"Weird" Al Yankovic: Al's Brain, The OC Fair, and Magic Mushrooms

Journey with me into the mind of a retard. . .

The Orange County Fair has seen it fit to showcase the retardation of Weird Al Yankovic this year, with an exhibit called Al's Brain: a 3D experience into the intricate workings of the human brain. Its a sort of "The Magic School Bus" adventure, with Weird Al leading you the whole way. The exhibit can be found by simply listening: you know you're close when you hear the screams of young children, the stifled sobbing of grown adults, and the roaring laughter of complete and utter retards. Outside of the exhibit sits Al's likeness, a sand sculpture of his head nearly a story tall, with a question mark and exclamation point poking up out of the top of it with timed machinery. In front of it, another sand sculpture of a brain, with a similar machine timed light bulb, that would peek out occasionally from its top. Yet the sculpture looks half-finished, as if the man who was sculpting it suddenly realized how much time he had already wasted on this douche, and just gave up. Around the perimeter you will find people clutching the rails installed to keep them out, all amazed by the wonder and beauty that is a 25 foot tall Weird Al head. Look for the silly girl with a pink parasol, leaning up against the protective railing, trying to appear attractive in front of a monument to a career excelled by retardation, the locals walking up slowly and spitting as they talk in their OC jargon, and the occasional child running up saying "look mommy, look, its Lil John."

It was then that we decided to take the magic mushrooms. An eighth for each of us, enough to send us out to the farthest depths of human depravity and imagination. . . Looking back on it now, it was probably a bad idea.

With churning stomachs not use to the foreign substance, we made fun of the roped off area for people to wait in line. It was a 10 yard maze that could hold maybe 30 people, and we assumed it would never fill, that we'd never gaze upon the poor unfortunate souls who would actually wait it out in the heat to see a show headlined by "Weird" Al Yankovic. Yet after many beers, upon returning we found the line to be full: families nestled together baking under the hot sun, fathers clutching children tired from walking, mothers tending to toddlers in strollers, the occasional burly dude with tattoos and extensive chin pubes, young couples clutching each other, and even old people all waxy skinned and sagging from too many years of gravity.

"Oh it won't be much longer honey, not much longer. . ."

The most epically retarded sand sculpture ever. Photo courtesy of The Pat.

Pat finished his beer and we went to the front of the line with our IR Press Passes: Infinitely Retarded is well respected, at least as far as Orange County. You're first let into a waiting lobby, full of little mind tricks up on the wall, and quotes from literature regarding the human brain. Its so retarded you begin to think everyone is there just to get away from the heat and enjoy the wonders of air conditioning for awhile. Then they show a little video, dubbed and filmed like one of those old-school hygiene videos they use to show school kids back in the day. Cue some laughter from about a third of the room, dirty looks from yours truly, and parents trying to calm down impatient and hardly entertained children. This video lasts for maybe a few minutes, and after its done the house lights come back on and they lead you into the theater, where the real show is.

And just in time, the shrooms were kicking in.

We took our seats and I look around with giant pupils, the place is actually quite full, and everyone I looked upon looked like a savage snarling beast with bloodied teeth, and there we were sitting quite peacefully, completely surrounded. A young boy who's parents kept asking him if he could see sat right next to me. I felt sorry for the boy, for I knew once the movie started that the retardation would be so bad I would be forced to start talking shit, and this poor kid was gonna have to hear every hateful word, punctuated by curse words he's probably only heard from friends and mommy and daddy when they get angry with one another. The lights die down, the movie starts up, and there he is, Weird Al Yankovic, but you're not just watching him on the screen, its far worse than that, he's in 3D; he's actually standing there out in front of you. Its almost like he's in the room with you, and to keep from throwing punches out at the air I often take off my 3D glasses for brief moments at a time. The showing is a 10 minute piece of epic fail, with Yankovic at the reigns, steering you around the human brain as he spouts off the most elementary of biological terms. His lesson is sprinkled with jokes, and after a few I actually hear some people laughing in small groups about the theater erupting with actual heart-felt, belly-aching laughter. I couldn't fucking believe it. The walls started to cave in, I couldn't tell if it was the shrooms or if the walls really were taking structural damage, like we were in an aluminum can that began to crush from the pressure produced from too much retardation.

It was then I came to the realization that retards can easily assimilate into society and walk around looking quite normal, their only defects being those which are unseen, in their heads.

The outside of Al's Brain, photo courtesy of The Pat.

Then came the song, a sort of idiot tune sung about the brain and how it works. I can't remember the words exactly, just the melody which still rings about in the bitter depths of my head, and I fear the tune may never leave. The singing was mandatory, it is Weird Al's whole gimmick, yet somehow I wasn't expecting it. It came out of nowhere, a funky tune, and all of a sudden I was reminded of the insect beetle sound of a dentist's drill. The movie ended, the lights came up and we left, shuffled out into the harsh air of the OC Fair. The faint smell of pig shit is almost a welcome addition, as its far better than the stench that emanates from Yankovic's every pore, with a smell so powerful it comes right off the screen. Upon leaving you come across Al's store, a small little box with one smiling attendant, standing amongst Weird Al merchandise, and as you walk by you notice people there are actually buying some of his shit. We chose not to explore the store any further. Its not that he's not catchy, he, like Steve Miller can come up with lyrics that seem to attach themselves inside your brain. Songs stuck in your head are always annoying after awhile, but when its a Weird Al song, you almost have to tie up your hands to keep from lobotomizing yourself.

Yankovic just has a way of hanging around.

All throughout the fair, no matter how much beer we drank, we couldn't forget Al's brain. Even during the pig races, where the winner gets the luxury of racing another day and not ending up on someone's dinner plate, Al's music hung around with a haunting tune that would just stick with you. It was much like being addicted to heroin, and always having that monkey on your back, following you where ever you go. Even during the RV Demolition Derby, the sounds of crushed steel were distant compared to the melodies we had heard nearly 4 hours prior. We even went and looked at all the games set up to con people into thinking they may actually win something, but even then, there was Weird Al Yankovic, standing at every concession stand. By that time the carnies were beginning to look even stranger, and all around us there were signs that we weren't in any old fair anymore, but rather a zoo, full of wild lion's feeding on giant corn dogs, hyenas downing fried Twinkies; the world was devolving around us. Pat was conned into playing a dart game, 2 darts for 5 dollars.

"You're guaranteed to win!" The carnie said. In our collective minds she resembled a hippopotamus.We all spied a sign next to the game, ALL KIDS 12 AND UNDER ARE GUARANTEED A PRIZE.

"What does she think I'm twelve?" Pat asked us.

"Leave her alone dude, she's a hippopotamus. Hippos shouldn't be out in the hot sun like this, maybe she's suffering from delirum, resulting from all the heat, you know. . ."

"Maybe you're right." It looked like had seriously considered it.

So Pat played. He stood on what seemed like shaky ground, he wavered as if the wind was blowing so hard it may knock him down. The first throw. . . A miss, damn near hit the hippo. The second throw. . . A second miss, this one soaring through the air and stabbing the hippo right in the thigh, producing a painful cry from said hippo.

"Holy shit dude you tagged her!" I laughed. "That's a mighty fine hippo, I think she'd look great mounted up on your wall."

"Just. . . get. . . the hell outta here!" She said in between groans.

"What about my prize?" Pat asked.

"YEAH! What about his prize?" I said.

She gave up a small stuffed pig, yet it was the ugliest one, and most likely to fall apart. Hell its black buttoned eye was already coming off. We ventured of in a random direction, and all the day through, there was Pat, becoming more drunk, singing Weird Al tunes without any shame.

"I'm fat, I'm fat, you know it..." Kelsey and I shook our heads.

"While your on seconds I'm on 48ths. . . " He would sing each lyric like an R&B singer in the middle of a love song: full of devotion and passion. Again with this lyric, we may have heard it nearly 15 times.

Pat staggered.

"I'm fat, I'm fat, you know it... Yeah I use to watch Yankovic all the time, my sisters would be like 'aw, this again?'" Kelsey hides her face in the cup of her strawberry margarita. ". . . I love the guy." Pat confessed.

I believe it was then that she started walking nearly 10 feet in front of us, far too embarrassed to be associated with such complete and utter retards. We had been reduced to her mongoloid children, staggering around behind her trying to keep up, as she kept a brisk pace and weaved her way through the OC Fair crowd. The day was coming to a close, the orange sun was sinking into the horizon as the Fair still kicked around with outdoor grills all smokey with the smell of burning flesh, with cheap rides that brought cheap thrills, and with carnie games that produced over-sized stuff animals and wonky toys that would break on the ride home. The lights on some of the rides looked like golden coins, rising and falling in the sky as they brought people small rushes of adrenaline on some of the best carnie rides the carnival had to offer, including a pendulum that would swing you back and forth, a self-titled "Crazy Coaster," and giant swings with spun about a center at great speeds, the chairs gaining more and more height as the speed increased. We left through an exhibit that was suppose to be a farm, there was hay on the ground and cows and goats and other live stock in cages. We passed the cow and he looks like a Rorshak Test, his spots moving and forming different shapes right there on his body. Soon after, we left.

One day of retardation was enough - Yankovic has been doing it for 30 years, has sold more than 12 million albums and has done more than 1,000 live shows to throngs of retarded "Yankovites." The album sales are staggering, and I can only assume that many albums are bought as joke gifts for co-workers, or by young kids who buy them only because of the Explicit Lyrics labels all over them. . . Listening to Yankovic can be pleasurable the first time around, but by the 10th listen the song loses all its charm, sounding more like a douche-bag ballad and less like a humorous twist on a pop hit. You'd have to be a total douche to want to turn Led Zeppelin's Black Dog into a polka tune, and Yankovic has tried for many years, but is always turned down by Jimmy Page, who seems to know a bad musical idea when he hears one. Other artists have followed suit, mostly rappers who have spent so much time building their image that they feel a rap song about Amish people or couch potatoes would be damaging to their rep. Prince has refused every year, Paul McCartney has turned down a parody of Live and Let Die, entitled Chicken Pot Pie, stating that he's a vegetarian and wouldn't want to condone eating meat. All of Atlantic Records has told Weird Al to fuck off as well, a reception Yankovic is still upset about.

His career has been one of extensive retardation, but is a successful one. He wins grammy's every year, but people forget that he wins them in a category that is so sparse and uncompetitive, he's nearly the only one up for whatever he gets nominated for (I dunno.) He's kinda like Alvin and The Chimpmunks, perhaps they should get together and create the most retarded and annoying album ever created in the history of man kind. . . One can only guess why he hasn't killed himself off. Looking in the mirror everyday, at that same ugly mug, with the same wiry grin, framed by long curly tassels of retardation, Yankovic must have those feelings of self-loathing. . . "What have I become?" He may ask himself. Or maybe not, anyone who willing plays the accordion obviously doesn't have much respect for them self in the first place.

Funny lyrics are easy to do anyway, even IR can do it. For instance, in the mid 90's IR got some radio airplay by a local DJ for a similar, "parody" type song:

LAST T-BONE by IR
Parody of Last Resort by Papa Roach

Cut my steak into pieces,
This is my last t-bone,
Mashed potatoes,
Are lumpy,
Don't give a fuck if I don't get my gravy

This is my last t-bone.

Cut my steak into pieces,
I've eaten my last t-bone,
My mashed potatoes,
Are lumpy,
Don't give a fuck if I don't get my gravy.
Do you care if I get my gravy?
Would it be wrong?
Would it be right?
If I ate with my hands tonight,
Chances are that I might,
Buffet out of sight,
And I'm craving chocolate delights.

(Cut short due to retardation.)

Infinitely Retarded names "Weird" Al Yankovic to be sadly retarded.

sad retardation: Retardation which strikes a sad chord in non-retards, and therefore produces no personal lulz. Said retardation can also be considered pathetic retardation, its victims are said to be "sadly retarded."

Co-Written by Patrick Barnes

An Interview with Carlos Mencia: Blind Retard

NOTE: All opinions expressed by Mr. Carlos Mencia are his own, and are not the opinions of Infinitely Retarded. If you wish to start up a posse to kill and maim Carlos Mencia, please do so, it has been long overdue.

On July 24th, Infinitely Retarded had the distinct pleasure of sitting down with one Carlos Mencia, for an exclusive interview. It was the first of its kind. The following is said interview.

IR: Hey Carlos, how you doin'?

CM: Heeeeeey.

IR: So Carlos, Infinitely Retarded is dying to know, how did you get your start?

CM: I started in the deep south, at some red neck bar full of inbred white people, you know, the kind that confuse half-Fijian/half-Indians with Beaners. Well anyway the bar was a real shitty place, but I was optimistic about my comedy, so I belted out my first line to all these dumb beer sucking backwoods country trash - and that’s what there really were, Josh - trash, and needless to say the joke wasn't very well received. The joke was something I came up with on my own, like "You know you're a redneck if your state's got a new law that says when a couple gets divorced, they're still legally brothers and sisters." And the joke bombed! I couldn't fucking believe it. I thought they were too dumb to understand or something.

IR: Isn't that a Jeff Foxworthy joke?

This halted Mencia. We sat there for several minutes of awkward silence, as I waited for him to answer, and he waited for me to bail him out with another question regarding a different topic. No bail out came, so he continued.

CM: No I do believe he got it from me. . . But anyway I thought maybe their heads were too full of wanting to sleep with their relatives and watch NASCAR, you know, as all rednecks like to do, so I told another joke, completely original and of my own. "You might be a redneck if your family tree has no forks." And I laughed, but I looked around and I was the only one laughing. It was simply unbelievable to me; I thought maybe these dumb hicks had cotton balls shoved in their ears. But then, a very important thing happened in my career. . . One of the dumb swine stood up with his Bible belt air of importance and said "GO HOME BEANER!" as they belted me with beer bottles and booed me off the stage. . . So I did. . . I went to East L.A.

IR: But your home is in Honduras. . . You're half-German half-Honduran.

More awkward silence. It was like he took the words in, and tried to process them but couldn't, like some synapse in his brain had been destroyed due to his own retardation. He was so blindly retarded he couldn't even register the truth when he heard it.

CM: No that was Ned Mencia, that was the old me, I'm a new man now. But anyway, back to the story, I became a Beaner, in Beanerville U.S.A. I became Carlos Mencia - I was with my people, my brothers, mi familia. I wore a Dodger cap and taught my friends, mis amigos, how to walk and talk like a real man, you know, like "Hey man was sappenning" and I taught em how to walk a certain way that made them look like real Chicanos, and it was so funny man, we were all just laughing at my hilariousness and. . .

IR: Wait, didn't that happen in Born in East L.A.? That movie with Cheech Marin? He got stuck behind the border so he taught some real Mexicans to walk like all the Chicanos in East Los Angeles at the time.

More of those brain sizzle synapses that helped prevent truth from registering, fizzing away in his head as he simply just stared at me.

CM: No I don't think so. . . I do believe it was he who stole it from me.

IR: Bullshit aside, how did this lead to Comedy Central?

CM: Word got around. You know, you never really have to struggle much when you've got talent. . . So yeah, Comedy Central picked me up, and said I reminded them of guys like Bill Cosby and George Lopez, in that we told similar jokes, you know, we had the same sort of comedy sort of thing. I was living the good life, I had it all.

IR: I hear you had quite the bike collection.

His eyes lit up.

CM: Had? Still have my friend. Oh yeah, I've got about eight of em, all custom and all original, just like me. No stolen parts, nothing hot - just smooth rides all of my own. . . And they're all American, just like me - they're all Harleys cause I support America and American made parts. . . You know Harleys got a lot of competition from those damn slanty-eyed rice burners, you know, those Kawasabis, or Kakamanies or whatever. They're all special to me, my Harleys I mean, especially the one bearing the Mexican flag on its tear drop gas tank. . . Its like having my native country between my legs at every turn, at every pop of the clutch.

IR: And these were all bought with Mind of Mencia money?

CM: Yeah, yeah, at one point we even had 1.5 million viewers. Mind of Mencia was one of the top rated shows on Comedy Central. But then all the haters came out, you know, like they always do when they see someone like me come up and become a star, and do so with hard work and blood, sweat and tears. . . I've paid my dues, I'll tell yah.

IR: Don't you think there is something a little off, about the similarities between your work and that of others. . . In all this questionable material?

CM: Well if I understand what you are hinting at, I haven't stolen any material, ever. I haven't stolen a single joke. They have however, all been taken from me. Taken from me because of jealousy.

IR: As Joe Rogan said: "Yes, you are a good performer (Carlos). . . of other people's shit.

The comment had struck a chord, mere mention of Joe Rogan orchestrated memories of past battles with him in his head. He was slowly becoming enraged, he could belt out hate but couldn't take it. He was soft, a typical coward so morose and pathetic he doesn't even have enough courage to actually create anything, to actually express himself on his own.

IR: Now that we're on the subject. . . The Comedy Store Carlos, the place where you got your start, lets talk about that.

CM: Ok. . .

He was furious.

IR: From personal research I have found The Comedy Store to be the womb of mediocrity from which comedians like Larry The Cable Guy, Tim Allen, Paul Shore, and YOU, Carlos, are shat out onto this Earth to spread the sadness that comes from failed joke after failed joke. Each comedian succeeding in being more and more unfunny. . . It is this place that I'm thinking I should maybe just bomb; just blow the shit out of, to do us all a favor and rid the world of you and your Comedy Store brethren.. . .

Carlos was beginning to turn red in the face - the German in him was finally coming out. He was finally beginning to hear, and he was gearing up for an explosion. It would be an outburst of vanity and mortified shock that only people who claim the title of celebrity seem to be able to get away with. Simply put Carlos was becoming a spoiled little brat.

IR: I mean you of all people should be all for it, seeing as how you have such a bad reputation there.

Luke-Warm.

IR: You know, how everyone there called you Menstealia.

Warm.

IR: How it got so bad comedians couldn't even perform when you were in the room.

Boiling, Mencia was about to blow his casket.

IR: How they'd be talking and you'd show up and they just walk away, without saying single thing to you.

Explosion - lift off.

CM: NEIN! NEIN! EST SCHIZEL!

The German was coming through again, the real Carlos, that 3rd Reich German stuck in the body of a fat ugly Honduran, but with a mind so racially retarded Honduran just didn't register, so it went with Mexican instead, and lived on trapped in silent misery. The stern German which existed beneath the surface of a jolly joke stealing Mexican, was now coming out right before my very eyes.

IR: And didn't George Lopez choke you and slam you against the wall after he counted 15 minutes of his material on your HBO special? A moment which, by the way, has done much for my respect of George Lopez personally, but does not in anyway forgive the massive turd that was Balls of Fury.

Carlos began his meltdown. He erupted with what I can only assume was 30 years of pent up Nazi rage, rage he was born with but was never allowed to let come out, until now. Hateful slurs in a savage tongue rolled out of his mouth in waterfalls of prejudice as Pandora's box finally pried itself open and spewed out all of her festering innards all about the room. He stomped the floor like Gestapo men in a great long hate march, he leered at us and made famous gestures - quite frankly we all feared for our lives. In the end however, the only victims were a wooden table and the frontal lobe of Carlos' brain - the table destroyed when we had to forcefully restrain him, and the lobe destroyed from the sudden explosion of pent up brain synapses that were finally fired off, only to sear the brain in tiny explosions of retardation.

He didn't even remember a thing.

CM: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sometimes with all the haters it gets tough. It gets real tough, and then you try and go home, but even your own wife hates you. She just gives you that blank stare and rolls over to go back to sleep. And I just don't get it. Even my kids, my kids despise me and don't want to be seen with me. They don't want me to take them to school. I just don't get it. They won't even let me tuck them in at night. . . I just don't get it. Why all the haters!

IR: Isn't it strange that people who talk a lot about "haters" and are concered with "haters" are people who are easy to hate?

CM: Yeah. . . That is strange.

IR: You really are that ignorant. . .

CM: What?!

IR:You're so blindly retarded you are hated by everyone, and you don't even know why. You just don't see why its wrong to steal other peoples intellectual properties and take from their creative enterprises and call them your own. You're the type of retarded comedian that connects with other retards out in the world, on some strange frequency the rest of us normal people can't hear or comprehended. They all flock to you like flys to the warm glow of a bug zapper, and so you make millions, you make millions with other people's shit. You're as obnoxious as one of your custom bikes, as fake as the watered down "Horchata" in your fridge. . . You're not even a Mexican. You're a fake and a sham, and your whole life has been one of disillusionment, of lies, and you're the most conned of em all. No one believes your shit, and oh "I wrote that joke YEARS before" line more than you do. You can't even be hated for your own retardation, you're a copy-cat retard who just so happens to suffer from blind retardation as well. The only good things to come out of your career are A) Getting choked out by George Lopez and B) Getting killed by Kanye West.

Thank you, and good-night.

CM: Wait, good-night?

IR: Yes good-night.

He was bagged, taken out to the Los Angeles River, and was shot. He was left to bleed out into the river - his sort of way of rejoining his people.

Even in his own death, he was an asshole.

Co-Written by Patrick Barnes.

Brock Lesnar: Delusional Madman: Dangerously Retarded

Brock Lesnar sporting his new tattoo.

Brock Lesnar comes from a land where the men still wear cover-alls. Their necks are all red and sizzling from too many hours stooped over in the sun, and they're so backwoods you can almost see the KKK hats on their heads, even when there isn't a hate rally. They're bigots on guard 24/7. . . Lesnar was born on a particularly soggy summer afternoon, on July 12th, and aside from the rain it was a particularly strange day. It was to be the day when a cow gave birth to a human being, the first recording of its kind. All the boys were hanging around, shooting the shit, drinking beers, when they heard quite the ruckus come from the barn. It was old Betsy, the crowned gold cow of the farm, crowing like she was about to give birth. Sure enough, out came Brock Lesnar, half human-half bull. He was the result of a lonely night on the farm, when some tired farm hand yearned for the touch of a woman but found himself to be surrounded only by cows. The fornication resulted in Brock for the cow, and a diseased tool for the farm hand, who pissed fire for months.

He grew up fine enough, and proved to be quite the mule, for where he lacked intelligence he had muscle, and he had a whole lot of muscle. During his days as a kid, he'd shoot up steroids - the kind they use on horses to help fix races, and was fed nothing but proteins - 3 raw eggs in the morning, and 3 more at night. He was fed so ravenously he was practically a wild animal, and by the age of 16 he would run around town scooping up chickens and biting their heads off. He'd eat them while the torso still flapped around molting feathers, the hunt being some sort of a primal urge he could not control. His massiveness lead him to be more profitable in other ventures than farming, as he was found to be a perfect specimen for Day County's favorite sport: wrestling. He became an amateur wrestling champion, and operated much like a machine, winning matches as far up as the college level. But then he curiously took the "fake" professional wrestling route, that make believe opera of the real life thing; which he excelled at. He was undefeated in high school, 33 and 0, and an NCAA wrestling Champion, Pac-Ten Champion, etc etc, with an overall college record of 106-5.

The guy has groped and been around more dick than some of the skankiest of Big Bear townies.

Yet after a stint in professional wrestling, and the hunger that resulted from it (pretending to hit men isn't as satisfying as really hitting them,) he tried to join the NFL. He played a couple of preaseason games for the Vikings, but was cut late when the team finally realized Brock Lesnar just might kill someone - one game he tackled an opposing quarterback so bad the poor sap had to ride the pine and try and find comfort in the crowd booing Lesnar while his innards bled rust from the dirty hit he didn't even see coming. With no chance in the NFL, and the burned bridge he had created for himself with the WWE, Brock Lesnar was kinda left to be alone, with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs. . .

Lesnar, always the good role model, seen here pretending to choke a bitch.

Enter UFC, a perfect arena for a guy like Brock Lesnar to show off his savagery in flashes of anger and pure hatred. His veins flow with a cocktail of gasoline and performance enchancers, he's a giant bull enraged by the color of red, and he's thirsty to turn your face crimson with sores and wounds and cuts that take months to fully heal. He can tend to your face like a man tends to a pillow, he'll soften it up and just laugh while you try and look out at the world through swollen bloody puffy eyes. He's swelled up by all the steroids, and by his ego, and by the limelight, which further swells him up, so he just stands in the ring and looks giant from all the swelling. He looks down at you and he's got fists like sledgehammers; two large 4XL gloves that fly out at you with a vengeance and try and crack up your face like brittle concrete. Its kind of his "M.O." - the wrestling he learned as a teen has been consumed by steroid catalyzed rage, and now Brock simply looks to cracking a man's skull and peeking inside just so he can say he's capable of doing it.

He has only been in 5 matches, and already has the title and all the heat, especially after his crazy antics at UFC 100. Right off the bat he wouldn't shake Mir's hand, a customary sign of respect in the sport often described as "human cock fights." Then after beating him to a pulp in his own hometown, he flipped off the crowd and soaked up their boos like any good spandex-clad professional wrestler would. He literally foamed at the mouth, he stared at the camera with black-empty eyes, and looked as if he were in some sort of ugly hate-filled trance. Then he was given the usual interview by Joe Roegan, the kind where he asks stupid questions to stupid athletes I don't really care to see try and formulate thoughts, as it all just looks too painful. Yet Brock mustered up all the theatrics of play wrestling, and belted out a wonderfully charismatic bit of shit talking:

"When I go home tonight. . . I'm gonna drink a COORS Light." Emphasis on Coors. "That's a Coors Light cause Bud Light won't pay me nothin'. . ." Sniff. "I'm gonna sit down with my friends and family. . . and hell maybe I'll even get on top of my wife tonight. . . See you all later!"

He had successfully disgraced the sport, blurred the line between MMA fighting and professional wrestling, and took a jab at on of UFC's main sponsors, just for good measure. Talk about a fucking retard. Its as if he enters the ring and becomes the school bully again, and swaggers around with a head held high, just looking to fight some small pee-on he can pummel and make feel even smaller. He finishes the job, and after awhile the madness wears off, like a high; Brock becomes less bull and more human, but its too late, the damage is already done.

Yet after his antics live on PPV, he apologized profusely 5 minutes later, and was seen drinking a Bud Light right there at the podium, as if his tirade never even happened. But thats what happens when you're a 265 pound retard with a punch that can deal out 100 pounds of pure force: you can get away with shit.

You can walk around like an ass, and generally rub people the wrong way. You can diss your own sponsors, your own company, even your own wife - who'll just smile and sputter out a fake laugh through plastic lips. . . People don't say anything, because letting it slide is a hell of a lot better than spending a few months in some sterile hospital bed. And thats if you're lucky. A guy like Brock can cause a lot of damage, and is even more frightening due to his retardation. You just simply never know what a loose cannon like he can do: he's a retard monster of epic proportions that could rip your head off like you were nothin' but a rag doll.

And for that, Brock lesnar is dangerously retarded.

dangerous retardation n - retardation in an individual or group of individuals that is capable of causing great harm to non-retarded individuals. They are simply too unpredictable, and/or naturally addicted to causing/feeling pain. Said victims are dangerously retarded.

Lesnar talking shit.

FURTHER RETARDATION:
Born in Webster, South Dakota, population nearly 2,000, 99% of which are white.

Married Rena Mero a.k.a Sable, who now goes by Rena Mero Lesnar.

Broke Bob Holly's neck during one match after a botched powerbomb: Lesnar felt it was best just to drop him right on his neck.

Lesnar has a skull tattoo on his back, which is done so shittily I think its a skull surrounded by a mist, but no one can be sure what the 15 year old tattoo artist was goin' for when he etched its retardation on Lesnar's massive back.

Personal quote: "Here comes the pain." Encitive, Brock, really.

Tom Arnold: Tragically Retarded

Infinitely Retarded often takes to a cynical spin on the lives of those it discusses in brilliant, beautiful, flowing prose (lawl shameless self-promotion,) but on this occasion, I bring into the discussion a human being who's life and career has been so tragic, that I can't help but feel a sorry for him. A man who endured molestation, as a child and later in life from his wife Rosanne Barr. A man who has made so many movies, you can't count them all, nor would you want to, the majority of them are nothing but 90 minute shit fests, beginning to end. . . A man who has been the butt of many jokes, and understandably so.

I of course, am speaking of Tom Arnold.

Born March 6, 1959, in Ottumwa, Iowa, a 1500 square foot stretch of a nothing city, divided by the Des Moines River. There he grew up with 6 brothers and sisters, and a mother who was unfaithful, and a father who always worked. As a child he was molested by his babysitter, a 19 year old male his mother had hired to watch the kids, while she was away cheating on her husband. The molestation stopped when Arnold took the matter into his own hands, at the age of seven. He took his father's rifle (which probably was just lying around somewhere) walked down the street to the man's home, and confronted him, the business end of the rifle shoved straight up in the man's face. He pulled the trigger and his brains exited his skull, met the back of the room and slid down the wall like thrown spaghetti.

Or so Arnold would have liked it to end. . . The truth is his father caught him before any damage could be done, and as a result that molester still lives today, and reportedly has adopted 4 boys, which is of course, tragically retarded.

Nonetheless Tom Arnold rose from these ashes, from the dusty emptiness of Iowa, from the shattered dreams of his past, and took to comedy. In the 80's Tom Arnold was the equivalent of Carrot Top; his act consisted of shameless props used to get cheap laughs. Yet Tom Arnold's was even more retarded: his act was called "Tom Arnold and the Goldfish Review," and sadly enough the fish were the most exciting part of the act. Tom Arnold's props included a toy motorcycle, banana peels, and even condoms, which he probably placed over his head and then proceeded to blow up until they popped. For his grand finale, he would swallow the whole bowl full of goldfish, a trick he probably picked up from all the carnie folk in Illinois. It is from these stand-up acts, that he first met Rosanne Barr, who must have an intense love for mediocrity. He was hired as a writer for that skanky show Rosanne and often appeared on the show as "Arnie Thomas," Rosanne Barr's attempt at being funny: Arnie Thomas is but a play on Arnold's actual name, Tom Arnold. . . Time on the show helped a romance blossom between Rosanne Barr and Tom Arnold. It was a time which lead him to get perhaps the most retarded tattoo in the history of tattoos: a portrait of the fat hag on his left pectoral, right by his heart.

The worst tattoo in history.

The two were soon wed, in 1990. They were as happy as they could ever be, and probably even considered having children, who would probably be the ugliest looking human beings in the entire history of mankind. They lived in bliss as the years just seemed to float on by, Tom Arnold got his own show and he and Rosanne opened a restaurant, "Rosanne and Tom's Big Food Diner," a roach house for ugly obese people in Illinois. Yet the marriage started to deteriorate after Rosanne trapped Tom Arnold in her massive vagina, for three whole days, much like Jonah had been swallowed whole by that giant fish in The Old testament. During his captivity, he sang songs to keep himself busy, finding amusement in the echoes that rang off her vaginal walls, and kept himself fed with the carcass remains of other men she had trapped in her vagina, and totally forgot about. By candle-light he wrote his memoirs, and vowed after getting out to become a star all on his own, and to divorce Rosanne as soon as possible. It was if he had found himself in a sudden clarity, as if the beer-goggles which seemed attached to his face were suddenly taken off, and now he had seen the error in his ways - all it took was three days in a hot dark cave that smelled of rotten fish.

After escaping with a grappling hook, the two got divorced, and Tom Arnold took to the movie business, the three horrible days of captivity and his vow to make something of himself seared well into the back of his eyeballs. He appeared in True Lies as Arnold Schwarzenegger's sidekick in a movie so epic it even made Tom Arnold look good. Following True Lies he appeared in total waste-of-time films like Big Bully, Carpool, and The Stupids, each movie diving more and more into the realm of retardation. Take The Stupids, for instance, the title of the movie says it all, as both the characters and anyone who actually likes this movie are both in fact, quite stupid. Despite all of this, Tom Arnold exhibits a tough leather skin, through which no failure can puncture.

He's moved on to television, and has made many cameoes: Arnold is one of those guys who can just appear as himself, almost like some sort of walking joke that everyone recognizes and laughs at. He use to host the Best Damn Sports Show, which kept the name even though Tom Arnold was one of the hosts, and I know not whether its still on, or if he still is one of the hosts. The Best Damn Sports Show was kind of like ESPN's Sportcenter if it were run by the same guys who did Man Show, so naturally humor was attempted, but most often it failed. Yet despite all these failures, Tom Arnold manages to hang around, like a bad case of herpes. He's appeared in movies galore, both as himself, and as other characters, his visage can still be seen on television, and he has played his part in the advertising game as well by providing his voicing talents to the lifeless glove that is the Hamburger Helper mascot.

Aside from his professional career, Tom Arnold has been married three times.

Rosanne Barr today: No she isn't a bull dyke, she just looks like one.

His first wife was Rosanne Barr, who left him because she found out she preferred vagina, and hated his tiny penis - Rosanne Barr was once quoted as saying "Yeah Tom was a lot like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. . ." To which Tom Arnold rebuttled with "Well, even a jumbo jet looks small when landing in the Grand Canyon. . ."

His second wife left him because she could stand being associated with the man who "Once was Married to Rosanne Barr..."

His third wife is still with him, because she is cushioned enough from that man-hating monster that was his first wife, and has earned enough money from his carreer to care very little for his tiny penis.

It is for these reasons, and the horrible tragic succubi that Tom Arnold has associated himself with that IR names Tom Arnold, tragically retarded.

tragic retardation n - retardation so great, that the observer can feel only sorry for them, the hardships they have to endure. Victims of this retardation are said to be tragically retarded.

MGD 64: 64 Calories of Retardation

MGD 64: The worlds most sadly retarded beer.

By mid-afternoon, The Kraft Nabisco Championship was in full swing, and dripping with much excitement, as the LPGA's finest lady golfers took to the greens, in a race to the top and the 2 million dollar purse that would be awarded to the winner. The Californian sun shown out on all those performing, amongst a clear blue sky - a sort of spot-light illuminating the drama that comes with any good competition. The tournament is considered to be "spring-break for lesbians," as they often come out of the woodwork, in droves from all over, to enjoy nature and cheer on their fellow penis less brethren. The brilliant ad men over at Miller-Coors Brewing company noticed this trend, and spent much ad money making their beer MGD a prevalent symbol throughout the tournament, for it is well known MGD's unofficial slogan is "The Official Drink of Lesbians." There is something about its horrid bastardization of what a real beer should be, that lesbians just can't seem to deny. They consume it with all the pleasure a child takes to eating ice cream on a sweltering hot Summer day.

The tournament ended with much drama, as two lady golfers fought it out for the top spot, both 5 strokes under par, with only one hole to go. In the end, Sara Caponi won it all, with a 10 foot putt, just as the sun began to sink into the mountains. After the win, she took the traditional and obligatory dive into the "Champions Pond," a 50 yard stretch of frigid murky waters that inhabits the course and has been a swimming pool for other winning lady golfers that only a handful of people probably recognize, or even care about. She rose up from its waters, into the open air, where immediately she was given an MGD, which she lifted in a celebratory drink. She pulled herself out of the pond, and went to stand at the podium to accept her title, donned in all the usual retarded golf gear: white shoes, a polo shirt, and khakis, all soaking wet. She runs her fingers through her wet mullet, flexes her biceps, and raises the title, high over her head, her mouth all smiles.

Sara Caponi, seen here chilling at home, lady golfer and MGD drinker.

"I would just like to thank Kraft Nabisco, and everyone who showed up today to support me, all of you all, and the great people behind Miller Genuine Draft, for not only financing this event, but also providing us all with a great drink to cool down with after a long day. . . God knows I'll down a few myself! Without you, none of this probably would have ever happened." She said, raising the title up in the air. She had no doubt been paid for the statement.

The Miller Ad men shook one another hands, puffing up with the successful amount of air time they had received, and with very little effort. All there was left to do now was to try and push their newest product, MGD 64, a light beer that boasts it only contains 64 calories. Its creation was based on the jaded concept that the only thing worse than a sweaty armpit furred lesbian, is a fat one, and that the introduction of the beer would do much in reducing the waist line of many a man-hater. They quickly sought to sponsor the event next year, but this time with their new crown jewel, MGD 64.

It is but one of the Miller family's 24 beers, and certainly is its most retarded. It was originally released for a test run in 2007, in Madison, Wisconsin, one of the countries fattest cities. After initial success, it expanded on to Arizona, San Diego, and Sacramento. It is made like its counter-part Miller Genuine Draft, which is said to be the 'champagne of beers,' due to its cold-filtering process that results in more carbonation. This moniker however, is quickly thrown out the window, as MGD 64 is so watered down it may as well be just that - water. Currently its main focus in regards to its sadly retarded ad campaign, is the fact that it is the lightest of light beers, yet still bears the MGD name, which implies that it is much like its original incarnation and just as good as any other draft beer (anyone with brains knows this to be entirely untrue, and downright shameful.) Their commercials compare a full 12 ounce MGD 64 with the 64 calorie equivalent of its competitors, which is often poured out by annoyed bartenders, in giant glasses - the drink only resulting in a few sips worth. This leaves the sad sap who actually made such a ridiculous order, too look at his or her glass and frown, while they eye the MGD 64 with envious eyes. Quite frankly I'd rather drink Drain-O.

Observe, the MGD drinking lesbian in her natural habitat, smiling gleeful as she clutches her very own bottle of MGD 64 - of beer flavored water. Content to remain sober, she consumes it, all the while spewing hateful words about men and their many 'wasteful' endeavors.

Every good beer drinker knows that alcohol is harmful - and that's precisely why he drinks it. He also knows copious amounts of beer will probably make him fat, but as previously stated, concern for one's self or one's own body doesn't come into the mind of any respectable hops drinker. . . His main endeavor in life is to get shitfaced, a goal which is quite impossible with MGD 64. For this, Infinitely Retarded can only describe MGD 64 as sadly retarded, and it is of the opinion of this writer, that he would rather die of thirst, than ever put his pursed lips to a bottle of MGD 64.

MGD 64 is not just for lesbians though, other people drink MGD 64 too. They can now be seen in bars across the country; in shitty dives without the sense and respectability enough to not stock this horrid, failed attempt of a "beer." You'll know them well - the drinkers that is, for they'll be the only ones there drinking it, timidly sipping it as their eyes dart around the room looking for action. Or you'll see some douche drinking from it while he attempts to court women and attempt to appear "cool." Some are dumb enough to think the beer is acceptable to drink, and will thusly parade around like everyone else, clutching that wasteful bottle with a slight guilty pleasure, like some trophy of their alcoholism, free spirit, and willingness to party. Others will drink it knowing of its wretchedness, and in turn their rotten predilections towards it. Other than that, maybe dumb 14 year olds drink it, I have no idea.

Regardless, MGD 64 is sadly retarded, and should be thusly treated like the plague, and kept far from the reach of anyone who may be tempted to consume it. . . But then again, to each his own, right?

sad retardation n. - Retardation which strikes a sad chord in non-retards, and therefore produces no personal lulz. Said retardation can also be considered pathetic retardation, its victims are said to be "sadly retarded."