The Clown Cult From Detroit (ICP)

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

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

Cult members Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J.

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

But tonight:

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

Listen:

Whoop Whoop

Listen. . .

Whoop Whoop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But listen:

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

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

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

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

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

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

iR.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Juggalo Julez:

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

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

A loving family? Bullshieeet.

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

ICP Lyrics/Songs:

"Death always comes at a shitty time."

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

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

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

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

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

So you Wanna Be a Juggalo?

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

The Night Kutcher Spent in Jail

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

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

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

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

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

Suspect detained 4:05 P.M.

Released on bail 6:30 P.M.

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

The system wasn't working.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

He's far too pretty.

FURTHER RETARDATION:


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

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

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

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

What Happens in Vegas, what shit fest...

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

iR

co-writs: Wild Jesse

Steven Seagal: Dangerously Retarded

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

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

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

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

Nuk-Nuk-Nuk

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

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

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

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

This time would be no different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We mean it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The photos:

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

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

PHOTO MISSING

"Now, who's ready for lunch?"

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

The Decision:

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

iR

Shit Central; Or The Story of Jeff Dunham on Comedy Central

Jeff Dunham has been a ventriloquist for as long as he can remember.

If you have the distinct pleasure of being shown pictures from his childhood, you will find that he's seen clutching a ventriloquist dummy in nearly every photo. Even more apparent is the look on his parent's faces, a sort of utter embarrassment and sadness that both of them shared equally, one which seemed to intensify and grow even more morose as the years went on. They, like any respectable parent hoped for so much more for him, for many years they wished that he would move on from his obsession, one which they labeled as only a "phase," and hoped that he would one day grow out of it and move on. But much to their chagrin, he continued his ventriloquism all throughout his schools days, and later in his adult life. One day in the first grade, he was sent home for trying to turn one of his friends into a dummy for an act he wanted to do for the other kids. The teachers found the two of them in the bathroom, Jeff's friend bent over with his pants around his ankles, Jeff behind him, wrist deep in the poor boy's anus.

After the incident his parents sought medical help, but they found nothing wrong with him, except for his retardation, which his parents suspected all along. He was declared legally retarded in the Summer of '69, making him the youngest declared legal retard. He was only seven. This made it very hard for Jeff to make any friends, he often spent most of his time alone, locked up in his room (for his safety,) playing with his dolls and practicing his act. Unlike most boys, who give up ventriloquism after a harsh beating or two, Jeff kept with the "craft" and kept to his room. Many years passed, each season leaving as soon as it came, and before long Jeff was 28, still living with his parents, who were still horribly upset about the whole thing. It was then however, that he was finally given his big break on the Johnny Carson Show.

His 20 years of experience showed, as the 28 year old shined in front of the lat night audience. For Jeff it was the start of a great deal of wonderful things he was sure were bound to come his way. Similarly for his parents, it was the beginning of a great deal of horrible things that would slowly chip away at them, until nothing remained inside of their old dying bodies, save for a wanting of death and an end to the daily embarrassment that resulted from their son being just that, their son. (Don't think that they didn't make sure he was indeed their child - after the "Bathroom Incident" in first grade, his parents posed that perhaps he was switched at birth, but the hospital took all the wind out of their sails with extensive birth records and the like.) After Carson, he was obsessed with ventriloquism. For years he had been degraded by his father, by the town, by supposed peers, who all told him ventriloquism was a waste of time, and an act carried out only by queers and pedophiles - but now the window had opened, now all the negativity had evaporated, the show had proved them wrong. Ventriloquism was his calling.

Ventriloquism was in his blood.

So with a new-found purpose in life he took to the garage, and started making his own dummies. He would spend months on them, working and reworking them, talking through them, all for so long he began to believe they really were alive. (Which is understandable, as they were his only friends at the time.) In between dummies he was slowly making a name for himself with several television appearances: Ellen in '96, Hollywood Squares, Entertainment Tonight, The Best Damn Sports Show Period, and Good Morning America.


It was in 2003 that Comedy Central approached Jeff Dunham, their interview went like this:

"Well Jeff, before we start I'd just like to say we've both seen your work, great stuff, great stuff." One exec said. "Now first of all I wanna tell you something that I wanna keep hush hush, so when I tell you this, you can't breathe a word of it to anyone, not even your wife - you married Mr. Dunham?" He asked.

"Uh, no." Jeff said.

"Of course, what was I thinking your a ventriloquist." He laughed. "Yes well, anyway, we're switching platforms here at Comedy Central. . . Yes it seems we just don't know comedy any more, we aren't the one channel everyone goes to for humor. . . No these days it seems like all we know is shit, we're the shit station of the entire country. . . That's right we will no longer be called Comedy Central, but rather Shit Central." He smiled. "But we don't want to change right away, we want it to be a gradual change, and we think you're shitty enough to be the front runner in our switch. But as I said we want this to be a gradual change, so first we're just gonna give you a 30 minute Comedy Central special, you know, introduce you to the public. . . Then once you've floated around enough, we'll amp it up, whole hour specials, comedy tours, albums, movies the whole kit-and-kaboodle, all leading up to a Jeff Dunham show, you know years from now, in maybe 2008, 2009. . . All just in time for our big switch in 2010, from Comedy Central to Shit Central."

"And all you have to do, Jeff, is sign right here." The other exec said.

So Jeff did, and what followed were the horrible tragic events of television history, including the whole Blue Collar Comedy bit and Carlos Mencia.

The era of shit was upon us, and just as Comedy Central had planned it, The Jeff Dunham show aired on October 22, 2009, just in time for Halloween. The show was a staggering hit, as retards across the country tuned in for Comedy Central's newest turd, fresh and still steaming. Its pilot episode was Comedy Central's biggest shit: 5.3 million viewers tuned in to watch the premiere episode, making it the most watched premiere in Comedy Central's history. . .

After its premiere, execs at Comedy Central could be seen riding around town in the back of limos, drinking champagne and toasting to their new era of shit.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Jeff Dunham has sold over 4 million dvds.

Made 30 million from June 08 to June 08, making him one of the highest paid comics of that year.

A Very Special Christmas Special was the most watched telecast in Comedy Central history.

He is the top grossing stand up act in North America.

Has his own Christmas Album Don't Come Home for Christmas

Set to do a fourth stand-up special in 2010, a tour said to span 60 cities, and a product line, all of his own.

Dunham dummies are usually charackatures of his own life: For instance his dummie Walter, a lonely old crotchety man who hates the whole world is based off of what Jeff will become if he doesn't give up his silly facsination with ventriloquism.

Dunham is currently in the middle of divorcing his wife, with whom he has three girlies.

It is for these reasons, iR names Jeff Dunham, legally retarded.

iR.

For more retardation watch The Jeff Dunham Show on Shit Central.

or visit

Jeff Dunham Official Website
Shit Central

Dave and Busters, Lucky Charms, Leprechauns

On February 8th, 1974 Barbara Green gave birth to what she thought was a healthy baby boy. He only weighed three and a half pounds at birth, a tiny crying little thing who despite his low birth weight, was not born premature. By the age of ten he was three feet tall, weighing only fifty pounds. By sixteen he was three feet tall, five inches, and weighed seventy-five pounds. From then on, he never gained an inch, his arms stayed small and stubby, his legs like tooth picks in shoes that were far too big; he was a small person living in a big world. The boy of course, now a man, is named Seth Green, and he's not really a man at all, but rather a leprechaun.

And I'll tell you how I know, I got the beady little bastard to fess up to me, those tiny little doll lips quivering as he did so. . .

He's a frequent "celebrity" at Dave and Busters, an arcade that markets towards adults and serves alcoholic beverages, but if you go there you won't find any adults, only old men who are still kids inside, as timid and frightened as ever. Seth goes there to pick up nerdy chicks, and be around other nerdy people who don't mind having hour long conversations about Decepticons. He also goes there because he was the inspiration for one of their commercials, and because of it, he gets treated like a king. The owner had seen Seth there one night, laughing and drinking at the bar, and Seth looked just like a kid, as he struggled to get up on all the chairs that were too high for him, all small mountains that took a rock climbers effort to scale. He would kick his feet under him once he finally reached their peaks, his feet dangling between their wooden legs if only to further illustrate how much leg room he had. Thus, the Dave and Busters commercial was born:

Seth Green, actual size.

It is at Dave and Busters that I ran into him, on that tragically retarded night. He and a group of his friends were all enjoying a Star Wars game. They hovered around machines that buzzed with the sounds of lasers and men dying. The few who were actually playing were driving land speeders through the dense forests of Endor. Seth needed a high chair to be able to sit in the seat and still see the screen, and could hardly reach the pedals, but was enjoying himself nonetheless. His joy could be seen all over his face, and all over the front of his pants, as Mr. Green still today pisses himself whenver he's really excited. (The set on the Italian Job was a real waterworks, I tell yah.) They were all hammered off of Zima, debating about the Death Star - I knew they were nerds, but this was just ridiculous. All the empty bottles on and around the machines were proof of how long they must have been here, probably for hours clinging to these dreary machines knee deep in their own self-masterbation. I had to leave the scene, it was too much at once, for they had started making fun of how lame Jar Jar Binks was, impersonating him and thoroughly making themselves lame in the process. I found refuge in the bathroom, or what little I could find anyway, as the sounds of retards outside seeped in through a crack in the door and bounced around the tiled walls in an unbearable symphony of mouth breathing, Xena war cries, and robot noises, all over the soft hum of arcade games - it was enough to make anyone with brain cells retarded, and unfortunately I still had some left. As I took a piss the door opened behind me, I listened to the sound of footsteps, but they didn't sound heavy or determined, they shuffled around and sounded like they belonged to a woman or maybe a young child. I heard another door open, under lock and key, slam shut soon after and then the dainty footsteps again, which stopped right next to me.

Finally I glanced and there standing quite shit faced, on a stool so that hemay be able to reach the urinal and keep from pissing on his shoes, the little tiny bastard himself, Seth Green.

"Sure you aint empty? Your pants are as wet as Louisiana. . . But then again I always did hear that Zima made bitches piss something fierce." I said, with emphasis on bitches.

"Land speeders, Ewok villages, light saber battles. . . Tell me that aint awesome, and I'll call you mah friend, a liar." He smiled, little leprechaun eyes glazed over by Zima. He seemed somewhere else, off ina drunken illusion of the life he so desperately wanted. He was somewhere on Tatoine with Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kanobi, learning all about the Jedi's and the force. In an instant he pictured they were in that bar now, but now he was one of the band players, hotting away on a high-tech flute, knowing full well the fate that was about to meet Greedo at the hands of Han Solo.

"Well that wouldn't ever happen, because we, aren't friends." I said, the words breaking him from his trance. He frowned.

"And why not?"

"Because I don't often befriend leprechauns."

"Leprechauns." He laughed Zima, bubbly bitch drink. "That's a good one, I'm Jewish, I couldn't possibly be a leprechaun."

"That's a lie and you know it. . . You don't even look Jewish. . . Look at your career: all that success and so little talent. You'd have to be one lucky fuck to get all you have gotten, to get as far as you have, and there's no one luckier than a fucking leprechaun."

"Or Jewish." It was then he staggered off of his stool and passed out on the floor, as peaceful as a baby.

I decided to kidnap him, and so like so many other mothers and fathers who suddenly decide to abduct their children, I put him in a duffel bag, where young children and apparent leprechauns fit as snug as a brand new shoe. There were certain advantages to abducting a leprechauns, their size meant they easily fit anywhere and don't weigh very much, making them perfect for out-of-shape abductors, such as myself. I slung him over my should and walked right out of that forsaken hell-hole Dave and Busters, and nobody said a goddamn thing.

When Seth awoke he found himself tied to a chair.

"Oh hello sleepy head." I said.

"Where the hell am I?"

"Oh Mt. Wood, where we pick the bones of men clean." He thought to scream. "Shhh, shhh, but we won't be eating you, we don't eat leprechauns."

"What is this. . . dock rope? Its so thick and restraining." He struggled to break free, as if to show me.

"No, it is but mere shoe lace. . . You mustn't struggle, wouldn't want you to get all tuckered out. . . little guy." He thought for awhile, wondered where he had heard it all before, his head still bubbling with little glas clouds of Zima. It fogged up his perceptions, he couldn't seem to remember, but then he did.

"Its you!" He shouted. He started screaming for help, it was a little nasally scream that was reminisicant of an eight year old admist a great imaginary battle, or similarly the same little boy when he hurts himself.

"Its no use." I laughed. "No one can hear you up here. We're as isolated as can be. . . We like our privacy. Mr. Green."

"You. . . you gonna rape me?"

"You should be so lucky." I said. "We don't rape leprechauns."

"Well then what do you want?"

"I've just got a few questions for you. . ."

"I told you I'm not a leprechaun." He seemed to be getting angry, I laughed. Such a small little thing filled with so much anger.

"Oh yeah. . . Then who is this?" I lifted a box of Lucky Charms and pointed at the leprechaun on the front, a ginger haired little man with a goofy grin.

"Uh. . . " He didn't quite know what to say. "Lucky, the Leprechaun?"

"Its your Grandfather Seth. . ." I said.

"Thats ridiculous." He laughed.

"Is it?" I asked, he laughed again, but this time it seemed nervous.

"There's no way he's me grandpappy, he's a cartoon for. . ." He stopped himself, cupping his tiny mouth with a tiny hand. I smiled, as the tears came to his face, tiny tributarites steaming from his tiny eyes. "Aye I be talking like on already. . . I suppose the jig is up lad-dee. The General Mills people caught me grandpappy in '63, put him into sugar slavery."

"Nice story nice story." I wasn't intrested. "You know what this means right, I've caught you."

"Your three wishes, yes, go ahead." He hung his head. I didn't even have to think about it.

"For my first wish, I would like a life-time supply of beer."

"As you wish."

"For my second wish, I would like Shane Victorino to suddenly drop dead."

"How humane of you, as you wish."

"For my third wish, I would like to never ever see you again Seth. . . I wish to banish you to a land where a tragic retard like you can get all the respect you truly deserve. . . I wish to banish you to the Star Wars Universe."

"Really?!!" His ears perked up.

"Yes, but as Jar Jar Binks." I smiled.

After that day, Shane Victorino was suddenly hit by a car and killed instantly. The doctors said he felt no pain. Soon after the Phillies lost the World Series to the Yankees, but it didn't really mater to me, for I had a fridge that never emptied of beer: whenever I drank one and came back, there would be another one. . . It was a limitless supply of the world's greatest drink. Soon after Seth granted my wishes he vanished before my eyes, and is no doubt somehwere in the Star Wars universe, stumbling his way around and being generally hated by everyone he comes across.

As it should be.

It is for these reasons that iR names Jar Jar Binks the Gungan formerly known as Seth Green, tragically retared.

iR.