Bas Rutten: Dangerous Retard

Bas Rutten is 205 pounds of dangerous retardation. He's a human Swiss army knife with an array of tools all designed to hurt other men. He can dull meat and tear tendons. He can make a man tap in seconds - he can also ignore it and squeeze the life out of him, right to his very last breath. He's a 2nd degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and a 5th degree black belt in Kyokushki Karate, but most importantly he's King of the Cuckoo's Nest, the proverbial craziest nut in the whole coop - and not just because he can kill any naysayers - he's really deserving of the title. Too many fights, too many brain jolting shots to the noggin finished where poor parenting and a troublesome childhood left off; he's totally bat shit crazy. . . Listen:

BONG BONG BONG!

The average person with fight experience limited to school yard bullies and the occasional punk have zero chance against a guy like this. He's been in enough fights to not be afraid of getting hit, and lacks that certain desire to not want to hit someone, the fist is the all-mighty answer. Someone say an off the cuff remark? DANGA-DA-DANGA-DA-DANG! Someone look at you wrong? BING BANG BANG BONG! Perhaps you're in a club, a guy spills his drink on you. . . I hate that. BANG BANG BANG YOU ARE DEAD. To him the idea of "talking this one out," doesn't even register - its 'gay fag language' for 'sissys and ladies.' He lacks that certain receptor in the brain, like a hammerhead shark he simply roams around, looking for anything he can maim or kill and everything in his eyes looks weak and ready to be eaten.

His charisma and bloodthirst reminds me of another dangerous retard, a similar hammerhead, one Mr. Brock Lesnar. Like Lesnar, Bas Rutten also has tattoos, but his are less for intimidation. Bas Rutten actually believes his tattoos have special powers that can make him fight better, and extend his life, no joke. His right palm features a chi symbol meaning life. After receiving the tattoo, he never lost a fight, which he claims was the workings of the tattoo. His left palm says xiao, meaning long life, and Rutten continued to live after the tattoo, so he naturally assumed it was his new ink that was keeping him alive. He has tats on his knees and elbows to keep him calm, a buddhist on his left arm said to protect people like him; people born the Year of the Snake. . . And when he was born 44 years ago, God peeled back his skull and tattooed a wolverine onto his brain so he'd know how to act when he grew up.

Like a snarling beast.

Like Lesnar, Rutten was an MMA fighter, with a career record of 28 - 4 - 1 with 12 knockouts. He even finished his career going 22-0 with out losing a fight. Now that his career is over however, he lends his voice, and retardation to K1 fights and Japanese MMA fights, with some of the worst commentating ever. It can best be compared to a drunken twelve year old with a knowledge of fighting, mildly tending to the details of the action before veering off the course and saying strange and outlandish things - things he seemingly says for his very own enjoyment. For instance during a showdown between two competitors, he once said: "Talk about a stare down. . . I hear voices in my head, and they. . . don't. . . like youuuuu!"

Its obvious what needs to happen.

Hammer head vs. Hammer head.

Rutten will gladly come out of retirement, bloodlust never really leaves an animal like him.

Whattaya say UFC?

The fight would probably go something like this:
Brock and Rutten meet in the center of the ring, for a stare down of snot and sweat and stifled homosexual tendencies. Michael Buffer announces the upcoming blood bath. Celebrities and big wigs around the ring chat and joke and make movie deals - they pay big money to see Rottweilers tear each others throats out. The ring swells with anticipation, the wild beasts held back by invisible leashes to be let loose only after the resonance of the bell ringing. Tense. Still. Brock smirks, Rutten smirks, everyone watching smirks, even the ref smirks but hides it of course, to be professional. They are all thinking the same thing, and it excites them a little, no matter how much they may try and deny it- somebody is bound to die, and its bound to be bloody.

Ever seen a bull charge a bulldozer head on? Watch. . .

They take to their corners and the bell rings. The beasts are let loose. Brock's mind is vivid with images of college wrestling, jock straps and man junk but it blurs red with steroids and rage. He pictures cows being slaughtered and cut up into steaks for him to eat, to build muscle and in turn help him mangle men in the ring. Rutten's head is alive with memories of when he was 16, when he'd go out onto the bluffs and kill lizards and beetles with a sharpened projectile he'd shoot between his teeth. . . The crowd of vultures is buzzing, but the fighters hear nothing but the sounds of cows being slaughtered, of beetles and lizards dying -zap-zap-zap-, until the first punch is thrown. . .

Mild action, fists and kicks and blood and sweat.

At the end of the round Brock goes to his corner to take instruction from his crew while he eats the heads off of live chickens. Rutten in his corner admires himself in a mirror provided by his corner team. He sings Little Bunny Foo Foo. Joe Roegan has already jizzed his pants. You Dana White, are already counting the money. . . That fresh green blood money. . . Smell it. . . Peel off the bills like rose pedals.

She loves me. . . She loves me. . . She loves me. . .The bell rings, they take to the center of the ring again, Brock's chest matted with bloody red feathers, Rutten smiling about the damage he's already imagining in his head. The moment is brief but they are like sprinters at the starting line, coiled tense like springs, waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for. . .The bell rings! The sprinters are off! Punches and kicks galore! Its a real pony show! Rutten with the palm strikes. And here comes number 2 on the outside! The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! Lesnar with a thunderous take down! The Swank Swede far behind! They're rounding the bend! Its The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! He's turning his face into hamburger meat! This one aint even close folks! Around that bend and down the home stretch! They're off like Israeli rockets! Jostling for postion! More hamburger meat folks! He just won't go down! The Swank Swede! He staggers! -ding- Saved by the bell!

As for the rest. . . well you'll have to see when it comes out on Pay Per View.

iR

The Savage Assault of Ben Savage

A strange party in the dust bowl that is Bakersfield, California, where dreams come to die. Its a town of a certain breed, too retarded to realize their lands bare no fruit; to legalize gambling like Vegas and realize desert people are generally deranged. Although its not quite a desert, its far from the lights of Hollywood, the genius of Silicone Valley, and even farther from liberal San Francisco. On this night of nights, its home to a strange party, one of like minded individuals over the hump and out of sight, the forgotten forlorn stragglers left after a dream fizzled out in their hands with the clink of ice and soothing burn of yet another drink.

I was there.

I saw it all. Every brutal second of it. It was like a funeral procession.

And listen:

I'll tell it to you now.

When I arrived I believed myself to be hallucinating - finally flipped your wig this time boy-o. There were people already dancing and taking in the merriment of drinking with fine friends at a social gathering. But these were no normal people, they all seemed to be T.V. stars who were once hot shit; third rate actors from movies you could hardly remember the names of; comedians who were once funny but somehow faded into the void; porn stars that were only recognizable to obscure heavy masterbators; odds and ends of the entertainment world, sprinkled out carelessly like matchsticks all about the room and in every corner. Had it been the 90's I probably would have found myself in a sweet little loft somewhere in the hills, but no, this was 2010, and all these people were now over with or clinging desperately to some sort of fame, and partying in fucking Bakersfield, California. Fucking Bakersfield, where whole neighborhood blocks are made up of circus performers, where LARPing is considered "a fun thing to do," where not even the hookers have the heart to play along and act like they are interested. . . I wondered whom it was who attracted these people like cockroaches - would they scatter if I turned on the lights?

Was it Johnny Knoxville?

No. . . No signs of meth and heroin addicts around. . . No burned furniture, no Bam Magera and his infinitely retarded friends running around from room to room, cackling like banshees and causing drug and alcohol fueled havoc. There was no destruction, no upturned furniture outside on the patio, nothing torn from its foundation, and none of the surprised frightened faces of onlookers resulting from such acts. Nope, it couldn't be Knoxville. But who then? The decor of the room suggested a certain sort of taste, yet it all seemed too formulaic. It seemed phony, as if the head of party wasn't even the owner of the home, but rather a renter, and the building itself often found itself in style and decor magazines. . . But who the fuck would wan't to live in Bakersfield? . . . Someone wanting to hide, but who? Knoxville is too retarded to realize he should be ashamed of himself. . . But who? I was beginning to absorb the dread of the place, and got to feeling that the very dust of this rotten town was made from the bones of men, when my answer came, from the second floor.

It was muffled by cookie cutter middle class walls, and though it was distorted by insulation, it still had a slight twinge of drunkeness which fell heavily on M's and O's.

"You know whoooo I ammmm?" It came, with feet stomping down the stairs: -THUMP-THUMP-THUMP- "I ammm the oooone and ooonly. . . ." Muffled, -THUMP- THUMP- THUMP- THUMP. He came around the corner, into the kitchen, where Snooki from the Jersey Shore just so happened to be hosting her own little dance party. The following video was then recorded:

But what happens? What changed this video from a 3 minute dance fest into an abrupt public message? . . . Ben Savage finally noticed the camera:

"Is your mom going to see this?" And then the camera suddenly cuts to Snookie with the camera in her face, a voice in the background saying "There we go."

But what happened in between the cut? I know, I was there. . .

Listen:

"Is your mom going to see this?" He walked toward her and she shut off the camera. "What the fuck were you thinking? Just who do you think you are?" It seemed that Corey Matthews in fact grew up to be a horrible mean mean man, with an ego inversely as large as the shortness of his temper. "Do you know who I am?" He started to shake her. "Do you know who the fuck I am?! I'm Ben FUCKIN' Savage - which means not only am I hot SHIT and FUCKING famous but I am the one running this little party going on around you." He he waved his arms around to illustrate, they made circles over dead beats drinking and forgotten stars mingling with forgotten personalities, and me in the corner, totally flipping my wig. . . I had never seen Corey Matthews curse before, especially with such gusto. . . I expected Mr. Feeni to come out at any minute, to escort him out of the room so that he may be berated in private. "And in turn, that makes me the owner of this FUCKING home, making it my sanctuary, my nest free from the public eye. . . And I'd like to think that I should be able to throw a FUCKING party with my friends without having to put up with cameras. . . But oh no I guess I was wrong." He was becoming more and more angry - each curse word cutting through the air with certain insolence. They seemed foreign. Out of place.

"I'm sorry, I just- I just. . ." Snookie said, frightened.

"You just what?" He boomed, the percussion of which had seemed to interrupt the party. Now i was no longer alone, transfixed in a shocked gaze. Snookie floundered as if pinned to the counter by his gaze, and there was no way for her to escape it, boxed in like a caged animal. "Just thought you'd prolong those five minutes of fame that got you here. . . You're lucky I even let you stay - my parties are for a certain class of people - people that don't include orange skinned Oompa Loompa Jersey trash like you."

It was one of the most creative insults I had heard in a long time.

Snookies mouth popped open, to be called an Oompa Loompa not only implied that her tan was fake, but also that she was portly, perhaps even down right fat. The former eating disorder reared its ugly head again; surged through her body and up her spine in lightening bolts - worming up into her face making it scrunch up, and into her eyes producing a torrent of tears. They rolled down her face trailing black clown make up streams of salt and bitterness.

"Yeah thats right." Ben continued. "Just another Hoover vacuum come to get a little of ole Ben. Come to suck a little life and a little recognition out of me. Just another vulture."

He then went on about ethics among celebrities - using the destinction in Snookie's case rather loosely - and about how paparazzi are scum, and in turn it is frowned upon to whip out a camera and start filming away amongst other celebrity friends. He spoke calmly but you could tell there was a certain anger boiling away somewhere underneath the surface. At any moment it looked as if he would pop, cartoonishly shooting out steam from his ears. He went on about the priveledge of being allowed into such parties, but I missed most of it. I had to piss and clear my head. Was it all a hallucination brought on from all the drink? A mild fantasy sprining up from insanity like bubbles amongst a fog of terror filled confusion?

Perhaps.

But as I left the bathroom, the spectres were still all there, as clear as day, as ugly as sin. Ben was ending his tirade, Snookie had stopped crying and although the tension had waned in the room, it still clung to the floorboards. It seemed hard to walk, maybe it was all the drink.

Maybe.

"Good - now why don't you film yourself and not me. Mmmkay?" He lifted her camera. It went on. "There we go."

"You see the fist pump everywhere. . ." She said but lost her spirit. The entire video had been ruined, for what started out as an attempt of shameless self promotion became yet another reminder of her adequacy. The joy had evaporated, she had once again been defeated - and by Ben Savage of all people. He was always somewhat of a hero to her, for he was the only one who would always be there for her, when no one else would. . . Yes, under the warm glow of the T.V. she found comfort in his show and wondered what it would be like to be so normal. He's no hero anymore, not to her anyway. She lowered her camera like her own personal axe as her eyes glared with a certain hatred towards him. "Well I never liked Boy Meets World anyway." She lied, and then stormed off through the house - all heels -clackclackclackclackclack-. She went off to gather the courage to come back and really tell the bastard off. Her retreated defeated left Mr. Savage the victor, and in his victory he took to gloating about it to everyone around him. He even toasted to the bitch, as her sobs echoed out through the hallway. It was wicked, I thought.

Someone should say something. I made my first movement in what seemed like hours, but I was hindered by my feet which felt like bricks, and -clackclackclackclack- Snookie was coming back for round two. She barreled through the doorway, her hair poof ruffled, her eyes red from crying. . . She may have been a hair under five feet, but she had puffed herself up so big and tall she felt she could tower above the world, and even Ben seemed frightened.

"You - you - you-" She swelled with so much anger the words choked her up as her feeble mind tried desperately to conjure up an effective enough insult. "You bastard. . . you ugly little. . ."

And then it happened. It was but a snapshot of ugliness, a brief moment, but one which carried the same weight of an all out brawl. It may as well have been a massacre.

Look:

Yes this is indeed a genuine photograph (lawl I feel like a paranormal photographer) - no photoshop went into making this photo. It is one hundred purr-cent gen-u-innne reality right dur. Always the gentlemen, Mr. Savage smiled for a photograph, even when assaulting a bitch.

Now I knew for sure that I was crazy, either that or punching Snookie in the face had become the newest trend in Hollywood. He cold cocked her one, the sound like raw meat succumbing to some great force. She then hit the floor, a sack of potatoes. Moldy potatoes. Moldy crying potatoes with cooch exposed.

Tater tots.

French fries.

I left the room and collapsed outside, tears mixing with the dirt. It was the only rainfall Bakersfield ever seems to get - the tears of tired and worn out men. I didn't cry for Snookie. I didn't cry for Ben.

I cried because sometimes you see something and are reminded of yourself. . .

iR

*Note: In reality Ben doesn't even drink. He's such a pussy he doesn't even touch the stuff. So I guess this was all a waste of your time.

Kiddie Leashes: Infinitely Retarded

*Sometimes life runs parallels. So don't get confused, its three tiers twisted together like a fuckin' Twizzler.

After the 'incident at McDonald's' involving one Ashton Kutcher throwing a temper tantrum after finding out that the soda machines were out of his favorite sugar drink, fruit punch, Demi Moore took to fashioning Ashton with his very own kiddie leash. It was the very same one she used now, pulling Ashton from the Caribbean surf one tug and grunt at a time, so that they may go and have themselves a nice nap.

(Life is problematic enough without having to watch your kids, for there's nothing worse than offspring with the feet of a road runner and the curiosity of a cat. . . If only they were tethered to me and couldn't get away. . . Why the little bastard has it coming - being so full of life and all - don't he know he took it from me? Just sucked it up like so much water till there wasn't a drop left and all that remained was a drought of wrinkled features and dried skin? It seems my only natural reaction, to reach up a snuff him like a filthy little pigeon. . . to cage him till his wings serve no purpose other than to prove that he was once free. . . ) Gloria thought wicked thoughts of her child as he tried his best to escape from his kiddie leash. He kicked just like a dog caught on the scent of another beasts odor, for he wanted desperately to be free, free from his captor, who to him, was no longer Mom but rather Attila the Hun. . . Elsewhere thought a pitchman:

"Shit, I'm fucked."

He stood in front of an entire crew of similar leather faced business men, pitching a new break-through in the Kiddie leash industry. It was a product that he thought of all on his own.

"Alright guys, I'm real excited about this one. " Douche LeDouche said. He sweated profusely, feeling as if those 10 pairs of eyes watching him were really just 10 different fires, warming up to burn him alive. "Its a new prototype, a little something I've been toying around with here in the office. . . Its, uh, kind of revolutionary in a way, but also somewhat retro. Its a sort of throw back kind of thing." He covered his mouth and laughed nervously, the joyous sounds spewing in between his fingers and into the brains of all the bitter men around him. It may has well been Jello; it was childish.

"Get on with it, Mr. LeDouche!" An angry bigwig said.

In the Caribbean Demi wiped Ashton down, taking particular interest in the corners of his mouth. She adjusted his skewed swim trunks and squeezed his cheeks. Gloria smoked another cigarette and loathed she hadn't started earlier - before the damn tike was around - when all this smoking would do her some good. Douche LeDouche sweat from the forehead and around the ears.

"Well, I was thinking of Michael Vick the other day." He swallowed, pure limestone. "And I got to thinking about dog fights, a natural sort of progression when considering Mr. Vick's history, you see. I thought of them dogs. . . Those viscous things, praised for their blood-lust, and much like most dogs, forgiven for behaviors deemed inappropriate; a priveledge that is also given to children. . . And so, gentlemen. . ." He smiled again, half in fear and half in total pig headed confidence. "May I introduce to you - " . . . He pulled a blank sheet of canvas paper from its giant pad . . . " - The Muzzle!" . . . Revealing a diagram that looked like this:

Yes that's right. . . THE MUZZLE! Child too wacky and hopped up sugar to watch all the damn time? Too busy trying to pick up boyfriends? Is your son also a biter? Well with HASBRO's new product, The MUZZLE, you'll be able to pick up Johny Hot-Pants without having to watch your child - or having to worry about him releasing the pent up aggression that is often associated with being ignored, in the form of a savage bite that takes someone's ear off! If it's good enough for Dr. Hannibal Lecter, surely it's good enough for your child!

Gloria spat, indifferent. Demi tended to Ashton, preparing him for bed. Mr LeDouche took to sweating some more. Gloria's child started wearing himself out. He ran in place, tethered to the immovable object that was his mother. LeDouche stood in front of an audience of silent onlookers. His neck seemed to be swelling, or rather his collar seemed to be shrinking (Maybe all that damn sweat - I never was one for public speaking. . . I always got nervous, I always would sweat, I always turned red. I'm probably red now.) Right about now he was looking like a bright apple.

"Alright. . . Park it." Gloria said, looping the handle of the kiddie leash around a concrete pole painted a dull yellow. "Momma needs some whiskey to get her through the day. . ." The door to the convenient mart opened with the ring of a bell, and shut with a soft hiss. LeDouche still stood in front of his clients, already preparing to be fired. Gloria's child kicked nervously outside the market, even snarled at a stranger, growling a guttural mutt language that in its native tongue, means "fuck off. . ." Demi Moore peeled back the sheets of the bed preparing it for Ashton.

"I fuckin' love it!" Shouted on of LeDouche's potential career killers.

"A pint of whiskey." Asked Gloria.

"Come now, beddy-by time Ashtie!" Advised Demi.

"Really?" LeDouche nearly choked on the words the relief was so great.

"Abso-fucking-lutely." The man said. "Greatest idea since the introduction of the backpack buddy. Genius boy-o, genius. How they gonna say the kiddie leash is restrictive and treats kids like animals now? We're saving lives boy-o, saving lives. . ."

The backpack buddy, in case you were wondering as to its look. . . Yeah a friendly beast with its arms and legs wrapped around you, its "junk" poking you in the back. . . Many heroin users say the addiction is much like a backpack buddy; you've always got something on your back and although you're happy, everyone around you is pointing and laughing their asses off.

Gloria left the store with the same ring and hiss, opening her bottle for a quick swig. She took the leash from its pole and began to walk the boy. He took straight off, tugging away at the leash, his mother behind tending to the rope and her newly acquired pint. LeDouche and his men packed up their things and made their way through the office, ready to go home and fuck their wives - today was a good day. (Ok, lets go, a head nod was all he needed.) Demi Moore tucked Ashton into bed, kissing his cheek before slipping under the covers herself.

"Aww you little fucker, you'll take my arm off." Gloria said.

"You think it'll sell?" LeDouche asked.

"Nightie night." Demi said, eyes already closed.

Gloria's child wormed his way around the corner of a building, his body at a 45 degree with the ground. Gloria didn't notice, she was too busy drinking, but her son noticed them right away, and took off like a rocket down the sidewalk. He shot off so fast the leash slipped through Gloria's fingers, and followed behind the boy like a long tail. LeDouche and his cronies had exited the office, there was a certain calm in the air - a certain joy that no doubt emanated from this new idea. Success was at their fingertips, and yet there seemed to be a strangeness in the air. . . The kid drew closer, one sidewalk square at a time. LeDouche felt uneasy. Closer. Demi dreamed of bunny rabbits and lilac. Closer still. Ashton dreamed of basketballs. Closer. . . He pounced.

Douche LeDouche turned his head just in time. Demi rolled over in bed. Gloria screamed. Douche LeDouche screamed. Gloria's son didn't scream, he growled and dined on LeDouche's ear - ripped it clean off his head.

"Yeah. . . I think it'll sell. . ." The blood poured from his ear as the boy was pried from his head.

In the Caribbean Ashton woke suddenly from his bed.

"Just a nightmare, thats all." Demi said.

And put him back to sleep.

iR