Sylvia snaps.  "Harsh times call for harsh measures."  The look in her eyes makes Sam turn to jelly.  "Imagine how hurt Ryan is." She pauses and the group thinks about it.  "Imagine how hurt all the other Gossling fans are.  That's a whole lot of hurt.  Just a magazine?  Just a silly little title that means nothing at all?!  People* has a lot of nerve with a name like that.  They aren't for the people--clearly not.  This is so much bigger!"

*People magazine boasts a circulation of 3.75 million readers, as of 2006.

She points to Molly, the group's 'fat friend' whose tears are still rolling down her face, and have been ever since she first saw the cover, like a leaky faucet that just won't turn off.  Molly blows her nose, a lawn mower. A lawn mower and a leaky faucet, that is Molly.

"We must show our strength, our numbers."  Sylvia says as if it were her personal mantra, and in the coming days would become the official motto of our nation's first and only Vespa gang.  "And we start now."

As the day passes and the sun sinks down beyond the trees and the buildings built still higher with man's vanity, the Wormwood home undergoes tremendous change.  The Notebook had been put at the start, and though many of the group are big fans (including Sam), many don't listen. The voice of Sylvia would not be denied.  The table is cleared, and from around it the group gathers as Sylvia lays out pictures of Gossling and those abs of his they so adore.  Their preferred beverage of wine coolers is brought out, and the binge drinking begins.  Many of them are not regular drinkers, but due to the severity of the situation many feel it necessary to let out a bit of steam.  Under the fiery affects of the liquor, which many of them found to be quite hard, their voices lift, and moments of great pitch and action begin.  The furniture is destroyed with little concern and prejudice as their feelings swell under the shitty bitch booze. The windows, once cleaned obsessively are shattered for fun, the sound showering out onto the street with their laughter.  They're happy despite their anger, and many a neighbor is disturbed.

One such neighbor makes a phone call to her only friend that goes like this, she standing there in the kitchen on the old rotary phone she had kept all those years, her hair up in rolls for the next day:

"There are all sorts of strange sounds over their Maggie.  Well I don't quite know.  I can hear them laughing, but there are all these sounds of destruction.  Like what?  Broken glass.  Some sound like someone chopping wood, but mostly it was like wood splintering.  Splintering dear. Splintering.  It just aint right.  I said it just aint right.  How do I know?  I'm not all that crazy you know.  Hey now, I've been tested!  I know there's something wrong cause I can hear a movie playing loud in the background, and there's all this laughter and destruction, like it doesn't even matter.  What?  No, I don't know what movie it is, but it is awful loud.  Loud 'nuff I can hear it anyway.  I can hear sewing machines too.  A strange sewing party, if I ever heard one.  This gets any worse, I just may call the cops.  No, not cots.  Why would I call a bunch of cots?  I said cops.  I know, I know.  But hey, there's such a thing as common decency. . ."

She says her good-byes and hangs up the phone to hobble off into the dark corner of her bedroom to look terrified out the window at the goings on next door.  The cops are never called however, and as the sun rises once again to the sounds of birds already out in the trees to welcome it, the group finds themselves baptized in the warmth of sin, booze, and Ryan Gossling.

November 17, 2011

They are no longer friends of Sylvia's, but members of an elite group of die-hard fans that would do anything for their man.  A group of people who were once good, but have been made bad, and they know the score.  The Gossling Elite.  The Gossling Gang.  Only a day later, police had themselves a new menace, as this one police report shows:

On Thursday November 17, 2011 Eve Flair, (of 555 W. Fifth Street, Los Angeles, CA) was placed under arrest along with Charlotte Webber (of 1888 N Main Street, Los Angeles, CA) after being observed exhibiting loud and tumultuous behavior in a public place directed at a uniformed police officer who was present investigating a report of a crime in progress.  When asked to disperse they grew violent, smashing the windshield of a nearby motorist with a length of heavy chain.  These actions on the behalf of Webber and Flair were said to be in support of a one Ryan Gossling, whom they claimed to be the victim of a horrible travesty.

On the above time and date, I was on uniformed duty in an unmarked police cruiser assigned to the Administration Section, working from 7:00 AM - 3:30 PM.  At approximately 12:44 PM, I was operating my cruiser on E Jefferson Blvd near S Central Avenue. At that time, I overheard an ECC broadcast for a possible break in in progress at 587 W. Fifth Street. Due to my proximity, I responded.

In route to the scene I came across a group of nearly 12 women and 1 man out in the middle of the street, protesting.  They were wearing Ryan Gossling masks, and their Vespas were parked out in the street, blocking it.  Traffic built up, and I asked them to disperse as to not cause any potential dangers for other motorists.  I flashed the lights, but they just grew more belligerent.  Other motorists exited their cars to yell at the group, calling themselves the Gossling Gang, and after one insulted them, the gang descended onto the victims car and smashed windows with bricks they called Bradley Bricks.

"As ugly and thick headed as Bradley Cooper," they shouted as the windows of the driver's vehicle were destroyed and others took to the sides of the vehicle with lengths of chain.  I managed to take two into custody before the others drove off silently on their Vespas at top speed.  Back up was called, but none of the rest of the Gossling Gang were apprehended, as they could not be properly ID'd as anything other than Ryan Gossling.

When booked, Eve Flair announced herself to be Evil Evey, and Charlotte Webber announced herself to be Webber the Wino, though their identification proved otherwise. 

. . .

The police report and the suceeding media blitz around The Gossling Gang brings the group sudden overnight fame, and though their heads swell a bit from the sudden exposure, many of them are still dedicated to the plan: to have Bradley Cooper denounced as The Sexiest Man Alive so that Ryan Gossling may take up the title.  The newspapers run with titles like BARROWS GANG WHO? NEW OUTLAWS IN TOWN, and GOSSLING GANG TAKES IT TO THE PEOPLE OF PEOPLE, and FIGHTING IN THE STREETS; GOSSLING DIE HARDS TO BLAME.  They celebrate their new found fame, but little do they know that from the east, a group of butch motorcyclists, is riding to meet them, covered from head to toe in Nazi regalia to defend who they believed was still The Sexiest Man Alive, a man who had been given the title decades earlier, a man named Mel Gibson.

November 18, 2011

The sun rises in its yellow Godliness above the land, through the smog and all the rest.  The Gossing Gang is gathered at their headquarters, the former site of Sylvia's home, gutted and depraved.  Sylvia is no longer going by Sylvia, but instead GM, Gossling's Mamma, and all the other's have names too. Vomit Girl picks up her name for the night of her infamous vomiting, Eve of course goes by Evil Evey, Charlotte: Webber the Wino, Sam goes by Sassy Samuel, and there are others: Notebook, Jugs, Wendy the Whipper, Aunt Ethel, The Babymaker, and a whole slew of so many more.

The old woman next door peers from her window and looks out upon a torn up lawn, with Vespas parked haphazardly about it, the green gutted and turned to brown.  A group of sparrows tend to the worms dug up, to the roots ground up from the land.  There is fear in her eyes, but she doesn't dare make the call.  Despite her growing dependence on others and loss of sight, she still is bright enough and clear enough of vision to make out the headlines that morning, and make that grim connection that the Gossling Gang is indeed living next door.  There's no other explanation for the sudden change, for the sounds and evidence of destruction she had been witnessing over the past couple of days.

Inside the gang comes up with a wonderful idea, to boycott outside of the very offices of People magazine.  Some suggest its New York offices, but many feel that time is precious, and a run to New York would take too long.  They settle on its Los Angeles editorial bureau on 10960 Whilshire Blvd.  Their Vespas line up on the lawn at 11:50, the group dressed in full costume: Gossling masks, cowboy hats, Frenchie hats, some, no hats at all, blue and black plaid shirts with Gossling's Gang sewn on the back, tassles, colors, and in the case of Sassy Samuel, an excess amount of glitter.  At 12 on the dot they ride off, one at a time, like silent rockets in a long procession of hate, their bikes chewing up turf as they make the jostling transition from lawn to street--up and over the curb with nothing but style, Vespa's grooving down the righteous path of the super fan gone wrong.  The old neighbor next door comes out to watch them, and when they are done she runs back into her house to make yet another frightful phone call to her nearly deaf friend:

"The monster's loose!"

As they ride off Sylvia, Gossling's Momma thinks:

"We'll show those bastards."

Evil Evey thinks:

"If only I had a battery powered curling iron--I'd burn those fuckers faces right off.  Make them hideous for making such a hideous mistake."

Sassy Samuel thinks:

"I look good on this sex rocket.  Almost as good as Gossling."

Molly, Jugs thinks:

"I'm hungry."

She is always hungry.

The ride over is uneventful.  Many a motorist is shocked by this gang of Vespas riding down the yellow line like they own the street, but no one says anything.  Most just stand there, intrigued and confused with stupid looks on their faces.  The sight of it makes the gang laugh, and as they pass a few blow kisses at them mockingly: the square in the suit and tie, the mother clutching her two bright eyed children, the old woman walking home with bags in her hand straight from the market.  When they arrive at the scene, they exit their bikes, and the clan goes into action.  GM manages the group like a general manager, barking orders and positioning the group--and no one second guesses her wise judgement, except for Vomit Girl, whose keen intuition senses danger and whose heart has already lost its zeal for the entire gang, for the whole she-bang, for Sylvia and her silly name.  Looking up into the building, GM laughs, and the gang starts up a powerful chant:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine.  Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine. Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine.  Again and again, growing louder and more angry with each utterance.  The first pair of eyes appear in the window, and soon others follow.  They are laughing.  The anger swells up in the gang, and they start chanting louder still.  The words waft up through the streets, through the narrow bits of black between the glass walls surrounding them.  Clusters of onlookers gather, some recognizing the phenomenon, some not, some taking pictures on their cellphones to broadcast to the rest of their friends on the internet.  And still:

"Cooper's, fine, but Gossling's divine."

The sun shines down upon them all, a massive spotlight for the scene. All the world is a stage.  And the stage is filled with holes, dark spots, tears, and is run by money counting mongrels with fingers that never tire of counting their green, with heads that care not for the specifics, or what's ugly or what's wrong--business is business, it isn't a charity game--and clowns that laugh and cry but mostly cry, and somewhere someone drowns in their own blood (never use 'and' to start a sentence, never use 'and' with repetition, never, never, never).  The star of this particular act returns to her Vespa, to pull out what looks like a gun, painted red.  She raises it above her head with a yell.  She shoots it out up into the air, a trail of smoke behind it, the glowing red eye of its everything reaching higher and higher into those heavens forgotten, forlorn, and so damn tiresome.

And still:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

A strange thing happens.  The people watching start to cheer, like they're looking upon a Labor Day Parade.  The gang smiles under their masks, driven by the charge of the people.  GM takes up a position on some poor motorists roof.  She jumps up and down, rallying the people, urging others to join them, to come to the side of those of the righteous and  forever right.  "We are the 99%," she shouts.  Traffic begins to build up, with motorists honking and adding the din.  When still the building stands with unblinking eyes, the group grows mean; operating on the belief that such a show of strength would make the weak writers realize their folly and come out of its doors to succumb to what they felt was right:  Ryan Gossling is the sexiest man alive.  The group starts to throw rocks at the windows, though many are girls and can't throw, a few windows are shattered, bringing down a rain glass on pedestrians.  The crowd cheers--Americans with a long and well ingrained love for violence.

And still:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."


A sound comes in through the chants, a sound like the rumbling of thunder.  At first it is only faint, and some don't seem to notice, but as it comes closer it becomes more intelligible.  The Gossling Gang continues to chant, but on occasion they drop their heads from the building to look around them.  Still, the sound grows louder and louder--the thunder growing near.

At first they are just glints on the horizon.  At first only a few notice them, but then they become bigger, the noise louder.  God says "whenever you're ready. . . let go," and they did.  They tear on through the group, big motorcycles carrying a sound so thunderous the chant is washed out under the sound of pure American machinery.  They just suddenly appear, the leader in front with her face painted white and blue.  Nazi flags suddenly fill the tragically American scene, fluttering in the wind from the tremendous speed.  Some of the gang are so shocked they stop chanting, but not GM, who still stands perched atop a parked car, jumping up and down like a Gossling monkey and wailing out into the street.

Gibson's Gals emerge on the scene wielding homemade weapons and bludgeons on their mighty steeds, motorcycles that can tear through Vespas without slowing down one bit.  The crowd disperses, a woman screams in a manner to split the ears.  A war cry rings out, as the Gossling Gang is taken under in a surf that would not be denied--they stand no chance.  A Gibson fan is far more deranged the man himself; to deny the publicity and actions of a bigoted man is to throw caution to the wind and ignore what is right and good in the world, to look into the eyes of the suffering and flip them off, to rape a woman and ask her if she would like seconds, as polite as pie.  No amount of ab worship would overcome the utter ignorance of a Gibson fan, and it shows.  Before the cops arrive, several members of the Gossling Gang are on the ground, staring stupidly at amounts of blood surging out of their bodies in quantities they've never seen before, with the pure shock that allows a man with a bullet in his heart to go on for minutes after he should be clinically dead, like a PCP user with a dozen stab wounds in the stomach; the idea of perishing just doesn't connect in a mind gone haywire on too many chemicals rushing the brain at one time.

The leader of Gibson's Gals is particularly vicious, her white and blue painted face is seen contorted into expressions of joy as she smashes heads and damages Vespa's with her superhuman dyke strength.  At 6 foot 2, two hundred and eighty pounds, she is a tough adversary for men, let alone a Notebook loving freak high on the ideas of romanticism.  Romance too her was long dead, along with the idea of a man's penis, hate replacing the empty voids to almost overflowing.  It could be seen in her very eyes.

When the police arrive they immediately assess it to be a situation they cannot handle, and soon later arrive the riot squad.  When the tear gas rises above the scene, there is damage and destruction everywhere, and all of the gang is brought into custody to conjure up a new plan in light of this recent and unexpected attack.  All except for Vomit Girl, who has had enough violence and conflict to last her for the rest of her life.  She goes off to sulk in a corner of the cell all by herself, to curse the day she ever met Sylvia Wormwood and became a member of the Gossling Gang. . .

These Gossling cats, though quite admirable in spirit, are pursing a venture that means nothing at all.  To think we live in a world with real problems that these protesters have come to fight a silly title of little or no importance bothers me to an extent I don't quite wish to illustrate. Perhaps it is a sign that people care way too much for celebrities, or perhaps it is a sign that these people have no real problems at all--well-to-do white folks with plenty of cash in the bank, and an abundance of free time to focus on the frivolous.  Either way, I don't approve, and am in fact in shock, as if I were a person gazing down the firey anus of a Hell's Angels steed for the first time.

Yes, this is a spoof.  No, they don't act this violent, nor have they taken to the idea of becoming outlaws, but I thought it would be funny and silly to think of these people as violent outlaws.  As the outlaw elite.  As a variation of the Hell's Angels.  Once again I find myself in a situtation where I must explain myself, but if you knew what I was going at, I wouldn't have to.  If you were half the Hunter S. Thompson fan you claim to be, you would know exactly what I am doing and make the connection. I won't explain, because I don't feel the need to.

I'm full of liquor at the moment, so much so that I feel warm and my cheeks are burning.  I know them to be red, for enough experience as an Scottish-Irish man has told me that when I drink I turn red, or when I do any amount of exercise I turn red, almost as if my skin is so opaque the blood shines on through.  I don't wanna seem pompous.  I don't wanna seem like I have anything to say at all about the situation, because I don't.

I just think its ridiculous.  Fucking ridiculous.

These people actually have online petitions.  These people have actually protested, complete with signs and chants and Ryan Gossling masks. . .  And yes, these masks are hella creepy.

Who gives a shit about People magazine?  People who do, I wish not to meet.

And for this reason iR declares the Ryan Gossling protesters to be tragically retarded.

Friday, November 11, 2011

The Rogen

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered Timothy Leary,
Over many a droll and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I smoked, nearly coughing, suddenly there came a scoffing
As of some one gently quaffing, quaffing at my very sores.
'Tis my mind,' I muttered, 'doffing the pain of my sores -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was the dead of Summer,
And each separate waking bummer came up through the creaking floor
Eagerly I wished tomorrow; - vainly I had sought to hollow
From my mind visions of sorrow - sorrow for the sightly bore -
For that often and duplicated fluff of a Hollywood bore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the raucous rambunctious echoing of each white wall
Thrilled me - filled me with tremendous terrors endured before;
But still now, to ease the beating of my brain, I stood repeating
'Tis my fragile mind entreating entrance at my psyche's door -
Some midday freak out entreating entrance at my psyche's door-
This it is and nothing more.'

Presently my head grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Tard,' said I, 'or Retard, truly you must try your best to explore;
The notion that I've been smoking, and thusly so gently toking,
When there upon came your joking, joking at my psyche's door,
That I scarce believed I heard you' - here I said hello behind the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there silent and leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But no joke was spoken, and there was no sign of Rogen,
The silence remained unbroken save for the whispered words, 'a bore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'a bore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into my bedroom turning, all my guts within me churning,
Soon again I heard a scoffing somewhat louder than before
'Surely,' I said, 'surely that is something outside at my window;
Let me seen then, what the fuck it is, and this mystery explore -
Let my balls be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a shit and mutter,
In there stepped a fattened jew of the saintly days of bore.
Not the least obeisance made he; he not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with the right of a Crystal, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Kesey, just above my chamber door,
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this fattening man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the silly and jocund state of countenance he so aptly wore
"Though thy chest be hairy and dense thou,"  I said "art no comedian,
Fattened, grim, and silly bargain, wandering the Hollywood shore.
Tell me what the shameless name is on Hollywood's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the Rogen, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this foolish clown to hear bullshit so plainly;
Though his answer gave little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sane human being
Ever yet was plagued with seeing fool above his chamber door,
Jew or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the fool,sitting lonely on that ancient bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his guts in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further he uttered; not a man tit did he butter,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other fools have come before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtfull," said I, "what it utters is its only hope not to be a bore,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his jokes one burden bore, --
Till the songs of his love that melancholy boredom bore
Of "Never--nevermore."

But the clown still beguilling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of jew and bust and door;
Then, upon the cold seat sinking, I took myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous fool of yore -
What this grim, overweight, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous fool of yore
Meant in laughing 'Nevermore.'

This I sat deeply in thinking, but no syllable came finking,
To this fool whose empty eyes now bored their way in my head's core;
This and more I sat bribing another drop from a drink I was imbibing
On the desk's wooden lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But whose cigarette burns lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
He shall burn, ah, forever more!

Then, methought, the air smelled vile, perfumed by Rogen's bile
Spat out upon the very carpeted fluffed floor.
'Bastard,' I cried, 'thy Producer hath lent thee--by such demons he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of that bore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind of nepenthe, and forget this lost bore!
Guffawed the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil! -
Whether anger sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this warm land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there laughs in Zack and Miri? - tell me, you fat bore!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with idleness full if, I were to fashion here a bull,
It shall ram you through your very skull, from which come such bores -
And eliminate entirely, the very skull, from which come your bores?
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that joke or sign of parting, actor of fiend!'  I shrieked upstarting -
Get thee back into the emptiness and the Hollywood's endless bore!
Leave no small laugh as a token of that lie thy mouth hath spoken!
Leave my emptiness here unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy laugh from my ears, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

And the Rogen, still staffing madness, still is chaffing, still is chaffing
From the pallid bust of Kesey above my chamber door;
And his belly has filled with demon's that still are dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his laughter on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies laughing on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe really thought a Raven carrying the memory of a loved one would be quite terrifying.  But he was quite wrong.  The laugh of Seth Rogen is far more terrifying.  Weeks of it would make a person rip their own ears off and poke out their own eyes.  

I say it is so.

I remember when I first saw him.  It was in Knocked Up.  No wait, it was in 40 Year Old Virgin.  I never watched Freaks and Geeks, I don't care much for either of them, less of course they are in cages, or in a Freak Show at some circus ground filled with the scents of cotton candy, stale peanuts, and elephant shit.  That way, you can see their sadness in its purest of forms.

Oh Rogen, that laugh of yours, reminiscent of a retard and that hick dude in Waterboy, oh how it fills me with such terror.  I thought you should know, so I wrote you that little spoof poem there.  The Rogen. . . I mean really, how terrifying would it be to see a raven fly into your room with the head of Seth Rogen?  And the only thing from his lips would be that laugh?  The answer is, quite terrifying.

I say it is so.

It is for this reason, that I, iR, declare Seth Rogen and his laugh to be a bit of cursed retardation.


Monday, November 7, 2011

Douchebag; or Fred Durst's New Sitcom

The crumbling graveyard of sitcom television fills with the cold winds of Autumn.  There are leaves there, blowing across the tombstones like so many leaflets from so many horrible reviews.  The tears of America grace the cheeks of the Nothing Generation, caught up in a world where entertainment no longer comes from the television.  Some would think that this would be a bad thing, but for guys like Fred Durst its an opportunity. An opportunity to change things, despite his history of failures.  The ink has not yet dried, and already Durst is taking up a napkin to wipe away the tears.

Yes. . . dear friends, Fred Durst is getting into the sitcom game.  He signed a deal with CBS, and not only will be its 'shining star,' but will also be its co-producer.  The show?  Well its called Douchebag, yes one word (as Fred Durst isn't very literary) and its all about some aging rock star trying to deal with his career and his family. A struggle, so to speak, with overtones of comedy.  Of course, it would have overtones of comedy, that is if Fred Durst wasn't involved in the whole process, and it wasn't on CBS.  But alas, it is well known that the poor and cheap have no other choice than to swallow whole the trash that syndicated channels offer them.  And as the 99%'ers like to point out, only 1% of Americans have the wealth to watch whatever they want.  That and own slaves--only we don't call them slaves anymore.

How else can we explain the prevalence of such shows like Jerry Springer and Judge Judy?

We can't.

Luckily, being quite connect with the swine that control syndicated television, I have been give an early copy of the proposed pilot episode.

It goes like this:


A living room, furnished lavishly.

A maid, MARTHA walks the length of the room with a basket full of dirty laundry.  She knows the lay of the room quite well, and navigates it without having to look in front of her.  The basket is piled high up over her eyes.

FRED enters the room looking quite tired.  He rubs his head with a slight groan and makes his way towards the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee.

Hello Martha. . .

Late night, sir?

Yeah, the girls kept me up all night

Your daughters, or those women you sneaked in last night?  One of them was young enough to be your daughter, that's for sure.

What women?  I'm a changed man, you know that.  I may have had lots of women in the past, but I'm a family man now.

Really, I thought you did it all for the nookie?

She walks towards the door to the laundry room, not taking any mind of Fred

Oh, and your wife is already up and in the kitchen.

Not cooking, please not cooking.  I still haven't recovered from the last time she tried to make vegetable soup.  I've never seen mud so thick.

RATTLING of pots and pans comes out of the kitchen.

Oh dear God, she's cooking.

Mmmhmmm--oh and sir. . . you've got some lipstick on your cheek.  Experimenting with make up again?

Fred only looks at her and blindly wipes his cheek.

Make-up?  What do you think I am, down with the clown?  You should look into make-up Martha, you sure could use some.

(under her breath)
I could use a stiff drink.

Martha makes a face at Fred, but he doesn't see it from behind all of the clothes.  Fred shakes his head and enters the kitchen, RATTLING coming in clearer as he opens the door.


The room is half full of billowing smoke, filling the room with each passing second.  

Jane hums while she works at the stove, mixing up some concoction that hardly looks edible.  She seems unaware of Fred's entry.  He walks up to the island in the middle of the kitchen and sits down.  There are pots and pans hanging over head.

I love the smell of smoke in the morning. . . You know we have people who can do that for you.  We wouldn't want any unexpected fires, now would we?

What's that supposed to mean?

She works the pan, the food BUBBLING with the sounds of grease as smoke continues to fill the room in thick grey clouds.  

It's like a Bob Marley concert in here.

The smoke continues, thick.

What are you making there anyway?  I've seen science experiments that look more appetizing.

The same could be said for some of the women you've been with.  You're being a douche bag.

I thought you weren't going to call me that anymore?

He raises his hands and adjusts his backwards baseball cap.  Feeling it out he finds a position that is more comfortable.

Jane turns from the stove to glare at him, her hands rested on her hips.

I thought you weren't going to act like one anymore?  Life is full of disappointments, dear.

Fred frowns.  The sound of STOMPING comes down from the stairs.  DELILA and SAMANTHA enter the room running.  They scream.

Fire!  Fire!

No dear--

Fire!  Fire!  

The children run around the island, screaming and waving their arms in the air.  Delila is seized up by her mother, who grabs her by the arm.

Enough!  Enough!  There's no fire!  Mommy is just making everyone breakfast.  Isn't that nice?

That remains to be seen.

How did you sleep girls?

Fine. . .

But there were all these noises coming from Daddy's room.

Noises?  What noises?

Oh, Hi daddy.  Didn't know you were up.  Its a little early for you isn't it?

Fred's shock turns to dismay, as his wife serves the children.  He frowns.

Sounds like farm animals.  I think I even heard a cow.

Oh, I thought you gave up fat chicks, dear.

They were probably dreaming, dear.

The air is full of tension, and smoke.  The children start to play with their food, moving it around with their forks.

There was definitely a farmer too.  I remember hearing him talk about his precious hoe.

Kids and their imagination.

Jane turns from the stove with a plate of food.  She slams it down on the table in front of him.  She stares a hole right through him, and under her gaze he shrinks a little.  The smoke still fills the room and she opens the door to let some of it out.

Fred eyes his plate suspiciously, quite confused as to what it is exactly. The kids continue to play with their food, hardly eating it.

What is this?

He pokes it with his fork.  Bringing it to his face it drips long stringy substances.

Eggs, douche bag.

Fred frowns and meekly takes a forkful.  He eats it and his face changes to one of disgust.

You never could tell the difference between salt and sugar.  It would be horrible if we had cyanide in the house.

Who says we don't?

Jane takes the kids plates and puts them in the sink.  She wipes her hands on a dish cloth as Fred gets up to leave.  She turns to look at him.

He stops.

Where do you think you're going?


Oh no, its your day to take the kids to the studio.

You're crazy if you think. . .

She stares at him.

But. . . honey. . .

She continues to stare, she lifts her hand to rest it on her hip.

You've got another thing coming if you think I'm going to bring them to the studio!  They don't even like my music.

Funny, I thought only children liked your music.

No.  No.  It's not gonna happen!  No!  No!  Over my dead body.


Fred is at the wheel of his car, trying his best to concentrate with his two daughters kicking and screaming in the back seat.  They kick his chair, and he rocks forward with each blow.

OK, can we calm down?  Daddy needs to drive to a very important gig.

The kids scream louder and kick his chair.  He seems quite upset.

(to himself)
Now I know what it feels like to be in the mosh pit at one of my shows. . . 


The studio is well lit and clean.  Fred's band members are already fitzing around.  GUITAR RIFFS blurt out intermittently.  A SOUND MAN is stationed at the sound board adjusting the levels.

Fred enters with his daughters in tow.  They are lively and full of it.

What's with the kids?

My day to watch em.

Family man eh?  Shall we begin?

Fred nods and kneels by his children.  They are fidgeting around.  Delila's mouth is covered with chocolate, and Samantha has a candy bar all of her.

You know, you should never give kids candy.

Fred ignores him and looks into his children's eyes.  He takes on a voice that most parents make when they want their children to do something they know they aren't going to want to do.

Now daddy has to work, but I know you're going to be real angels.  Isn't that right?

He pats them on the head and leaves them.  He goes into the sound booth and begins to sing.

I'm a loser, yes it's true.
Feels like I'm losing since I met you
Through the good times and the bad
Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

SCREAMS cut through the air as his children start chasing one another about the studio.  First Delila is seen, then Samantha, chasing after her.

Check it out
Back in the days there was ways
I was moving on guns all ablaze
Pullin on the past like I do 
Still can't forgive all the abuse

SCREAMS continue, grow louder.  This time Samantha is seen first, holding Delila's candy bar, followed by Delila chasing after her.  Fred becomes distraught, but continues to sing.

That aint no way to rise from the crib
Still running hard from the shit
Why you wanna push my buttons?
Makin sure that I feel nothin?

SCREAMS continue.  The children can be seen crawling all over the sound man.  They wrestle him and he falls from his chair.  He SCREAMS.

The children start to play with the sound board.

Do you really think you need to remind me
Just to make yourself feel better?  I don't think so
I just wanna do it all right
Find me a better place in this life

The kids continue to play with the sound board, adjusting the levels.  Fred sounds high pitched.  They continue to play.

We bring out the worst in each other
That aint no way to love one another
I'm a loser, yes its true
Feels like I'm losing since I met you

More adjustments

Through the good times and the bad

More adjustments.

(deeply pitched)
Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

More adjustments.  The sounds of SCREAMS.

(high pitched)
I'm a loser yes its true

Feels like I'm losing since I met you

(like a chipmunk)
Through the good times and the bad
Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

Fred stops singing.  He looks up and see his girls riding the sound man like a horse.  He SCREAMS as they tear at his hair.  His screams make them laugh.

(to himself)
This is gonna be harder than I thought. . . .

Thankfully, the remainder of the script seems to be stained with some strange sticky substance, rendering the rest of it quite a difficult read.

Since when was Fred Durst funny?  By that I mean, since when was Fred Durst ever funny without it being unintentional?  Sure his career has been funny, but that's only because he himself has become a giant walking joke--complete with a backwards cap.  Even Fred knows it.  With this sitcom, never before has a title been more fitting.  Douchebag is perfect, for Fred's been one for decades.

CBS has come to make quite a grave mistake.  Perhaps they are so out of touch with today's youth they actually think kids like Fred Durst (or that its still the 90's), or maybe they think hiring him to lead a sitcom based on his rather flimsy (virtually non-existent) television credits is a great idea.

In both occasions, they are sorely mistaken.  A cadaver could provide more humor.  If the show makes it pass the pilot episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise--though I'm sure lots of people will watch the first episode just to laugh at what he's become.  OK, so if it makes it pass the second episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise.

But then again, Two and a Half Men  is still on the air, even with a front man who is turning out to be just as morally corrupt as the man he replaced.

With that said, iR declares the idea of a Fred Durst sitcom to be infinitely retarded.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Fernando Flores' Journal Reads More Like A Babysitter's Diary; Britney Spears Farts, Bodyguard Crumples

Note:  The following entry is a copy of Fernando Flores' self-edited diary entry.  All cross outs are taken directly from the original text, as apparently Mr. Flores has taken to self censoring himself for his upcoming lawsuit of Britney Spears.  All crude drawings were added by Mr. Flores himself and have been X'd out in attempt to further censor himself and facilitate the image that he is in no way just a bitter man looking to get some cash out of an ugly cash cow.

Dear Diary Journal,

The life of 'professional bodyguard' is a pretty tough one, filled with danger and the very real chance of getting seriously hurt.  You would think a job description like that would be exciting, but mostly its fucking boring. Mostly you play babysitter to some snot who's only famous because people in general are infinitely retarded.  It can be a pretty glamorous lifestyle too, but also like I said, pretty damn boring.  With celebrities its mostly tight lipped limo drives and picture signings and self-promotional bullshit.  Its always the same procedure, there are fans and psychos and creeps and its your job to pick them out and act accordingly. Sometimes you make the right choice, sometimes you don't. But still, its boring. That is unless you've got some horrible client that's a real target or seems to be public enemy number one. Or unless you get a prima-donna, or even worse, a farter.

So yeah mostly its boring.  I hate to repeat myself so much, but I'm a bodyguard, my job is repetitious, and as such so am I.  My life in fact is run on repetition, I often feel like a kite tethered to the ground that's drawn so tight I can only go in circles.  Its so bad it runs my social life, the way I talk to other people, and renders my writing rather cyclical.

To keep with this theme I'll get back to the farter.  You see Ms. Spears was a constant farter.  I can't stand farts.  If during that time with her she was to ever be attacked by Howard Stern she would have been fucked, probably literally too.  I wouldn't go anywhere near that fart factory.  In fact they'd be perfect together. But nonetheless, other than her constant farting she often picked her nose in front of everybody {editors note: no papparazi photos provide evidence of this} and generally smelled.  She didn't bathe often enough for me, or for an entire flight of people traveling from LA to New York for that matter.  Perhaps when she called herself toxic she was referring to her anal leakage. . . She didn't brush her teeth sometimes for days at a time, she smelled like cigarette smoke all the time, was generally mean to me (I don't have a 'tough outer skin' okay?) and besides, she had horrible fashion sense.  I mean, gurl, really?  Like her purses wouldn't ever match her outfit.  Ever. . .  And sometimes the way she would wear her hair was just so. . . ugh. . .

It was so traumatic I filed a sexual harassment suit against her.

Look diary^, look at her fart!

A lot of people think I'm just trying to get money out of her.  But they're wrong diary.  I endured a lot of emotional damage when I was working with that woman.  To see a woman like that fart and burp was disgusting, I just couldn't take it.  Besides, that wasn't the worst of it.  One night she showed up in a completely see-through white dress.  She had a cigarette in her hand and was smiling at me innocently, to trick herself into believing she didn't know she was practically already completely exposed. She walked over diary, and dropped her cigarette and bent over to pick it up. . . exposing herself to me. . .

Teeth diary, teeth.

She'd get naked and ask for 7up.  She'd perform sex acts in front of me. She would have sex and make such a noise, such a ruckus, I was sure she was doing it just to get me jealous. . . But I aint the jealous type. . .  Not with her anyway.

But it other news my time away, and my experience with Britney has taught me something.  A bodyguard's life isn't one for me.  Sure I can be as tough as anyone, but I've got my soft side.  A rather soft side.  In fact, I'm very interested in fashion, and fabrics.  I think the feeling of cashmere is amazing.  Lately I've been getting in with the fashion crowd, and have taken to designing dresses now.  Its all for fun of course, and there's no greater feeling than constructing a dress and seeing a beautiful woman made even more beautiful because of something YOU created.  Of course, it would be amazing to try on something I've made, but I don't think there's enough fabric in the world to make me look good in a dress!

In other news, the lawn is doing great.  The yard looks great with the new chrysanthemums I planted last week.  All seems to be going well on that front.  Now, I plan on drinking a Cosmo and catching up on some Sex and The City.

Dear Fernando Flores,

Crude fart and toothy vagina drawings aside. . .

There are a lot of internet creeps out there who feel that because Britney threw herself at you and constantly showed you her beaver and that this all in all disgusted you, that you are gay.  If you are so be it.  I don't really care.  After all, internet creeps are just internet creeps (a few who said they'd love to clean Britney's feet with their tongues after that article was posted about her stinky feet stinking up the whole plane) and a person has every right to love whoever they want.

What bothers me is that any credibility you had towards this suit has now been thrown out the window, after your latest comments that Britney smelled and farted a lot.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not defending that tard, and the fact that it meant a lot of 'respectable' papers felt the need to report with hilarious headlines about Flatulence and Drugs brought me much lulz, I'm just saying your grounds are weak and retarded.  You're a bodyguard.  A bodyguard.  Hardly a job one would take if they wanted to keep away from undesirables; people hire you to protect them from weirdos and shit.  But in your case they'd have to be hygienic weirdos, with shit tons of etiquette.  Are you a clean freak too?  Bad choice.

The woman is insane.  We all know that.  If you didn't know that when you signed up in the first place, you're probably just as retarded as she is. . .  This lawsuit is only degrading you both.  Which is why iR must declare you, Ms. Spears, and this entire debacle to be shamelessly retarded.

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