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

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

David Blaine the Child Molester, Vegas Lights Can Ruin A Complexion, and An Underground Kiddie Porn Dungeon

Co-Writs Daniel Rasmussen

The truth is David Blaine used his magical mind powers to brainwash a sting ray into stabbing Steve Irwin in the heart. . . It was a murder driven by jealousy. . . He's the Aquaman of Murder.

David Blaine is an illusionist, which is really just a grown up word for magician - given to old and aging magicians who would otherwise be considered "pathetic" in the already pathetic world of magic. They're too old for simple card tricks, and far too egotistical to perform at kids' parties. They perform "illusions," which are much like the lame magic skits we're all use to, except they require more "skill." They find their work to be an "art form" and in some cases even a commentary on society. They are a different level of pathetic, and David Blaine appears to be one of its most retarded. Now naturally I had all of this in my head when I heard David Blaine's fading voice on T.V. talk about his next trick. He had announced in Vegas earlier in the week that he would be performing a trick, pardon me, an illusion, he called "The Lava Man," and refused to say anything more about it, much to the chagrin of the media.

I had to cover the event. So I did. Vegas baby. It went like this:

*Editors note: The first night the writer apparently got too wasted and couldn't remember the night, save for a few notes he jotted down in between swigs of alcohol. To provide insight on the complete story, and to end any arguments we have had here at the iR offices, we have added his notes, in their original unedited form.

The lobby is a lot emptier at 3 in the morning, wonder where all the drunks are? The casinos are still humming with the slight shuffle of cards and slot machines, symbols spinning, we'll see if we have a winn-ah, a winn-ah, no oh no, not this time around, hang your head - its ok, we're use to it. I never liked the desert. Something about it, nothing but flat dead land unfit for your average person to survive in - perfect location for Vegas, what with all its vultures. Was Vegas made for this desert, or was this desert made for Vegas? No way to be sure really, these people do look like crocodiles. In the casino at 3 in the morning. Nothing but die hard gamblers and ancient women who are probably 70 but look 100 from too many disappointments along the way, chasing the ever deceiving American Dream along The Vegas Strip. They suck cigarettes and doll up their faces like they did back when they were 20, but they know Vegas screwed em, everybody knows it, so they just suck cigarettes and play the slots with only a slight hope that maybe the next pull of the lever will break the bank and end all of their woes. It never comes though. They have these faces - horrible faces, with wrinkles and contortions of flesh - too much time in the Vegas lights melted their skin just like wax, and when the spotlight went out (after many years,) they took to making their fortune with the help of good ole' Lady Luck. Their faces would cool in the casinos, over many years, and an expression of despair would set in that wax. One day it would break, but that would be the day they died.

Fighting man at the bar, khaki shirt, navy blue slacks. In uniform. Workin' the gambling machine at the bar. You can tell when he loses, he slaps the DEAL button harder than usual and shakes his head. Sometimes he'll stir his drink and just stare into it. Damn, they'll even milk a fightin' man, send him off right, with empty pockets. He gives up after awhile, leaves with a hooker. Time to go I s'pose.

Through the casino up to the room, pass the Texas Hold-Em tables, where all the men look up at you and judge you with their eyes: Too small for this man's game, hit the slots with all the other ladies, dip-shit. You probably can't even cover the small blind! Up the elevator, into the hall - the black carpeting got red oval designs that look like red blood cells on it. Red blood cells, drunk fools with money are the life blood of Vegas right? I may be drunk, and I may be a fool, but I aint got money. S'pose I don't belong in this bloodstream - better get to my room. The Luke Perry room, with artificats from his movie career up on the walls, and a yearbook from his high school days encased in a small glass side table. A look out the window. Louis Vutton building being built across the way. A hotel? A modern affair, nothing but glass windows, and is almost a whole block long. What a monstrosity. How much to build that fucker? 120, 000, 000, 000 dollarzez? Doll-hairs.

*Editors note: There are more notes, but the rest seems to be legible only by drunk people. Its nothing but chicken scratches and is stained brown from a Jager spill. Luckily the writer recovered and was able to finish the story.

Keep reading, its good for you!

I woke up hung-over. Had to get downstairs though, to meet up with David Blaine. I had been given the opportunity to interview him before the big night, which was only two days away. I dressed and met him in the lobby, where he was smiling and levitating there in the center of the room. A crowd had gathered, and he seemed to be giving special attention to the children, who he beckoned to come closer and grab on to his legs for a closer view. When he saw me he called me over. They all gawked at him, some of them even frightened, by what they believed was some kind of demonic act against the laws of nature. The children were ecstatic and he gave them all high fives, and even managed to get a hug in with one portly little boy. When he saw I wasn't all that impressed he frowned a little. Like an upset child, he cut through the crowd, making his way towards a little place for some breakfast. We sat at the table - steak and eggs.

"So what's this magic trick you're doing?" I asked. He was entertaining the children behind me, he didn't hear me. "You like kids don't you?"

"Loooove em." He smiled. "Its why I got into magic in the first place. . . All kids love magic, don't they? They're close to my heart."

"Ok M.J. - what's this magic trick you're doin' on Friday?" I asked again.

"Trick? Trick?" His lust gaze on the children had been broken, he was no longer that sweet innocent Blaine. "I'm not a dog, or a dolphin, come now. . . I do illusions my good man, illu-sions." He smiled, and with a slow sweeping motion over the table he turned over his hand and a fork appeared. I wasn't impressed, so he then "bent" it with his mind. . .

"Sorry yeah, so what's this illusion you're doing?" I was annoyed.

"Well its an illusion, well more of an endurance trial, its, its, an endurance illusion." I could tell he was talking out of his ass. "They're feats of amazing endurance, that test the human body and the human mind to almost the breaking point. In a way they're almost super human. I mean I've nearly died doing these things."

"Nearly." I scoffed. "Too bad."

"Huh?" He asked, I didn't acknowledge him, so he continued. "Well yeah, as I was saying, they're amazing feats, most of the time when I'm done I'm shipped off to the hospital. I tell you, they really are trying, but worth it in every way, don't get me wrong. . . Yeah I've stayed encased in a block of ice for a week, did a stint in a giant ball of water for a whole week. . . Stuff like that - you familiar with the glass box stint I did? Suspended over the air in a glass box."

"Yeah, I remember. People started throwing food at you."

"The unbelievers!" The worlds nearly exploded out of his mouth, he seemed embarrassed by how loud and quickly they came out. He was use to being the quiet one, in school he was the creepy kid who took to the corners of rooms and never really had any friends. He's had those bags under his eyes all his life too. After some fidgeting, he calmed himself, continued. "In truth, the only restrictions on our capacity to astonish ourselves and each other are imposed by our own minds." He reached out for his napkin, fluttered it in the air, and it turned into a dove, which flew off through the restaurant. The kids behind me applauded wildly, and Blaine blushed. He often did this where ever he went, like it was some itch he had to scratch constantly. Sometimes he'd pause while walking down the street, and snatch up a man's newspaper, twirl around and come up with roses, and hand them back to the annoyed man who only wanted to read his paper. Other times he'd stop someone and ask to see the time, and when they'd look he'd tap their wrist and the watch would turn into a snake and slither away. He had a real way of pissing people off, but his favorite place to perform tricks was at playgrounds, or outside elementary schools - anywhere children frequented.

"But you know my next illusion?"

"The Lava Man. . ."

"Yeah." He ducked his head so he could talk to me softly, to prevent eavesdropping. "They're gonna put me in a giant lava lamp - large coils on the bottom are gonna heat the liquid I'm submerged in - gonna be hot wax floating all around me, just like a real lava lamp! They're gonna leave it on for a whole week, during which time I won't be able to do anything but simply endure! Endure my friend."

"What's the point in that?"

"The point is I'll be trapped in the world's tallest lava lamp - a Guiness Book Record in itself, and it will be a visual interpretation of the everyday struggle we find ourselves in every waking moment of our lives! But most importantly its yet another example of the great things we as human beings can do, the wonderful feats we can accomplish if we just put our minds to it! Impressive, isn't it?"

"Not really. Sounds retarded. Sounds horrible. Sounds like a bunch of phoney baloney to me. . . It aint phoney baloney now, is it. . . Mister Blaine?"

"If I was a phoney baloney. . . could I do this?" He got up slowly out of his chair and turned his back to me. He started to levitate again. "HUH?! HUH?! . . . Wait wait, you're at the wrong angle, move over the left a little. . . No wait you're too close. . . Is it working? No? Wait maybe its the damn lighting, the damn lighting!"

1. Empty
2. For blowing dudes.
3. Filled with an intense love for Houdini, children
4. Empty
5. Filled with hidden cards and flowers
6. For kneeling (see 2)

The children were no longer cheering, they were in fact booing, and each boo seemed to cut through him like a knife. They soon got up and left with their mom and dad, which made David even more upset. He actually started crying.

"Please, don't leave me. . ." Sob sob sob. "I love you. . . I love you, alllll."

So many thoughts ran through my mind, for in my heart I knew his affection for children wasn't healthy. I thought of perhaps performing a magic trick, justing pulling that trigger and making him disappear forever - Tah Dah! In the end though, I just left him there crying. Soon enough he would get his.

As I was leaving the hotel, I was passed by a man in a hat with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He may have been a ghost: he was wearing an Acapulco shirt, tea shades hid his eyes, and in his right hand he clutched a leather doctor bag. He didn't seem like a doctor, he certainly didn't dress like one. Maybe it was the shorts and the wicked glare that gave him away. Maybe it was the smell as he passed me: bourbon. Turns out he was on assignment too. His piece started like this:

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold."

And it ended like this:

"I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger. . . a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident."

I thought of that ghost, and 2 days later David Blaine attempted his "The Lava Man" stunt. It was well covered, I remember. At the 7 day mark he was taken out. 5 minutes later he was pronounced hopelessly retarded. The stunt had caused severe brain damage, he quit the illusionist game, but got a good job doing magic for kid's parties. He was extremely happy, until a concerned mother phoned police after her son told her Blaine had made inappropriate advances. 2 day later Police raided his house and found a kiddie porn dungeon. Stories then started to come out, from children who had claimed that David Blaine had commited horrible sex acts upon them, and threatened to kill them with his magical powers if they said anything. They were all tragic teary eyed tales like this one:


Little Nathaniel Westbrook, seen here with David Blaine was raped by the illusionist in his hospital bed after the magic star promised him the "magic cure" and a wonderful show, to boot. Nathaniel Westbrook was quoted as saying "He didn't pull a rabbit out of a hat, he pulled a rubber dick out of his ass." The poor boy, a cancer patient is still fighting his disease and is traumatized by his encountered with the magician.

It is for these many reasons that iR declares David Blaine, hopelessly retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Blaine fasted a week before being submerged in a tank of water for an entire week, to prevent having to worry about defecation during the stunt "Drowned Alive." he was given air and nutrients through a rubber tube.

During his "Dive of Death" stunt, billed as a 60 hour endurance trial for Blaine to be hanged upside down from an elevated height in Central Park, Blaine would come down once an hour for medical checks. He also took breaks on a waiting platform, right side up.

Lulz: Voted the 'Biggest Loser' of 2003 in a British poll for spending 44 days in a box suspended over the River Thames in London, without any food.

USA Today called David Blaine "The hottest name in magic right now." What they really meant to say was "He's the only name in magic right now. . . except maybe for Penn and Teller, and nobody gives a shit about them."

The Sun once lovingly called him "Bonkers Blaine."

iR.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Interview Turned Brawl: The Mouse Man, Truth, and Cigarettes


Persecuted self-mutilator: The Smoker

"What derogation of self, what sin greater than sss-smoking? Than the tobacco man? He'll kill babies and take ladies, and won't bat a single eyelash. Just a gilded rose for your tombstone and leash to wrap around your now orphaned children. . . And his consumers. . ." Shawn Caputo swallowed thick cause he just couldn't stand the very idea of them. He was a tiny man, who had been kicked around all his life, and grew up in a family of smokers - he hated them. "His smokers, why they are just as bad, killing themselves the way they do - and killing us too! All for 6 bucks, and climbing, minding you, a pack. Killing us all with their damned SMO-KING." He sipped his Starbucks coffee, and continued. "You've always gotta remember that Dave, they're killing everything around us, we've stopped them from stinking up the cafes and restaurants, even the bars, but we haven't stomped em out completely yet." He laughed. "Get it? You know, 'stomped em out?' Like a cigarette butt!" More laugher, a little mousy laugh Shawn had all his life and tried desperately to cover up. He didn't think it matched him. He was wrong. "I really want you to lay into this next guy - really let him have it. If its any good, we'll use it for our next commercial." He smiled, thin wiry lips underneath a bushy mustache.

It was the latest filming of a Truth commercial, the campaign slogan being "Do you have what it takes to be a tobbacco exec?" Its an ad set up to be a job interview, that of course is entirely fake and set-up, but the applicant doesn't know that. They're asked a bunch of questions by a big phony, and posed with problems - the kind tobbacco executives have to face everyday, and of course all the applicants swear up and down that they could never do anything so horrible, so villanous. Todays act was no different, they were merely banking on what they already considered a successful campaign. Shawn had instructed his colleague David to "lay into the next guy," and they'd get the footage and be done with it.

But thats how they saw it.

Across town a 22 year old saw it differently.

His name was Josh Wood. He saw it like this.

Alright a job interview, gotta get all gussied up and ready. It would be nice to have the job, you know, maybe then the Combine wouldn't work on me so hard. Its how they like it. Play dress-up. Never understood what was so bad about doing what you please. Don't be silly now. Time for the monkey suit.

He went through all of that trouble, the uncomfortable starchy monkey-suit, sweaty under the arms, the long trip on the bus with drippings and forgotten human life, all for a fake interview he thought was real (wonder if he'll get angry?) that went like this:

"Hey, hello, come on in." David said, a 30 year old man in a suit. He was playing the role of the interviewer, Shawn his associate hid in the other room. "Please sit down." The 22 year old sat down. He looked strange, somewhat out of place, long hair tied back and side burns out in all their glory - it was like somebody took his head and put it on somebody else's body, the body of some paper pusher in a suit. He seemed uneasy, nervous.

"No need to be nervous, uh" a quick glance at the made up application. "Mr. Wood. Do you have a resumĆØ?"

"No."

"What? What kind of person doesn't brind a resumĆØ to a job interview?"

"A person like me." Wood smiled. "You mind if I smoke?" He pulled out a cigarette and raised it in the air for him to see.

"Yes."

"Yes I can smoke?"

"Yes, I mind." Wood put the cigarette down dejectedly. In the other room Shawn had been listening, the question making him furious. He peeked through the door to see this bit of riff-raff, and took a good gander at the kid. HE didn't like him one bit. The gall of that bastard. He thought. This is exactly why I'm fighting. . . He's such a monster he smokes INSIDE! Why if he were to light that cigarette up, he'd be taking years off of our lives. . . There's probably a baby here, somewhere, in this building, and the smoke could get up into the ventilator shaft and get to circulating. . . and by God, that poor newborn wouldn't stand a damn chance. . . Not a damn chance. His eyes were bulging, his face the color red. Somewhere in Shawn was an anger he was suppressing, but still surfaced in bubbles of hateful thoughts in his head.

Funny.

"Now can we get on with this?!" David was trying to calm himself. "Now this company that I work for, we are looking for you to fill a position for us, that is if you are hired. . . A high level one at that too, but you see there are certain aspects of the job that some people can't handle. . . Or stomach."

"Oh yeah? What aspects doc?" Wood said, he still had the cigarette in his hand and was playing with it. David sat watching it, for as long as he could stand it, and then reached out, grabbed it, and tore it into pieces. "Hey what the hell did you do that for?"

David ignored the question and went on.

"I work for a tobacco company, and were looking for a new Executive of Consumer Relations." He smiled.

"And you're tearin up cigarettes. . ."

"But as I said there are some aspects of the job that people can't stomach. . . For instance, would you be willing to increase nicotine levels, you know, the stuff that keeps smokers addicted, would you be willing to increase them if your boss asked you too?" He leaned back in his chair, content, waiting for what he figured would be a definate no.

"What's the pay?" Wood asked.

"Huh? Oh the pay, uh, 250 k a year - benefits - stock options. . ." David fudged the figures.

"Fuck yea I'd do it."

"Well I unders-What. . . you'd do it?" David asked. He was geniunely disgusted.

"Yeah. . . Since when did people have morals when it came to making money? Especially a shitload of money. . ." Wood said. David looked as if he was actually thinking about it.

"Huh. Guess you got me there." He paused for a moment, thinking. "But what about the babies? Smoking kills babies!"

"Yeah if you blow smoke in their face. What kind of ass smokes around a baby? Not even I do that. . . And believe me, I'm known as quite the ass." Wood said smiling. "I aint never killed no babies. I've blown some smoke in the faces of dogs and cats, but I wasn't smoking cigarettes your honor. . ." He put his hand out as if he were swearing on The Bible. He smiled, he had a smile like The Grinch - menancing, even when he didn't intend it. David took one look at it and became nervous, his head probably filled with thoughts of this cigarette toting long-hair causing him all sorts of harm. He glanced over his shoulder for help to come, for someone to restrain this crazy before he DOES something, God please don't let him do something, but Shawn merely waved his hand for him to keep going, keep the bastard going.

"What if half of your consumers died each year, would you be able to target new customers?" David asked.

"Do employees get free cigarettes?" Wood searched his face for an answer, but no answer was found. "I mean paying just to keep up is getting harder and harder these days, what with the sin tax and those Truth ninnies running around. . . You know just the other day I saw a commercial that made me light one up and just laughed - they're great really. . ." David's face had changed to one of fear, he knew he's colleague in the other room was probably fuming and was gearing up for an assault. "Helping with the wussification of our Nation, I tell yah, them Truth propaganda machines. . . Wouldn't mind it really, just so many times they get it wrong. . . All wrong. Can't fight lies with lies, just don't work that way, you know what I mean, Davey boy? Besides nothing like a smoke when you really craving one, am I right?"

A bullshit smug grin formed on his face, and out of habit he pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. It burned cherry at one end until he took it into his hands and exhaled a silvery cloud of death, of cyanide, of urea, of poison. To David it was a cloud of defiance, and when it reached his nostrils his body coiled, as if he had just smelled something horrible. He worried what Shawn would say. Shawn was on the other side of the door, crying he was so angry, the tears ran off his cheeks and burned holes in the carpet. He was trying desperately to chew on his lips, keep them from moving, for only hatred would come out. Suddenly he clinched his fists, all white knuckles, and lifted his head and sniffed the air. He smelled a smell that reminded him of his childhood, and somewhere on his back cigarette burns marked his back and felt like they were new again, and he was but 12 - punishment for being "a little bastid." He grew distant then, caught up in the past and anger, Mt. Vesuvius just waiting to go off.

Head for the hills.

"You sonnuva. . ." Shawn boomed through the door, surprising both David and Wood. "You dare. . . SMOKE?!" He charged the boy, taking him out along with the chair. They brawled on the floor, with punches and kicks, while Shawn cried tears of anger and pain so great he could have flooded the room. David hid under the desk and phoned the police, for he too had been from a violent family.

All injuries were minor. The incident made the newspapers, some even spun it so that it looked like a vicious attack on an unsuspecting everyday law-abiding citizen. Wood sued the Truth Campaign and Shawn Caputo respectively for assault citing he was a victim of a "hate" crime, he also claimed that he was mislead and that the attack was indeed premeditated. Besides, he really wanted the job.

He won the case and reportedly spent the money on cigarettes.

yay.

The truth though?

Wood knew the camera was there the whole time. . .

iR.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Mr. Jones: Infinitely Retarded

After learning about a particular "dis" blog aimed at myself and an associate here at the iR offices, it appeared to me to be a challenge. A challenge, to not only retort in such a way, a particular hate monger would never again utter such hate towards us, but embarrass her greatly. For if she did the wrath of Mr. Jones: Infinitely Retarded Vol. 2 would be far worse than what you are about to read.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you with no honor, and a burden that should not be bestowed upon any man, Mr. Jones. . .

Mr. Jones, attack mode.

I met Mr. Jones a year ago, where she was immediately given said nickname (stemming from a song written by one Bob Dylan entitled Ballad of a Thin Man.) A nickname so cruel and inhumane, one must pass a test by persistently annoying us. Needless to say, she passed with flying colors. Mr. Jones, has no respect for others because she has no respect for herself. She is delusional, shows no signs of being self-aware, is miserable to be around due to her constant criticism about "how messed up life is growing up in northwest Glendale, and is the reason behind this blog in the first place. She is, infinitely retarded. She can't simply make observations, there's always something more to it, some hidden insult about her that she finds a way to bring out and skew and stretch out so it fits just to her liking. Everything is to be challenged, unless of course she says it, and even a person who says "oh its a nice day aint it?" will find themselves at the wrong end of her stick, as she'll find a way to turn all their words around and make them feel like they were attacking her, insulting her oh so horribly that they should be ashamed. And seh always takes to poking and prodding, to baiting you this way and that; she's perfect for government work, anybody who doesn't think like her obviously has something wrong with them, and its up to her to let them all know all the things that are wrong about them so vigorously that she doesn't even notice her own faults. She's some invinicble hate monger, immune to anything foreign that comes in contact with her, and anything foreign is wrong, because she is so righteously perfect.

When you say something she can't comprehend, she takes to the three questions, Meat? Minteral? or Vegetable? And if you give her a chance, if you toss her up an idea like a wiffle ball, she'll hit it out of the park with her retardation, every time.

But, where did this retardation stem from? Is the world we live in really so deserving of so much criticism from a person with no real perspective? In order to find out, I had to dig deep with a total disregard to my own safety, because to find this out, one had to travel to the deepest crevices of Hell.

She was born on a typically cold January evening, the winds whispered through the trees and the moon hung low in the sky, blood red. A wolf cried, it rang through the air as a pickup truck sped past, bouncing along. A woman was in the back, all alone screaming, as a freakish looking man drove, the truck hitting every pothole in the street like he meant to do it intentionally. The man was driving fast because he was trying to get to the hospital, and the woman in the back was screaming because she was about to have a baby, bouncing along, in the back of a pickup truck. She was in the back cause "whut if-yah pop and get yah baby juicin's and blood all on mah new leather seats! In the back widd-yah wo-man!" The woman ended up having that baby, bouncing along in the back of that pickup truck, and the baby, who's head was still soft and new bounced along too, scrambling her brains just like scrambled eggs. The poor thing never had a chance. Despite the scrambling, the genes had still passed from her parents. Her mother was a truck stop tramp, which meant she was good at turning tricks and leaning against walls in such a way that would make any respectable male vomit. Her father was a carnie freak, he liked to swallow fire and bite the heads off of bats, and from him she developed her love for livestock and animals of all kinds really. Growing up in the circus environment was perfect for her, for there was no shortage of livestock - the circus was a real traveling zoo, and some of the beasts were actually men, men in coats with slick tongues that conjured up bullshit and raked in money at stands and fixed cranie games. One of her boyfriends was one of these beasts. He was 72.


Being legally raped for years, she wanted something more, something natural. Apparently, having to wait 15-20 minutes for the Viagra to kick in before sex each time wasn't doing it for her anymore. She decided to broaden her horizon, with her first, true love; livestock. This was the beginning, this is where she felt most comfortable, frankly, it was her roots. She wanted to be on of them, have her own commune where man and beast can walk as equals. Home. It was there that she took to caressing the llamas, putting them down to sleep nice and soft, just like a caring mother, and she would pet the horses with a great adoration, and eye the goats with a hidden lust she tried to conceal but could be noticed by any beastialty officionado - theres something about the eyes. Yet much to the disdain of all the other livestock, she found herself one true love -mini horses. And not just any mini-horse. She fell in love with Goliath, an award winning mini-horse, who in his hay day had taken every ribbon in the mini-horse rodeo, and had even inseminated other mini-horses, to preserve his lineage and abundant talent. Although that was in the past, he was still a majestic mini-horse, though you can tell his days are behind him. It didn't affect her, oh no, she loved him like he was still 4 again, and could jump through rings of fire and had many a female steed looking for his affection.

One day, while on the road, she was passionately horse fucking when the ringleader of the circus stumbled upon her trailer. He thought to himself, "how can I seel this?" Mr. Jones was to be a star, but not on the silver screan. No, but to be a founding member in the underground bestiality circuit.

On a cold autumn day, the truck pulled up to a run down whore house, Mr. Jones was the main attraction that night. There had been talk about a revolutionary performance, a performance with 4 mini-horses. The lights dimmed and the crowd was patiently waiting with great anticipation. Amongst the crowd were men of great social importance: murderers, child molesters, child rapists, catholic priests, and Jews. A spotlight turned on, aimed at the side of the stage, then Mr. Jones appeared. She was wearing a wedding dress, a beautiful gown, could have even been a gift from a family member. Then, a cup was brought out and was put in the middle of the stage by a man dressed in all black. After the grand entrance of the cup, four horses were brought out, one of whom was Goliath, all their handlers wearing black as well. Each man lead their horse to the cup where the horses then relieved themselves into the cup. Mr. Jones got down on all fours and slowly crawled over, the crowd grew silent. They had never seen such a display of raw passion. The house filled with the raw stench of fresh horse manure, as Mr. Jones and Goliath met at the center of the stage, just next to the cup where they both lowered their heads down and started eating. After getting a stomach full of horse excrement she gracefully slid her hand down Goliath's side, slowly, erotically, finally reaching his phallic member, he always went first. She went to work. The other horses started growing anxxxious, "shhhh" she said, "you'll get your turn." They relaxed as if they understood. Goliath blew his load in her mouth, she assumed the doggy style position as the other horses, one by one, took their turn. You almost had to feel bad for the horses, not knowing that they were committing a sin. A sin, punishable by an eternity in the deepest pit of Hell. A sin no man could forgive. The crowd rushed out the door in disgust, a 49 year old man curled up in the corner crying. A priest threw up on himself and declared it was the workings of the Devil. Before she could swallow and pack up the horses, a small crowd was forming outside the house. They wanted blood. They were mostly made up of peasants, the same folk that Mr. Jones so gallantly stood by. The same folk, that were forgotten by society and she would speak of any chance she got. "I'm making a difference," she would tell herself. Sure you are. They were poor, and couldn't really afford foor or health care, but they could afford torches and rioting.

Goliath, may he rest in peace.

They burst into the room, some of them with rifles, distraught at the vile acts they had just seen. One man in a straw hat drew up his rifle, and fired. The bullet hit Goliath in the side, the mini-horse fell over from the force of it, turning his hide from white to blood red. Mr. Jones cried out, loud, she tried to save him, but her family dragged her off stage, and as they made their getaway, she turned in the backseat and watched the building begin to crumble, for the mob had taken fire to the place. They were content to let it crumble and leave only ashes in its wake. The tears stained her cheeks, she knew she would never love again. Her sole occupation from then on would be hate, and over the years she would get very good at it. It would be refined, made stronger, till she got to the point where she believed she knew so much better than everyyone else, that she was so much nobler, despite the fact that in her past she had let dozens of mini-horses train fuck her, one at a time, for money. Her family changed their names, to escape the tragedies of their past, but she couldn't forget Goliath. She kept a picture of him in her heart shaped locket, kept there forever and protected from the elements.

They enrolled her in school, where she was treated harshly, "They just don't understand" she would say. She was greatly hated, and she echoed their bigotry and hatred towards her with words of hatred all of her own, and proclimations that she was better than everyone else, and so much more noble. It became a theme in her life, a sort of mantra that she would say to herself each night, "I'm better, I'm more noble. . . I'm better, I'm more noble. . ." and she took it all to heart. She became a scaley dragon, with hatred for her fire, and she never feared breathing on a man and turning him to nothing but ash. In fact she enjoyed it, it brought her pleasure, for the world had taught her nothing but hate, and she reflected it daily.

And so Infinitely Retarded names Mr. Jones, well. . . infinitely retarded.

cowrits; pbarnes.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Sylvester Stallone The Ageless Retard, A Sequel to The Worst Movie Ever Made, and A Horribe, Horrible Jenkem Trip


The tickets arrived a week before the scheduled event, giving me plenty of time to debate whether or not to go. By Wednesday I had decided to go, and spent the rest of the days leading up to the event mentally preparing for the utter retardation I knew was ahead of me. The event was a private screening of an upcoming Stallone movie, a sequel entitled Rhinestone 2.

Rhinestone was an 80's piece of retardation that made for perhaps the funniest movie not intended to be a comedy. Its a fish out of water story about country music. Stallone plays the fish-out-of-water, a New York cab driver stuck in the south and some sort of bet that he can't sing country music. The image of it all was enough for me, Stallone singing country, with Dolly Parton as his mentor, fuck buddy, and singing partner. Its Judge Dred dancing around like a redneck, its the Demolition Man singing just like a song bird, a song bird with a throat full of gravel. His singing is just as bad as you think, its so bad it makes you wonder who the retard was who heard country music, singing, and Sylvester Stallone all in the same sentence and thought it was a good idea. Asking Stallone to sing is like asking a football player to do ballet, it just aint in the blood, it aint what they're made to do.

I showed up early and said fuck it all with the red carpet, and slipped in through the side of theater and got some drinks in. It was an old theater, the kind with balconies and high ceilings with perfect acoustics. In its hay day it probably hosted a great deal of wonderful acts, maybe even Bob Hope, but now it had been reduced to showing smut films and shitty movies like the one I was about to see, Rhinestone 2. The gold decorations on its ceilings had once gleamed, but now they seemed dusty. The grand elaborate curtains had once been a fresh velvet the color of blood, but now it was molting, as if eaten by moths or rats or maybe both, and was the color of rust. I thought, so this is where careers come to die, they're all probably out there, getting their pictures on the red carpet - why would they want a photograph of themselves on the worst day of their lives? Maybe they don't know what they are in for.

But I did.

I spoke over the phone prior to the screening with a source who wishes to remain nameless. He had told me about the movie, it was much like the original Rhinestone.

Rhinestone: infinite lulz

"So Dolly Parton is gonna be in this one too?" I asked.

"No." He said. His voice sounded strained over the phone. "That's where its different, but still kinda the same. . . Instead of Dolly, its Ozzy Osborne, and instead of Stallone learning to sing country to win a bet, he's gonna have to sing heavy metal. . . So Ozzy teaches him, becomes his mentor, his fuck buddy, and singing partner. . ."

"Ozzy Osborne and Stallone? How the fuck is anyone gonna know what they're saying? They're both so old and retarded they mumble, not that it matters much I s'pose, don't think they have anything worth hearing anyway. . . "

"What you can't understand em? I hear em' plain as day."

"Guess I don't have the
ear for em."

"I hear Kelly Osborne could be the love interest in the movie." He said.

"For who? Ozzy or Stallone?"

"I dunno."

"Either way this is going to be the worst movie ever. . . I've gotta see it." We said our good-byes and I hung up soon after that.

Back at the theater, they all started shuffling in slowly, filling the place up in time, until only the stars of the movie and the stragglers were not seated. Finally Stallone showed up, and everybody started kissing his ass, applauding his entrance. He got to his row, scooting by people as he did this, and then shook hands with the producers and the writers. He then said something, in his low gravel voice that I strained to hear, and felt foolish for doing so when I heard him. "Yuh-yuh-yyuuhh-yuhhh." He said. I could tell the people he said it to had no idea what he said, they stared at him blankly but try and force smiles, nodding like little birds as he smiles back and eventually sits down. The audience got to talking again, I got to staring up at the theater above me, rotting away right before my very eyes. I felt sympathetic for the building, I felt like I was rotting away too. Ozzy finally showed up, I didn't see him at first, I heard him. At first I thought it was a lost child, or perhaps some mentally handicapped guy with too much fluid in his brain, but then I heard the accent. I turned around and there he was, Ozzy Osborne, being led down to his seat next to Stallone by two ushers. He babbled the whole way "shaaashaaaant cunntttt cunntttyathatawaayy." It was a language only a mind fried by years of drug abuse could understand. The sight was too much for me, it became apparent that this would perhaps be the worst movie ever created, and I was one the first three hundred unlucky few who were about to see it. After awhile the chatter died down, the director came up and introduced the movie, the lights dimmed, and it was about to start.

HERE WE GO


People began leaving twenty minutes in, particularly after a three minute monologue by Ozzy Osborne, something about music and the devil and worship, I don't know I couldn't really make out most of it. It thoroughly confused everyone in the audience except for Osborne and Stallone, who laughed and nodded their heads. They were the only ones who could understand it all, and in turn they were the only ones enjoying themselves. They were enjoying it all so much they wouldn't even have noticed if the entire theater emptied out behind them, and it nearly did.

Five minutes later I made my way toward the doors of my freedom, taking one last look at that horrible train wreck, blown up big on and screen and right in your face. I turned and looked so long I didn't notice the usher in front of me, and ran right into him. At first he looked angry, but then he looked at me curiously and asked if "I wanted to get high?" I said "Yes" and before I knew it I was in the projection booth of the theater, with a couple of ushers and this girl who said she was the manager. The film was playing away, clicking with each frame, and the room smelled of sweat and a strange odor, as if it were coming off the film itself. The tallest usher pulled out a balloon and smiled a toothy grin. It was jenkem, fermented poo gas, and from the looks of the people around me, they were experienced users. The first usher took his huff, and immediately hit the floor, his legs nothing but cold spaghetti. The second usher took his hit, and bounced up against the wall and hung there, his head spinning. It was then my turn. The balloon, half deflated, was handed to me by the manager chick, the only one functioning enough to do so. Although the guys next to me didn't look like they were in too good a shape, I knew it was better than the alternative, which was to turn around, leave the room, and go out and watch the rest of that God Forsaken movie. (That's right, I'm saying I'd rather huff poo gas than watch Sylvester Stallone sing,
anything, in any style, for any duration of time. Certainly not 90 minutes of it, with an accompaniment by a walking geriatric who mumbles because his brain has been turned into tapioca pudding from far too many years of far too many pills. A garbage disposal running with a beat in the background would be just as good as the two of them singing.) So I took a deep breath, brought the bag to my face, and my eyes took to watering from the stench. After a natural reaction, which always had my head turning to one side at the very smell of it, I brought it to my face one last time a took a good huff.

Instantly I passed out.

What happened next was sort of like a dream, but was much realer than that, it was almost like real life - except the only thing I could taste and smell was shit. Jenkem chalks up your mouth and works it way up your nasal cavity, you feel as if your innards have been all switched around, like your stomach was replaced with the large intestine, and your esophagus with the small intestine. Your so sick you don't know what to do, but then you start to hallucinate. Instantly I'm young again, with my brother, with Wyatt and Whitney, and we're playing by a creek with their mother, that woman with the big square thick glasses, and the ice blue eyes that never wavered and never teared. The same ice blue eyes Wyatt had. I forget her name, but then again kids are seldom very big on remembering the names of grown-ups, or even fraternizing with them for that matter. We're all young, and we're all daring one another to go in the water. Its so cold you can barely stand it, and its clear and you can see through it to the bottom where moss and algae have made their homes on jagged rocks, and you can see all the little black insects swimming in the cold frigid water. It hardly looks inviting, you start to think the damn little things are the only thing that can survive in it. Its all too much so we just end up hanging from a knotted branch that hung out over the stream, and we just look down into the water, our feet skimming its surface. Its so cold it feels like ice. We all wonder who's gonna be brave enough to jump on in, but no one ever did, all day. It all seems so real I'm six again, and the world is still fresh and exciting, and every little thing can be explored or dug up or turned over, and there's nothing to hold me back but curfew, but night fall. Until that time comes, the world is
mine, and its all fresh and easy and brand new.

It was a nice feeling to have again.

And then I look down and I'm not sitting on the trunk anymore, I'm sitting on a rotten stinking tour bus with an overflowing septic tank. I'm by thirty-four other kids, and I'm the only one who's not talking. I just want to go home. They all talk or listen to music, or joke with the counselors. Like the wood shop teacher, I can see him as plain as day, like I was there reliving the whole thing over again. I can see his bald spot shining when the sun catches it, just as it did 9 years ago. His gut buldges underneath his red shirt and sticks out over his khaki's. I recognize the outfit, it's the required uniform of a People to People Delegate, the kind I had to wear when I was fourteen. He's complaining too, just like he did all those years ago. And there's Cindy Vadraskas, as stiff as ever, her gray curly hair hugging her head and dropping down over her beady eyes made even beadier by her glasses. She too is in a red shirt, but her's looks stiff from too much starch. I can smell that damned coconut hand balm she uses, she's putting it on now. She's the type of woman who finds everything dirty, and always lotions her hands, because the world is so filthy where ever she goes. She's always
preserving them, like no one will notice that ugly old face with crows feet and those thighs with varicose veins that peek out when she wears shorts, all cause she's got two little young hands like perfect soft lilies. I was there for the first time again, and I still had that same feeling I had when I first experienced it. I was there on an opportunity of a life time, in the middle of Europe, on a tour bus carving through fields of sunflowers, seas of em', crashing and breaking with the wind, and all I wanted to be is home. Home was safe.

What's so wrong with wanting to be safe?

Then came fog and many distant memories. Like hopping from bed to bed in a hotel room and waking up dad, dad who was tired from the drive, tired from work, tired from everything. Cliff diving, the fall and the fear that comes up in your belly, and just as it swells up too much and has got to escape in a scream, you hit the water, splash, and its salty and cold and it comes up and slaps you in the face. You come to the surface with salt burning your eyes, salt in your nose, salt in your mouth. Fog and long card rides, broken promises, let downs. Fog and memories, some forgotten some merely stored away, for another time. They were all too much, and just as I thought I would go on dreaming forever, my eyelids peeled back and I was awake, awake but still caught up in a horrible jenkem fog. A glance at the clock had told me that I had been out for eight whole hours. My breath still reeked, my eyes were sensitive to light, and my stomach was doing the tango. I thought that at any moment I might vomit. I left the room, making sure not to wake the others from their feces induced comas, and went down into the lobby, to find it empty and totally trashed. Some parade had gone through, or maybe a squad of Bradley Tankers - the damage here was made by some great and terrible force. There was no way a movie audience could wreak such havoc, create such damage could they?

Could a horrible movie be to blame for the current state of the lobby? Could angry viewers rip down lighting fixtures and tear up tile? And what about the cracks, did I miss an earthquake? Coming out of a jenkem hallucination leaves your brain all fuzzy, your eyes have trouble focusing on things, everything's hazy around the edges, you can't tell up from down. Real becomes unreal, it becomes really hard to tell the difference. Was the movie that bad? Or was I still hallucinating? A trip into the theater, ground zero, and the damage proved to be even more horrific. Bodies lay in the aisles, some with throats slit, others with slit wrists, as if the movie was so bad suicide seemed like a good idea. Chairs were uplifted, pulled from the roots and left turned over on their sides, the movie screen was black but still had light to it, the projector had never been turned off. Amongst all the bodies there was no sign of Ozzy Osbourne or Sylvester Stallone. It appeared as if they were the only survivors, bodies everywhere, destruction that would take years to fix, and yet no police, no reporters, nobody. It was hard to tell if it was real, there was very little I could do other than hope. A jenkem user can wake up with a bloody knife and all he has to do is hope its a hallucination, that he isn't a murder, that it isn't true. Unfortunately for me, this was all true. I walked out into the street, where the chaos spilled out of the theater in the form of dead bodies and destruction, cars were burning, benches broken. All this destruction, all this death, and then men responsible seem to have gotten off scott-free.

They're probably out there somewhere, in the night, talking in their mumbled language, amusing one another with the intellectual equal they have been looking for all their lives. They've made it this far, which means they've been around long enough to leave a substantial shit stain behind to remember them by, that is if they ever die. They may just go on living, like ageless retards who are too stupid to know they should be dead. Even if Stallone does die one day, he will always be remembered for his movies, namely the Rocky and Rambo franchises. It is for this reason iR names Sylvester Stallone - ageless retard.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Stallone has a long running competition with Arnold Schwartzenegger. When they were younger it was who was the better action star, now they both compete to see who's man tits are saggier.

Stallone is one of Hollywood's symbols of machismo, of Hollywood action heroism, which means hes another John Wayne, no brains and all hate. I would give him this blog to read, but I don't think he would be able to get through it. (Congratulations, you're smarter than Stallone, you've made it this far.)

Stallone has been married 3 times, and has 5 kids. His second marriage lasted a whopping 2 years.

Stallone abuses human growth hormone, as it is said to help stop the aging process (some one please tell him its not working.) In 2007 he was caught by Australia with 48 vials of synthetic human growth hormones.

Any of his movies... I suggest Over the Top.

Email us at:

infinitelyretarded@live.com

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