The Genetic Retardation of MTV's Jersey Shore

In 1916, The Jersey Shore was plagued with a string of deadly shark attacks, from a shark said to be a man eater hellbent on eating Jersey kids. Yellowed newspapers from the time tell of a monster born in the darkest depths of the ocean, a creature fat with the meat of thousands of seals, a finned demon with razor sharp teeth and a lust for eating bigger, larger creatures like humans. People became upset, so they took to boats with spears and guns and things. His string of attacks went all along the Jersey Shore, and took 6 victims before he was eventually killed. Only one victim survived. Here is a map of his attacks:

In 1987-1988, The Jersey Shore experienced what they called The Syringe Tide - as the waters there became polluted with medical waste from a nearby landfill called Fresh Kills Landfill. It gets its name from the nearby estuary that starts in Staten Island on landfill, and empties out into the Atlantic Ocean along the Jersey Shore. The people became outraged, so they took to boats and went up to the Landfill with guns and spears and things, but the Landfill, being New York's primary dumping grounds, was full of trash, which attracted feral dogs. The dogs killed 5 people, but things got a little better after that. Here is a map of feral dog attacks on Freshkills Landfill:

In 2009, The Jersey Shore experienced its worst tragedy yet: a man named Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino spent one month with 7 other roommates in Seaside, New Jersey for an MTV reality show aptly named "Jersey Shore." His string of attacks took 26 women, 12 of which ended up impregnated. There was no outrage though. There were no newspaper articles out about him being a woman eater, or a monster from the depths of a tanning booth somewhere in New Jersey, with six pack abs he shamelessly called "The Situation." There were no angry husbands, or fathers, or brothers, or boyfriends running around New Jersey with shotguns and spears and things.

Sometimes life is funny that way.

Here is a map of his attacks:

The following is a record of one such night, when "The Situation" tried to commit one of his many attacks on the female population of The Jersey Shore.

July 20th, 2009:

After running the guido gauntlet of the tanning salon and the gym Ronnie, "The Situation," and Vinny head to the barber for a fresh cut. Ronnie and "The Situation take to opposite chairs while Vinny waits in the wings. For some, barber shops are like social clubs in which one can spout off all the stupid shit in their life, and for a guido, its no different. In The Situation's case, a trip to the barber shop gives him the opportunity to gloat about any hook ups that may or may not have happened so that he may further promote the greatness that is The Situation.

"Now everybody knows about the alcohol, its a given. But when you're trying to hook up with a chick you don't just have to booze her up, no, no, no. The Situation has one tool in his arsenal which most guys don't utilize, and that my friends is the jacuzzi. You gotta put em in the jacuzzi - let em soak, you know what I mean - give em fifteen minutes like a soft boiled egg and after that they're like putty in your hands. And believe me, that's the type of situation you want to be in."

"Wait. . . I thought you were The Situation." Ronnie says. "Why would I want to be in you?"

"I am, but I was using the word situation, you know how you're suppose to use it, you know grammatically and shit."

"I think those tanning booths have fried your brain." Vinny can only think to shake his head. "Soft boiled eggs only take 2 minutes."

"Ladies love "The Situtation." Mike smiles. "Besides what do you know? You haven't even hooked up with nobody yet."

"You mean anybody." Vinny says but decides to forgo the grammar lesson for he realized the first night that he was far smarter than the rest of them, which isn't saying very much, and found that it was best not to try and explain things, for it would only confuse them further. "But not that that matters anyway - Who have you hooked up with? I, unlike you, don't think having sex with a passed out chick is considered hooking up. . ."

"Yeah Vin, I think its considered rape." Ronnie says.

"Aww whatever." At first its apparent Mike is taken aback, but his ego, like a good friend is always there to blanket the truth. He smirks and tries to think of something clever to say, but all that comes out is this:

"Don't hate the player, fellas, hate the game."

Once they found their hair acceptable, they went to their Jersey Shore home, complete with nearly a hundred Italian Flags - on the garage door, in the living room, on furniture and tvs. Life was good, they had a sweet pad and a great chef in Mike "The Situation," a man who put charcoal on a gas grill, a man who sprays PAM into pans until they flame up and nearly burn his eyebrows off. After a quick lunch everyone takes to preparing for a night at the club. For a guido, this is very much like preparing for battle, for the club scene on Jersey Shore is a volatile arena where young adults stalk one another like cats and take to dulling their already primitive minds with heavy amounts of alcohol until there's nothing left in their heads other than a brutish reasoning and power, coupled with a quick fuse that could be lit with a simple bad look, or simple insult.

When night fall comes, the guidos come out to play.

They go to a local club called KARMA, where they get drinks and the fist pumping begins:

FIST PUMPING LIKE CHAMPS!

After awhile the group is feeling amiable enough with one another that the whole group starts dancing together in a circle. It starts with the pounding of the ground in time with the beat and eventually evolves into complete fist pumping. Their dance is a descendant of the same sort of dances their Italian ancestors did as long as 200 years ago at weddings and joyous occasions. Although today the preferred music is house music, and the dance involves grinding, intoxication, mini skirts and exposed beavers.

Yay.

After much drink and much dancing, the crew of Jersey Shore's 8 guidos and guidettes stumble its way home, but there's a problem. The Situation and DJ Pauly D haven't picked up any girls, so as the group strolls home, the two of them are on the prowl for staggies.

staggies n. - drunk ladies who are perceived as being an easy lay, the name comes from their tendency to have poor balance as a result of alcohol intoxication.

The Situation walks down the sidewalk with his shirt lifted, showing the nearby traffic his abs, hoping it'll be the bait he needs to reel in some ladies. And like a fisherman, he's patient, because The Situation plays the number game: if you make a hundred phone calls asking women out and at least 1 accepts, then you're a winner. And like a winner, "The Situation" reeled in a pair of guidettes who happened to be driving by in a black convertible. They already know who he is, as well as Pauly D, as they had already gained a reputation as being a couple of douche bag guidos looking to fuck anyone willing to let them. Pauly D and The Situation find this to be quite flattering, so they in turn high five one another right there in the street. Despite their reputation the women agree to go to their house, as it is still nonetheless an opportunity to be on T.V, and to some people being on T.V. with a total douche bag is better than not being on T.V. at all. So they went back to the house, and Pauly D and The Situation showed the ladies the jacuzzi, as step #1: getting them drunk, had already been completed by other guys at some bar along the Jersey Shore.

Just as The Situation said, in 15 minutes they are back down in the house, in the Situation and Pauly D's room, "hooking up." After awhile one pushes Pauly D away and says:

"I gotta go, I gotta get home. . . My mom is like gonna be pissed." Which is really girl code for "This guy is freaking me out, lets get the fuck out of here, NOW."

"Whattaya mean?" Situation asks.

"I mean we gotta go, like I gotta get home, I have an early day tomorrow."

"Ok well. . ."

"Well she's gonna have to go with me, she drove me." She said.

"Really? . . ." The Situation knows his plight already. "Well uh. . . ok."

And just like that the two got up and left.

And just like that, the mighty Situation came up to bat.

And just like that he had struck out. (Ever read The Natural?)

The next day he would appear in the barber shop, boasting about how he and Pauly D had hooked up with two chicks the previous night.

iR

Lawl, check out this guy:



*And so I half ass yet another project.

The Regal Retardation of JC

At E3 they called James Cameron out to talk about Avatar. The point of the presentation was to show off the video game and give the people a taste of what it was all about, from the man who wrote every little word of it. What followed was a 45 minute dissertation that bored the entire audience, and started like this:

"Avatar is a movie about a race of 9 foot tall blue fish people. . ."

And ended like this:

"Thank you."

Somewhere in the middle was a fantasy world, conjured up by a director who thought "what if?" "What if I had half a billion dollars (which I do) and had the best technology the movie making world had to offer (which I do), what kind of movie would I make? Well the CGI infested wet-dream that is Avatar, of course. The tale of Avatar is good or bad, depending on your ability to play along and swallow drawn-out shit from fantasy land. Its world is as rich as a hearty stew and can easily be compared to The Lord of The Rings in its dense subject matter. Its people are products of long histories which JC no doubt dreamt up in between wet dreams of Jessica Alba as Dark Angel.

Do me JC.

Its people are humanoids, which are alien creatures that have human-like features, called the Na'vi. They live on a little moon called Polyphemus, which circles the planet Pandora. They have bones made of reinforced carbon fiber and have blue skin that makes them glow, or "sparkle" Robert Pattinson style. They have tails and are 9 feet tall. They live in tune with nature and respect it, where as the greedy white men who want their planet do not - they wish instead to tear up the land and make profits from their vital resources. . . Stupid Na'vi.

Its story is very similar to one America experienced nearly 200 years ago, but instead of primitive-dumb-savage-call-them-what-you-will Indians, there are primitive-dumb-savage-call-them-what-you will Na'vi. The part of greedy white man is still the same, only these white men are living in the time 2154.

All a little much to swallow right?

Oh it gets better. . . The problem with Pandora is that its planet is hardly geared towards supporting human life. Its atmosphere consists of no oxygen, so a scientist creates a way for humans to invade the planet, with an invention known as 'avatars.' Avatars are beings humans "live" through while on the planet. They are made up of genetic material both from humans and the Na'vi, and any human who's genetic material went into making an avatar, can control said avatar while in their sleep.

The Na'vi: A furry's wet dream realized on the big screen, and in IMAX 3D.

Hmmm.

But don't worry, Avatar wasn't made to tell you a story, it was made to please your eyes and further the career of the great JC. . . James Cameron. For, after Titanic he was so bombarded with questions regarding the film, and teary-eyed letters from women who felt he had captured a true love story that he needed to make something else - he needed to make his own Star Wars, a Star Wars made up of nothing but Jar Jar Binks looking fish people. Way to go JC.

Under all of this sci-fi bullshit, JC worked in a little lesson on life and humanity. To him Avatar is a "spoonful of sugar of all the action and the adventure and all that," but "makes you think a little bit about the way you interact with nature and your fellow man." How touching, some people with boat loads of money donate to charities, feed the homeless, spearhead urban renewal operations, donate buildings, etc. . . but oh no, you, James Cameron, you wanna help the world so you burn half a billion dollars (and in these times) making a film that only furthers your name and makes you money. How very un-JC of you.

Oh and what money there is to be made, JC. Avatar on opening day made an estimated 27 million dollars, finishing up that opening weeked with 77 million dollars world wide - a record for any non-franchise, non-sequel, original film - which is hardly fair in that James Cameron himself is a franchise; mere mention of his name and studio execs climax in their pants at the idea of all that money. . . Add on book sales (Avatar: A Confidential Report on the Biological and Social History of Pandora) a video game deal, as well as a whole line of action figures. . . Yep JC is helping the world all the way to the bank.

But its not like this royal retard needs any: James Cameron has enough money for about 30 lifetimes, during which time he could burn whole stacks of hundred dollar bills without feeling bad about it.

And whats worse is that if Avatar is successful, he plans on making sequels..

Lets go for a cool billion on this one JC, whatya say?

FURTHER RETARDATION

JC is Candian.

Has a star on the Canadian Walk of Fame (I believe the whole thing takes up one block.)

Has been married 5 times.

Is in possession of 4.9 billion dollars (wowzers.)

Was given an honorary doctorate from South Hampton University for his work filming underwater.

Is well known for his dictatorial filming methods while on the set and often blows up at actors. Ooooh lalala.

iR

Tiger Woods' 8 Wood

Tiger Woods circles the green, judging the land with his expert eyes. He bends down for a closer look, hands cupping the sides of his hat to block out his peripherals. He finds the lay of the land and frowns. Getting up he circles the green another time like a vulture circling for its prey.

"So whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "Looks like its sloping down and about ten clicks to the left."

"Hmm." Tiger is distracted, is somewhere else.

"Shall I get your putter?" He asks, already reaching for it.

"Nah, I need the Blackberry."

"Ah, the Blackberry." The caddy smiles all-knowing. The side of his golf bag zips open, the signature tiger heads on the drivers dancing as he does so. The Blackberry comes out and Tiger goes to work:

"oh baby i need some of dat loving, tough hole, but i just wanna stuff ur hole, drive it home with tiger's 8 wood."

He sends the text and smiles. Somewhere, a mistress texts back:

"u knoe i luv ur up and down game. win it all babe and u can take my green"

His head tilts upwards, his features from into an expression of satisfaction. in his pants, Tiger's 8 Wood stands at attention, and Tiger goes to take his putt and makes it. Cue Tiger's famous arm pump. She had become his good luck charm, or so he thought, ever since he met her at that one Applebee's in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. There was something about her encouraging words while on the course that always got him, that always helped him push himself to that upper-echelon of greatness very few ever reach. She made him feel like young Tiger again. Young and free, a strapping young cat with paws big enough to grab the whole world and take it by storm. . . A strapping young cat with sharp teeth still white and shiny, with a coat not yet molted by the years or a horrible relationship.

But he knew he had to keep it secret. What would they say. . . if. . . shit.

On the 7th hole Tiger hits it right in the water, -kerplunk- another drowned victim of that dreaded lake. He takes a drop, his eyes fixed on that yellow flag, nearly 150 yards away.

"Whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "I'd go with the 8-iron."

"Hmmm." Tiger says, he's distracted again, distraught by a bad shot. "Blackberry. . ."

"Yes, Blackberry. . ." And just like before the Blackberry came out and Tiger went to work:

"im in it tough, my ball just got wet, but all i can think about is you, and making you wet with mah 8 wood"

And somewhere far off a dutiful mistress texts back:

"the only balls that get me wet are urs :)"

Tiger Woods' favorite golf club.

He smiles, his face forming that familiar bliss. He grabs his club, swings away, and just like that, the diamond plops 5 yards from the cup - a damn near perfect shot. The crowd claps while Tiger's head is already living out all the ways he plans to plow her. Tiger's 8 Wood stands tall and proud, but nobody notices - black pleated pants do much when it comes to concealing boners, and Tiger knows this. The putt, a slight roll, it licks the edge of the cup and slips on in, and only for par. His anger is apparent, but only grows worse when his wife randomly texts him:

"i know ur competing rite now, i'm watching you on tv love, win one for momma!"

The next three holes are a disaster. On the green in 3 on a par 4, in the sand on another hole, out of bounds on the next. Tiger is too damned stressed, and as a result he isn't hitting flush, he isn't powering them down the fairway like he did when he was young. He's beginning to feel like that old tiger again, with dulled claws and lazy eyes glossed over by slight glaucoma. It becomes a pain to walk the greens - he no longer stalks them looking for prey, instead he strolls down fairways like a bored tourist, like a golfer only playing professional on the weekends. The next hole becomes a nightmare for Tiger, a slice at the tee lands him in the deep rough, which he digs up with a swift hack that lands him 85 yards from the cup. One the green in one, in the cup in two. A few botches later and he's at the final hole.

He wipes his forehead free of its perspiration. It has been a long day. The interruption of his wife had drained him, and left him feeling very un-Tiger.

"So whattaya think Tiger? You gonna play it safe on this one? I'd go with the 3 wood, and stay clear of the traps." His caddy says, with a sort of halfheartedness that comes from having one's own advice constantly turned down.

"Blackberry. . . " Tiger says.

Sighing the Blackberry is brought out, and Tiger once again goes to work:

"i need that 8 wood babe, u know how to get me going :)"

And his mistress:

"just think of the 16th hole babe, remember? where you took your flag and put it in my cup?"

Tiger smiles, he remembers well, and Tiger's 8 Wood once again comes out to play.

Tiger's secret weapon.

His pulse quickens, he's light on his feet, the tiger is back on the prowl. His legs like coiled springs, his neck tense with new found energy, he takes to the tee and whack one, I mean he fucking crushes it maaaaan, its a tiny rocket set off and in orbit. It soars some 250 yards and lands gracefully in the center of the fairway as the crowd provides applause. After another shot he's on the green, and damn close to the cup too. He finishes the hole with a birdie and wins the tournament, rather undramatically.

Weeks later Tiger's secret gets out, and before long all members of the PGA start sexting during tournaments. . .

Cause everyone's a much better golfer with a boner.

iR

The Dog and His Pack

*Warning, contains the racist thoughts of one Duane "Dog" Lee Chapman.

In 2007, A&E, desperate for ratings decided to sign with Duane Chapman, Dog the Bounty Hunter. What followed was years of success, as epic retards flocked to their televisions and watched white trash hunt white trash. What makes Dog so successful?

Well, lets take a look at the family tree, shall we?

There's Dog, the head of the pack, aptly named because his main interest in life is hunting down other men, sniffing them out in their crack dens, in their girlfriend's homes after jumping bail, in forests, in bushes - where ever they may hide. He likes it when you run too, his tail goes to wagging like mad and he takes to barking out taunts about the proficiency of his nose and in turn, his ability as a tracker. He's as headstrong and sure as a bloodhound.

But what about his history? Well its as white trash as his hair cut - in fact his hairdo is really a representation of his entire life. . .


a. He's got that Vanilla soft-serve swoop at the top of his head, formed with the expert eye of someone with real taste and an excess amount of hair spray. It represents the reformation, the wave of horrible deeds (the decline) that lead him down the primrose path to destruction that suddenly broke back and changed itself (the upward swoop). For in his past he had been a convicted felon, a suspected murderer, and a well known racist (well that part never changed,) but after all of that, he saw the light, he became a man of God and took to hunting criminals as a soldier of Him, the Lord Almighty. . .

b. There's the long golden tendrils with a slight curl like Shirley Temple. They represent his 14 children, for his locks are as long and as vast as his retarded inbred clan. He's got short kids, fat kids, tall kids, skinny kids, young and old, and all of them work for the family business: bounty hunting. For it is the rule in the Chapman family, that if you are capable of holding a gun, then you are capable of working for the family business, even if your only eight, or pregnant* (*As seen in Season 6, Episode 1.)

c. The combed sides, the beginning of the hair-waterfalls. They represent his "caution to the wind" life style; that need to run headlong into danger and live day to day. That certain manliness that comes from threatening people with a paintball gun, knowing full well they just might have a real weapon on them at any time. . . That sort of fool-heartedness that lead Duane to drop out of school while he was only in the 7th grade.

d. Although it is not a part of his hairdo, his bounty hunters badge is a big symbol for the Dog as well. He keeps it around his chest at all times like a crucifix, in case you mistake him for the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz "Fuck you*, the Lion didn't wear no badge!" (*Fuck you is Dog's only response when it comes to any challenge or adversity, as seen in Seasons 1 through 6.)


Then there's the second in command - his wife. She's the pig - she can sniff out truffles buried deep under rotting stumps in even the deepest of bogs. When she was younger, she was a real eighties queen, with chemical hair and bleached roots and a fashion sense unrivaled by even the trashiest of trailer park chicks. She was rescued by Dog, who sniffed out her tainted vagina and plucked her up from the dusty bowl of nothing she was living in, just picked her up like an angel with majestic white wings and a deceptive mullet the color of corn. From there, it was off to a better life. She's his right hand man, the holder of the leash, the one who gives it a tight tug when Dog becomes too beastly. Aside from that most of her time is spent trying to contain her ginormous tits, which she could conceal with whole sheets of canvas and still struggle to contain. She has also done great work shitting out puppies for the Dog. Like this guy:


The Office Manager - the paper pusher who's only needed on hunts when the shit gets thick. His name is Duane Lee Chapman Jr. - another fitting name for a member of Dog's pack, for he's like his dad, only before all of the drugs. He even looks like him, he's got the same love for tough guy stances and grizzly beards. His 34 years of existence were shaped and molded by the Dog, who has taught him everything he knows. There is a particular memory which remains clear in his mind, one of his father Dog teaching him just the right way to hook a man by the knee and take him down.

"Now see what you do boy is you grab the spic by the leg right here like so. . . And then when he's down you stomp him out, just like the little black cockroach he is." He illustrated the stomping motion he liked to use. "But not until you cuff em first." A slight wink. "And never show fear, fear is what gets you killed, and no boy of mine is getting snuffed out by no colored miscreant."

It is advice like this, that all Chapman boys can expect growing up. . . boys like this fellow, one of Duane Chapman Jr's 9 brothers.


Leland - the prized jewel of the pack. He's given the job title of Foreman, and is considered to be the most successful Chapman, in that he is the only one out of his 13 other brothers and sisters to have graduated from high school (The Great Suck.) With this precious jewel of education embedded in his academic crown, he took crime and spent time for mugging a tourist. Soon after he shaved his head, but only on the sides and started training to be an MMA fighter. A couple douchey tattoos later and he was out of the MMA game and back with the pack, where he belonged all along. . .


Then of course there's Wilson Chapman, Head of the Guns Division. . . The youngest pack member to ever hold such an important position.

But I digress. . . why is Dog the Bounty Hunter so popular?

Because its genetic retardation at its best.

iR

I would do a Further Retardation, but I'm tired of writing about this fuckwad.

The Martin Lawrence Fetish

Leather Face or Big Momma? You decide.

Hattie Mae Pierce (Big Momma) adjusts herself in the mirror, tending to whatever she deems out of place with two hands like glove mitts. Inside of her, a black man sweats, not just from the heat but from the beauty he is gazing at - and through her very own eyes! Owl eyes. Beautiful. Finding herself acceptable, she wattles out through the door, adjusting her hat in the open doorway before proceeding through it - dignified, beautiful, enormously fat. Inside of her a black man is smiling, he's never felt so comfortable in all his life. Its the third time around, and the suit feels less like a nuisance (not that it ever was) and more like a part of him, like a new skin. Hattie Mae walks through the hall with squishy shoes its important to preach the word of God. Martin Lawrence walks insides her, with her, he is her. I'm finally. . . finally. . . the fat chafing, the smell of shit veiled by the scent of talcum powder. I'm . . . She walks down the hall, belly fat touching both walls, she reaches its end and squeezes through another door, out onto a sound stage. She's filming the upcoming-greatest-movie-ever, Big Mommas House 3. The lights in the rafters are like bright coins, shining so bright and promising they are blinding. She shields her eyes and looks around the place like a prospector judging the land, scanning and measuring up all those around her to be hills or mountains very few mountains. Inside Martin does the same, but he's only measuring up the women she's nice, I'd fuck her, and her, oh good to see she's back for the third go round, what was her name again? and ooooooh guuurlll you got it goin' onnnn.

"Well isn't this quite the lil' shin-dig yall got goin' here. . . and all for Big Mommmaaa." She says in a syrupy southern accent, her lily voice only slightly rough and manly. She smiles its just like the days back with the congregation, plenty of work to be done, plenty of people that need savin', look they're all reachin' out for a little help from Big Momma. Inside, Martin smiles just like the King of Comedy days, wet sluts itchin' for my black anaconda everywhere I look. I'm still in the spotlight. . . I'm still. . . funny.

"Ha that's good Martin, but can we be serious for a moment?" A producer asks. I can't stand him. Look at him, bastard still thinks he's funny. Carrying on like he's a old obese woman - freak - I'm just glad I just have to produce the movies and don't have to actually watch them. . . What trash.

"What chile'? Big Momma is serious, you can ba-lieve-that." Big Momma was serious, and so was Martin Lawrence, who at the moment both shared the same soul, the same body. They were two beings in one very large being.

Beached Whale or Big Momma? You decide.

"Seriously, Martin we're behind as it is. . ." If I could kill him and get away with it, I would. . . The producer pleads, but Big Momma, Martin Lawrence, both of them are somewhere else. Inside his Big Momma suit, he rubs its latex skin, its giant abdomen like a crystal ball conjuring up images of the past, as clear as day, right before him:

Louisiana, 1973. Its unusually hot, considering the season. Aunt Burnell, tending to food in the kitchen, the room alive with the smell of collard greens and grease. She's a general in her kitchen, a lard dolloper, a magician who's act produces strong smells that fill the house, smells so strong they seem to linger in the air like a thick fog, heavy and menacing. Shes singing a song, with accompaniment from the sounds of cooking, pots and pans and gurgling. She looks out the window and her song ceases, her eyes caught by such a shock that she nearly drops the bowl of bubbling slop she had been seasoning. That boy sure is a work of the devil. . . It'll take quite a while to whip this horse into shape. . . But then again there is a certain look to the boy, a certain charm. . . She thunders out of the kitchen, throwing open the screen door so fiercely -whack- it hits the wall, a warning to all those outside and playing. Children scatter, but one young boy doesn't seem to notice, he's too caught up playing and using what little imagination he possesses. Chile' don't even see me, just playing there in the grass, well I'll show him, oh yes I will. . . But then again he seems so sweet, so innocent. Despite any notions to just pick him up and love him, she instead grabs him by the neck, plucking him up from the ground like a rotten turnip.

"Naw, chile', don't fight me. . . Come on now Martin, what did I tell you? a million times I've told you I've told you not to get your Sunday's best soiled so - you know how long it'll take to get these stains out? And in your church clothes too - dirtied with sin and disobedience - Its down right shameful Martin!" She raises her hand against him, striking him atop the head as if she were hammering in a rail spike. The blow produces tears from the eyes of the young boy, only eight years of age. Now chile' I don't want to harm you so, but you go up and act like a dirty vagrant - I only wish to love you boy. "Now in the house with yah!" And in the house they go -whak- the screen door slamming behind them. He sits at the kitchen table, face bunching up around the ears from the way he rests his head upon his hands. The tears still flow from his precious tiny eyes. Its always so unfair. We both know I'm not the dirty one. . . She is.

"Now Martin, you know I don't mean to hurt you, but you go off and do things I've told you not to do." She shakes her head, feeling more sorry than the boy. She thinks and tends to her food for awhile, stopping finally when she's come up with something to say. "Now chile, you just want to love Aunt Burnell don't you?" The boy nods his head in agreement I know what she's doing, buttering me up. "Well why don't you just come with Aunt Burnell and be with me in the other room? In the quiet. In the dark." The lord can't see us there. "Huh chile, huh? Could you do that?" Do I have a choice? "Yeah, that's right come with Aunt Burnell." And off they went into her room, the door closing behind them. . . That bitch. . .

"Martin?" He heard it but it seemed far off.

"Hey. . . Martin?" Closer now.

"Earth to Martin?" It was the producer. "You ok buddy?" He's finally flipped his wig, look he's even crying, you can see the tears.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He lies, his lips still trembling, his eyes still watering from the sudden memory. Keep it together, keep it together. But Martin Lawrence could not keep it together, he kept trembling, kept forgetting his lines. He was slowly unraveling, one haunting memory at a time. The crew was too, for what was a charming idea the first go round became creepy for the sequel, and now that Big Momma's House was going to be a trilogy, it was clear that this wasn't any minor gimmick, this was a habitual fetish for Martin, who was beginning to seem like a new age Norman Bates.

"Maybe that suits on too tight eh buddy?"

"Yeah." And then the world swirls, ice cream dreams melting in with reality:

In 1999, Eddie Murphy introduced Martin Lawrence to prosthetics, and from then on began a long strange saga culminating in the creation of Big Momma.

1999, after a recent filming of LIFE. Martin sits at a bar with Eddie Murphy. After many drinks Martin had just gone out and let it all out, let out all the thoughts and worries and fears of that night with Aunt Burnell. Of the pain. He's crying and drowning his tears in a tall glass of beer. Eddie Murphy laughs, his Chewbacca laugh.

"You know Martin, I had my own Aunt Burnell. . . yes a heavy set Aunt who went by the name of Ophelia, and I tell you she use to molest me every night." That wench, always squishing me and hugging me, pushing me up into her busom. "And it worked on me Martin, just like its working on you. . . But I did something and it really helped, really helped me work on those problems."

"Really?" Martin asks. Is he joking me?

"Yeah. You know what you need?"

"What?"

"A fat suit."

"A what?" He really is crazy. . .

"A fat suit!" Eddie exclaims. "I was doin' the Nutty Professor, and for it I got to wear a fat suit, and I'll tell yah - Martin, it worked wonders. I wasn't worried about it anymore, it didn't bother me. . . What better way to face your demons than to become them!" Eddie slams his beer on the table, hops splashing the table. Damn right.

"And it works?"

"Why yes, just the other day, this kid Tyler Perry comes up to me. . . Telling me a lot of the things you're telling me, Martin. About oh my aunt or my uncle or whatever abuses me." Eddie mocks. "Oh my grandma is a mad black woman. . . And I gave him the same advice I'm giving you."

Ice cream dreams melt to the present.

Eddie Murphy, Martin Lawrence, Tyler Perry, they all share a common past, a common fetish...

That desire to be a fat black woman.

iR

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Movies:

Big Momma's House: The beginning of the end...

Black Knight: Martin Lawrence travels back to medieval times. . . Kinda like a Kid in King Arthur's Court, only if the kid was a black guy from Compton. . . Also included in the movie is a love interest for Martin, another chick of African descent who plays a princess or some shit, which is entirely historically inaccurate but whatevs.

National Security: About two security guards who hate each other but become good friends at the end. Martin also plays perhaps the most racist character of his career, one who annoys you throughout the whole movie. . . Sweet ass shoot out in a soda factory however.

Bad Boys 2: I didn't know that if you crashed a hummer through a run down city of shacks that all of them would blow up... Horrible dialogue - check. Shitty action - check. Martin trying to act hard - check.

Rebound: Martin Lawrence plays a once-famous college coach who is somehow reduced to coaching a middle school team that sucks bawlz. . . Of course they all get better and Martin learns a thing or two about "basketball" and still gets to fuck one of the kids mom's, who's just recently divorced.

Big Mommas House 2: Hilarious when smoking shit loads of reefer.

Wild Hogs: Washed up Geriatrics playing Hell's Angels.

It is said that Bad Boys 3 is also in the works, as well as Wild Hogs 2.

Personal Life:

During the show Martin, Martin Lawrence was accused of sexual harassment. Tisha Campbell, the co-star successfully filed the suit, which state that Martin could not appear on screen with her at any time during the remainder of the shows season.

Opened one night for SNL in 1994, his opening was so raw it was later cut from all following reruns and is BANNED from SNL for life. (lawl)

During the filming of a movie in 1994, Martin went crazy on set and started taking drugs and was arrested after brandishing a weapon on Ventura Blvd.

Arrested at the Burbank airport for carrying a loaded weapon (dumbass)

In March 1997 arrested again after assaulting a man.

In August 1999 Lawrence was in a three day coma after jogging in 100 degree weather in many layers of clothing (heat exhaustion).

The Clown Cult From Detroit (ICP)

The Great Plains states, that is to say from the Dakotas to Oklahoma, those which were once home to herds of giant buffalo, are now home to a different stampeding wild beast, one which similarly isn't particularly bright, and when assembled together in large groups can be just as dangerous and destructive. And although they've been known to roam the Midwest and its neighboring states, there are those who say they are everywhere. I of course am referring to the insane and infinitely retarded evolution of human life known as the juggalo.

Juggalos are douches, often teenagers (though their retardation does not age discriminate, so there are indeed much older juggalos,) who have horrible taste in everything. Most of them suffer from an inferiority complex, feeling as if the world has shut them out and labeled them unsavory. . . And what better way to further bastardize yourself in the eyes of society than to load yourself up from head to toe in ICP gear and paint up your face like a Ronald McDonald twisted on far too many horrible drugs? As a whole, they try to be unique by dressing up like everyone else in their group (other juggalos.) They all of course listen and actually enjoy the music of the Insane Clown Posse, a rap group made up of two guys from Detroit, who wear clown make up, but only in white and black.

Cult members Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J.

Juggalettes are female versions of juggalos, and are therefore also douches who suffer from an inferiority complex. They however differ in that they feel all their woes result from them having a vagina. Naturally they are bitchy, fat, and ugly, and are made even uglier when they wear their ICP paint. Some are even slutty, and don't mind sleeping with dudes who wear wife beaters, even if they have an uncanny resemblance to a member of their family. . . Some are all three: bitchy, ugly, and slutty. They too enjoy the music of the Insane Clown Posse, and don't mind that the group refers to woman as "bitches," straight to their "bitch-ass" faces.

But tonight:

But tonight one group of juggalos is running through the fields, through the recently wet fields of Savannah, Illinois, weaving through the tall grass like snakes in the night. They cannot be seen, but they can be heard.

Listen:

Whoop Whoop

Listen. . .

Whoop Whoop

All throughout the tall grass, calling to one another, the juggalos cry. Its animalistic and its more prominent then any other outdoor sounds - no crickets playing the tune of the waking night, no owls hooting their wisdom out to anyone willing to listen. Silence, nothing but the grass and the sounds of the hidden feet running, and that damned juggalo cry - whoop whoop. They're so chatty because tonight they're recruiting another member into the Family - that collective dark sinister carnival all juggalos talk about but most have never really seen (because it doesn't exist.) Its a sort of metaphorical family, where all juggalos are said to be safe, and free from persecution, despite the fact that juggalos often turn on one another and degrade one another, just as much as their enemies do (haters.)

They cut through the grass and don't stop till they make it to their destination, a hidden location where juggalos can be free from the watchful eye of normal people (haters.) It is here that the cult assembles, it is here that the ritual begins. Somewhere ICP raps:

Come here man and check it out,
You know they're laughing at you man,
Fuck them man, you know what I'm saying come down here man,
And join the carnival man.

The carnival assembles, its leader lit by a flood light, his arms go out, and he stands, like a scarecrow with the face of a clown. The air is still, the wind blows cold, everywhere is the smell of cow shit. Somewhere ICP raps:

Well hello boys and girls, c'mon in seen the show,
Its the mystical, magical, great Dark Carnival,
Don't bother looking for parking, get rid of it,
It aint like you ever coming back, you fuckin' idiot!
The Carnival emerges only when you about to die,
Now muthafucker you are up in the sky,
So come and put your soul and the Murder go Round,
And we'll strap you down, and swing you into oblivion.

The newest victim is brought out, the newest juggalo. He's wearing ICP and he's already been "painted up," the process through which normal looking retards paint up their faces and take on the juggalo persona. The boy looks ecstatic, he looks like he has found himself some little place to call his own, safe in the busom of the dark Carnival. He smiles, the bottles of Faygo open, and the newest cult member is baptized in the soda, one which boasts such appetizing flavors as cotton candy, champagne cola, and a puzzling flavor simply called "Frosh."

Faygo, the official drink of Juggalos: If you spot someone you know purchasing or especially drinking Faygo, proceed with caution, they may be a juggalo/lette.

The music is turned up, it blares out through the open air and bounces off dying trees. The cult gets to dancing, the buffalo are stampeding once again. Faygo fills the air, you can smell the lack of nutritional value, it combines with the smell of sweating white trash.

But listen:

Somewhere far off an army is marching across the Great Plains, a rumbling thunder across the land, increasing steadily in speed. The juggalos, oblivious to its sound continue to dance, in ritual and retardation. The army draws closer, and peaks up over a hill. Its a young army, of youth and rock n' roll - men in long rows, with faces painted white and black, their uniforms made of thick leathers and studs, spikes and steel. They stand, waiting for their commanding officer, the face of this upcoming violence. . . The air grows still, as if even nature itself is waiting for the rumble to start up again and rip across the face of the earth.

"The army is assembled sir." The cat, a sergeant says.

"And there are more reserves waiting in the wings, sir." The star, a corporal says.

"Then we will attack, post-haste." The demon, a general says. He raised his eyes to the juggalos below, like ants in his eyes, he wanted to squish every last one of them. "You ripped us off motherfuckers!" He says, Mr. Gene Simmons himself, leading an army of KISS followers, they too donned in white and black paint. "We're the only freaks in black and white from Detroit!"

His arm swings forward, the army descends like a flood upon the juggalos, who only now notice they are about to be swept up in the tide. Fighting ensues, bone and flesh, high heels and platformed shoes stomp legs and shatter knees, juggalo face paint smears with blood, a red white and black mess. The cries of juggalos fill the air, as they are slain one by one in the dead of night. And the KISS army does not stop until they are all dead, so that Gene may place his platformed boot upon the dead body of a juggalo and raise his arm in victory. . . as the true freak from Detroit City.

"But we are not done boys, off to Hot Topic!"

iR.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Juggalo Julez:

Juggalo Julez is a juggalette who gained certain fame on the internetz after posting several videos in an attempt to seek publicity after the death of her baby, who died 13 minutes after it was born. A tragedy yes, but the real tragic part was that Julez blamed it on the hospital, even tried to raise money to hire a lawyer and sue the bastids - the only thing was that she failed to mention that she was using drugs while pregnant with her child, but that didn't have anything to do with it right?

Juggalo Julez is also an important person in the juggalo scene because she has clearly shown, time and time again, that this all loving "family" that juggalos talk about and consider themselves apart of, is far from an understanding place "where people don't talk shit." One day she called a radio station, to talk about her dead daughter and use her tragedy to get free merchandise, and proceeded to get flogged by her heroes, two other juggalos, who called her a dude and did nothing but just that: talk shit.

A loving family? Bullshieeet.

As you can see this is only part 1. . . it goes on. . .

ICP Lyrics/Songs:

"Death always comes at a shitty time."

"The bitch slap master, I slap your train wreck face."

In My Room - About love in Shaggy 2 Dope's bedroom with an underage girl, when their secret is found out, he proceeds to kill those who know, including a young kid.

Mr. Johnson's Head - About both Posse members and their days in school, they kill their teacher Mr. Johnson, because they are bored in his class and don't want to learn the "shit he's teaching."

At a signing Shaggy 2 Dope was filmed asking a 12 year old if his "nuts have dropped yet," and then encouraged the same kid to go out and commit a crime, because "when you're older they don't fuck around with that shit."

At the same signing, Shaggy asked another 14 year old if he "does drugs," and when the kid replied with the negative, Shaggy encouraged him "Well go home and smoke some shit."

So you Wanna Be a Juggalo?

A juggalo explains how you can be one, and further shows juggalo on juggalo shit talking -which 'the family' claims is non-existent.

The Night Kutcher Spent in Jail

Now for all of this to make sense, one much watch:

Police Report No. 5952
Deputy Alex Barron
75th Precinct, Los Angeles

Suspect was apprehended at approximately 3:30 a.m. at the Twelve Oaks Retirement Center, Los Angeles. Elders at the home had reported hearing strange noises, as if someone was in the building with them. Between 1 A.M. and the time of his arrest, Kutcher reportedly photographed and harassed residents, one woman stating "He claimed to be the man with the magic touch, and just jumped on top of me" Suspect quoted as saying "I was only looking for a new wife." He also claimed to have been filming a commercial for the Nikon company, but no camera crew was found.

Mr. Kutcher was charged with breaking and entering, disturbing the peace, and attempted rape.

The arresting officer searched the suspect, nothing found on his persons. No evidence found at the scene, other than a photograph of a 75 year old hairy beaver. Just who's beaver is presently unknown. Lineups of old lady beaver have been assembled, arranged by density of bush.

Suspect detained 4:05 P.M.

Released on bail 6:30 P.M.

But what that small police report fails to mention, are those 2 or so hours Ashton Kutcher was kept locked up in a cage with wild animals. To them he looked very much like fresh tender meat, and to him it seemed as if there wasn't a single soul there that was not hungry. Ravenous eyes followed him as he nervously paced his cage, beads like lead bullets running down his face. A man on a cot in a corner seemed to sleep, but would occasionally lift his head, his eyes locking on Ashton each time he did so. His hand would go up to his face and he'd take a snort, smile and drop his head apparently going back to sleep. In another corner two jail birds chirped at one another, singing out a plan they were going to fulfill once they got out. One spoke of a hidden pipe, buried at a hidden location, the other of a hidden stash that only he knew the location of. They planned on meeting up after they go out so they could both get high.

The system wasn't working.

When it came to reform it failed horribly, but when it came to fear, its machinery performed so well it purred like a new kitten. But its never the people who are on the inside who are afraid, its the people on the outside, and they've been taught to be afraid to ever end up locked up, because there are plenty of horrible people in the world - madmen, cheaters, liars, criminals, but in there, you're locked up with them, and you can't get away. Worst of all, you're considered one of them, and with that comes all the fear and loathing that results from being labeled "no good" by society. Ashton was feeling this now, in waves all up and down his body. He prayed for someone to come bail him out, but his wife Demi had no idea of his whereabouts - she was too busy taking pictures of her ass in granny panties and posting them on Twitter to notice. Similarly, no friends came either, because quite frankly Ashton had the type of friends who never seemed to be around when he really needed them - that is to say friends who weren't really his friends at all, but rather celebrities who tolerated him because he too was a celebrity, and birds of a feather flock together, no matter how loud, obnoxious and spastic they may be.

When given his one phone call, he asked instead if he could have just one Tweet.

"Please sir, just one Tweet." Ashton pleaded. "Just 140 characters or less, its all I need - its the only way I know how to express myself. Its the only way I can reach my people." By 'my people' he meant retards. After much pleading his request was granted, and at 4:32 A.M. the hopeless retard posted a Tweet that went like this:


Only minutes after the tweet went out, an entire network of retards helped spread his message, with text messages and emails, those who still had voices made phone calls, those who were skillful enough to write legibly and smart enough to spell made signs with colored markers and glitter that said things like "FREE ASHTON," and "LET HIM GO." They were all animals through and through, collected together outside of the jail, and like vultures so came the media men and paparazzi looking for a fresh kill upon which to feed.

Inside the jail, similar animals, differing only in that they were caged, were coming alive too.

The head wolf had awaken from his slumber, and now with a hungry appetite he was looking to feed. His ears perked up, listening for a quiet whimper similar to the moans of a dying dog, for the stifled cries of fresh meat too afraid to cry wholly out loud. His half-closed eyes, still heavy with sleep scanned the cell, no good, no good, ok, no we had him yesterday, no, ahh perfect. He had found Ashton, who's eyes met his own and glimmered with a certain fear. He looked as if at any moment he may cry. The wolf smiled, his face contorted into a wicked grin.

"I know you." The wolf said. Ashton simply curled into a ball, a mouse accepting defeat. "Good boy." He said, as he licked his lips.

2 or so hours later, when Ashton had finally met bail, Officer Barron went to the community holding cell where he was kept. Ashton was found draped over a cot, belly down, with a heavy set man goin' to town on him. He had been in that position for those 2 hours, as the wolf and his pack each took turns defiling him. Officer Barron broke up the sodomy, and like wild dogs they all scampered off, tails between their legs.

Leaving, Ashton found a certain new found appreciation for his freedom, and a certain gratitude that retardation like his wasn't illegal, for he new he wasn't one for prison life.

He's far too pretty.

FURTHER RETARDATION:


Punk'd, ever see it? . . . Exactly.

Real life best friends with Sean William Scott, a real life douche.

Ashton challenged CNN that he could get a million followers on Twitter before they did, in one of the most ego driven competitions in recent years.

At 18 he robbed his high school, convicted to 3 years probation and 180 hours of community service.

What Happens in Vegas, what shit fest...

He was a front runner of that whole Trucker Hat bullshit.

iR

co-writs: Wild Jesse

Steven Seagal: Dangerously Retarded

A&E Documents the Workings of a Dangerous Retard; Seagal vs. Norris in a Battle Between Martial Artists Gone T.V. Cop

"Do I look like I'm deep in thought about an investigation involving the horrible murder of a poor innocent woman (angering me so I feel to clutch my weapon,) a case that I just know I'm about to solve. . . yeah? Ok cause that's totally what I was going for. . . Do we need more smoke? I feel there's not enough smoke. . ."

The tranquil beauty of Jefferson Parish, Louisiana is interrupted with the screams of an innocent woman, her life threatened and in danger. It is heard by the fine-tuned ears of Steven Seagal; they're geared in such a way and are so well built that they can hear an injustice taking place up to 100 miles away. Immediately he's on the move, gearing up and tearing down the road in his Sheriff wagon, peering out the windshield and feeling satisfied that this new one has no cracks in it (just yesterday he put a traffic violator through it, and needed a new one.) When he arrives at the scene his own personal team of elite officers are already there, their cars fishtailed across the road to form a natural barricade. His breaks squeal as he burns his way to a stop, and he sits there waiting, as if at any moment the rock soundtrack will kick in, so that he may get out and pull off his glasses and say something bad-ass and prophetic. But no music comes, so Seagal gets out, one hand holding a megaphone, the other hand up near his face clutching a delicacy that is shrinking in size with each bite. He's eating a donut, the crumbs falling out of his mouth as he greets his men, yelling on the megaphone, and though it distorts his voice and makes it hard for him to be understood, he still continues to use it anyway.

"Sooo mmmummumum." The amplification from the megaphone picks up every little nuance, every grind of the teeth and manipulation of fatty cheek needed to scarf down his tasty snack. "I'mmm mumumthinking we should set up mumumum ummm a permimeter mumumum here. . . man these are great, would you guys like to have one? Really, its ok, I've got a whole mumumbox of em' on the mumumpassangers seat. Don't let it be said I don't ever need a partner." He laughs, motioning to his men, three of which just stand there looking like Larry, Curly, and Moe, all in a row: Seagal had his own set of Three Stooges.

Nuk-Nuk-Nuk

"We're uh, standing right next to you sir, you don't need to use the megaphone." Curly says.

"Mumumum." Ignoring him he turns to the house. "Alright mumum we know you're in theremumum." Swallow. "Come out mumum with your hands up!"

Inside a confused kidnapper thinks he hears the sounds of some horrible beast outside, and it seems to be talking to him. He gets up and peers out the window, pulling aside the curtain.

"There!" Seagal says. "There he is!" He tosses his donut aside. "Cover me boys, I'm goin' in." He slides over the roof of his car for no reason. Similarly he rolls evasively in the dirt, for no reason, there is no real immediate threat here. In the dark you can almost trick yourself into believing he's that young Steven Seagal again, with the slick grease hair and a fresh face, but then the rotten moonlight hits him and he's just fat and old and looks tired. He slides up against the house and pulls out his gun, drawing it up towards his head. He breathes heavily from all of the sudden aerobics, but is calmed by an inner peace. He's played this situation out a thousand times, and he has always come out on top.

This time would be no different.

"I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to let the girl go." He pulls back the hammer on his gun. He takes a deep breath, turns, and kicks in the door, firing his gun five times, killing both the hostage and the victim, instantly.

"CUT!" The director yells, as he gets up from his chair. He pulls down his earmuff-headphones and shakes his head. "Where the hell is the smoke? There's not enough smoke, I asked for more smoke than this!" He looks around for anyone close enough to skewer, but no one makes eye contact, no one but Seagal. "And Seagal, what was up with the fuckin' donut? Its bad enough your fat as it is, sure you've lost a bit of weight since the public has last seen you, but a donut? Really, a donut? Do you really need to be eating on the set during filming like this?" He waits for an answer, but not very long, for he fears that that answer may be a strike to the face. "Look ok, ok, take five everybody."

Its the latest filming of A&E's Lawman, a new show that follows Seagal around Jefferson Parish on his real job as Sheriff of the county. I always thought it was real.

"Just another day on the job." He says, wiping his face with a towel.

"I thought it was suppose to be real?" I ask. He laughs.

"Oh even I know reality T.V. isn't real, at least not completely real. We film certain parts here, then add in normal patrol footage and stuff. . . Helps liven it up, get good ratings, you know things like that. The people believe its real because we say it is, again and again."

We mean it.

"So those whores on Flavor of Love aren't really whores?" My heart is breaking.

"Oh no, they're really whores, just some of their fights and confessionals aren't necessarily real. Producers have a lot of power. . . Its why I got to put up with that snot nosed puss over there. Listen. . ." He begins but is interrupted.

"Hey Steven. . ." Its an angry voice. "I got a bone to pick with you buddy." It belongs to Chuck Norris.

"Hey Chuck." Says Steven, calm, friendly.

"Hey Steven." Says Chuck again, uptight, angry. "I've got a little problem with this show of yours. . . I've known you to be jealous of my work all my life, but this just about crosses the line. This just about really gets my goat, and I think I'm gonna have to kick your ass, Steve."

"Now now, I don't want a fight, just what are you talking about?"

"This show, don't you think its a coincidence that, you like me, were involved in martial arts and have an extensive action career in the movie business, and that you, like me, are now getting your own show where you play a cop?" Chuck asks.

"There's no playing, this is real."

"Cut the shit. You've always tried to take my fame, and now here you are stealing Walker Texas Ranger, right in front of me. And look at you. You're washed up. Look at me. I've got a wife who's forty years younger than me, I've got my own home body gym. . . While you're out here playing cops and robbers, I'm at home hitting that, all damn night. Yeah that's right, and I don't even need Viagra." Chuck pokes him with his finger. "Do you have your own personal website that welcomes each and every visitor with your prerecorded voice? Huh, no? Didin't think so."

"That doesn't mean I'm washed up. . . And your pretend little show wasn't the inspiration for mine, they came to me Chuck. . . I don't want to hurt you." His mind is already filling up with all the ways he could hurt him.

"That's a load of shit. At least admit that I was the inspiration for your show, Walker Texas Ranger was pretty bad ass. . . There wouldn't be Lawman without me."

"No I won't do it. Because it isn't true."

"So what's this about, money? The message? You were always about that whole Buddhist bullshit message Steven, but there's just one problem with that, you kill people in your movies, a lot of em, you injure them horrifically, you use weapons effectively and efficiently with the intention to hurt and maim and even kill. At least I used America. I could kick peoples asses and be bad ass because I'm American, and America has a big long history of kicking ass. And I kick ass because I'm American too. See?"

"I just want to protect the people." Steven says.

"Protect the people? What the hell is that. . . You know karate isn't about protecting people, or yourself, its about selling movies, DVD's, instruction videos and work out machines. . ."

They argue until a pushing match ensues, and I can think only to back up and get a good view of the fight everyone is secretly begging to see. Chuck Norris displays how much better shape he's in. It escalates into a total show down.

"You can't handle this, Seagal." Chuck does the splits, hops up as if he has no nuts to harm at all and smiles, throwing in a flashy crescent kick for added flare.

"You can't handle this. . ." Seagal fires his gun. Chuck staggers back, shocked by the force of the bullet, by the thought of defeat - Chuck isn't use to losing. He falls to the floor, a crowd gathers, some still not quite sure what it is they just saw. The director barrels through the crowd, a chicken with his head cut off.

"God damn it Seagal. . . What the hell did you have to kill him for?"

"What?" Seagal's arms go up. "I said I didn't want to hurt him."

As it turns out, Chuck wasn't killed, the bullet didn't even pierce the skin. It had left a bruise the size of an orange on his abdomen however.

Of course he didn't die, Total Body Gym helps you reflect bullets.

A Demonstration in Martial Arts; The Savage Beating of a 12 Year Old

After the altercation with Chuck, Seagal felt a need to let out a little more built up aggression, and thought I should know at least a little bit about what he's all about, so he gave me a little martial arts demonstration.

What followed was perhaps the most savage beating of a 12 year old I have ever seen in my entire life.

The photos:

"So, say you're on patrol, and some 12 year old jumps out, and he looks evil, he looks menacing, he looks like he's just about to kill you. First make it apparent to your would-be-attacker that you don't want to hurt them. Then reach and grab them behind the neck, like so, and see this bone right here in the neck? Well keep pressure on this bone, there's a nerve in there that will make the boys arms shoot out and stay there, as if made of stone, giving you the perfect oportunity to hit him right here with your elbow like this. . ."
The result:

"Now wait for the boy, if he gets up, kick him in the face, like so. . ."

PHOTO MISSING

"Now, who's ready for lunch?"

It was a fine showing. I am though, no fan of blood, and the kid was a real bleeder.

The Decision:

It is for his new show alone, Lawman, that iR fearfully declares Steven Seagal, dangerously retarded. He's already a lethal weapon on his own, and now you wanna give him even more lethal weapons and a badge that says he can pretty much do whatever he wants?

iR