Paparazzi: Shamelessly Retarded

From coast to coast, through the empty lands in between, a human tide rolls despite the wind, the season, despite the very year, rolls on pigheadedly with weapons that can gleam like diamonds with the press of a button and have the power to capture souls -- or so the Indians thought. These men, this human tide, differ from others in the 'soul capturing' business, in that they have no morality nor any real interest in the subject they stalk, which they do mercilessly, day and night, rain or shine. Collectively, they are know for their parasitic ways, and equally their lack of remorse, and when alone, each person making up its ripples, its crests and frothy tides acts much like a filthy worm, too ignorant to know right from wrong.

They are known simply as:

The Paparazzi.

Individually they are known by many more names, many of them expletive, for even pigeons find these guys a nuisance.

They are supposed photographers, who stalk celebrities with a ferocity unmatched by even the most devoted of men. But do not let the term 'photographer' fool you, these men are no artists, and similarly aren't anywhere as talented, for surely neither art nor talent has anything to do with getting a cooch shot of Britney Spears: its more a matter of being in the right place at the right time. By 'right place' I mean any club deemed fashionable enough for Hollywood trash, and by 'right time' I mean any time after 2 am, when intoxication would most likely be toward those toxic -I'm-Gonna-Puke-Levels.

In regards to technique, its less 'aim and shoot' and more 'spray and pray,' let loose on the sucker, let the lamp flicker and light up the place like muzzle fire. If lucky, you'll get a good shot of your victim - a death wielding blow, one capable of destroying their image and reputation like so much glass . . A good shot, a fresh kill, to be fed into the gears of another machine, to be ground up and churned out with hack writing and pure bullshit, one sheet at a time - collected and bound with cheap staples, and doled out to supermarkets for swine old ladies to gaze at; to swoop up; to soil with sweaty pruned fingers; to leave left out on the table; to line the bird's cage with. . .

Pure fuel for the furnace.

These paparazzi have their own social strata, as lopsided as any other. At the top, at the very peak lay the big shot paparazzi, who are commissioned for photos for big international stars, namely Angelina Jolie. These paparazzi live in nicer homes, up in Beverly Hills, with big white gates to keep all the riff raff out, and rightfully so, for often nice cars and obstinate wealth is kept within their iron doors. Beneath them exists a group of mid-level scum, who dislike those above them, and the feeling is indeed mutual. They are the hounds who's sole preoccupation is to follow tail with their uncanny sense of smell. They've most often got leeches in their ears, Bluetooths and cellphones that slowly suck out their brains like soggy oatmeal. These are the types who take to the clubs, and snatch shots of snatch for 260 bucks a pop, who wait tirelessly anywhere and everywhere, like some undying weed that just springs up at a moments notice. They live in moderate homes, with nice squared off lawns, and well paved driveways; still quite well-to-do, but not quite upper crust. Beneath them exists an even greater scum, who's work consists of mostly blurry shots of actors nobody cares about anymore (i.e. Tara Reid,) or something everyone's already seen a million times before and is therefore no longer "gossip worthy" (i.e. Tara Reid drunk in public.) They are generally disdained by the rest of the paparazzi world, who see them as "amateurs," and the ones responsible for giving them a bad name. They live in rented apartments, or bunk with friends, some even live in their cars, which hardly function as transportation anymore, but rather as a trashcan on wheels with plenty of room for fast food wrappers and beer cans.

But then there's always an instance when every paparazzi is looking for that 'money shot,' that six figure photo that practically every magazine is looking for. What makes for a 'money shot?' Well it seems mostly photos of babies, or photos taken of celebrities seconds before/after death, wedding photos, you know the usual vulture type shit.

People for instance paid 4.1 million dollars for this shit:


Even more appalling OK! Magazine thought it necessary to drop 3 million dollars on photos of a retard marrying an old witch:

The underlying reasons as to why this is not only frightening, but also retarded, should be apparent, for there would be no way for any magazine trying to keep from going under to spend that kind of dough on a photo alone, unless they had the revenue to back it up. People has a expected revenue of 1.5 billion dollars, a circulation of 3.75 million - its teenage variation Teen People hasn't done too bad either. . . OK! Magazine is the UK's top selling trash magazine, and also has branches in the United States, Turkey, and Azerbajian, so one must assume they aren't struggling either.

A lot money floating around, yah dig?

And like snow it all comes down from the top, sprinkling down from the magazines to the editorial staff and the writers, to the secretaries manning the phones, the janitors flogging the toilets, down through the building and out to the lonely paparazzi, left to feed like vultures on whatever remained of the pot.

So who does this leave to blame?

Well paparazzi are driven, like most bad things, by money, but their photographs are only valuable because magazines and tabloids make them valuable. And why are they made valuable? Because of you of course. Without customers, there wouldn't be any hub bub over Angelina's swollen belly, nor when it deflated and a baby came out: for it is indeed logical for a woman to be able, with the help of a man to produce offspring. Yet this in no way forgives paparazzi for some of their deceitful and intrepid ways. Regardless of the first amendment, these men and women operate on the fringe of business and morality, often throwing morality out the window for the sake of a quick buck.

Celebrities are douche bags, tis the very theme of this site, and paparazzi for their willing devotion to tap the blood lines and feed the growing retardation of entire races of human beings, makes paparazzi, in the eyes of iR, shamelesly retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Celebritah Scuffles with Paparrazi:

ALEC BALDWIN - In March 1996 he allegedly gave a photographer a black eye after he swarmed he and his wife and their new born daughter.

GEORGE CLOONEY - Organized a boycott of Paramount Pictures for their use of paparazzi footage

JOHNNY DEPP - Chased off paparazzi outside a restaurant, reportedly having "flipped out."

SEAN PENN - Spent 1 month in L.A. county Jail for assaulting a photographer whose presence annoyed him and then wife, Madonna.

ROBERT DeNIRO - In 1995, was accused of pinning a photographer to a car outside of a Manhattan Bar, requesting the footage he had acquired.

WOODY HARELSON - Went to court for allegedly assaulting two cameramen during Ted Danson's Wedding, set in beautiful Napa Valley. Confessing he was merely trying to protect his daughter from being photographed, Woody nonetheless still lost the case and had to pay 80,000 in lawyer's fees.

KEANU REEVES: Was claimed to have hit paparazzi with his car after leaving a friends house.

SIENNA MILLER: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

AMY WINEHOUSE: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

LILY ALLEN: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

iR

Steve Lyons: A Siren of Hopeless Retardation

Tacoma, Washington, a town so attractive its main venue for entertainment is the Museum of Glass: an architectural feat made up of and dedicated to the medium of glass; a town useless except for the abundant amounts of oil found underground; a town famous for being the birthplace of Terapon Adhahn, a convicted sex offender who abducted, raped, and murdered a girl named Amber -the Amber-who later became the namesake for any child abduction - the Amber Alert. Its also the birthplace of this guy:

What a kind commentator. . . No they didn't fall down, he clearly rolled them down - you should be fired for not properly painting the picture for the people listening on the radio.

Steve Lyons, a ball player so retarded his nickname was Psycho not because he went after opposing players with spiked cleats, or whispered hexes on opposing pitchers while at bat, he instead received the moniker because he liked to amuse himself with games of tic-tac-toe and hangman, crudely drawing them in the dirt with his cleats in between pitches. Way to stay in the game Steve. Cause God knows if I was a big league skipper I'd tip my hat and spit out into the dirt and turn to the fielding coach and say:

"Yep, that Steve Lyons, he's a real go-getter. . . What is that he's written in the dirt? POOP you say? Makes him laugh eh? . . . Yep, that Steve Lyons, always got his head in the game, yep - a real go-getter."

The fact that his nickname was 'psycho' leads me to believe that the other players called him that simply because it was a whole lot nicer than 'retard,' because that's really what he was back when he was playing, and is, even today. He's a sort of jock who maybe was pretty damn good in a place like Tacoma, Washington, but when it came to the big show, he just couldn't hack it. And besides he had (and still does have) a brain the size of a peanut. He never excelled really in the majors, managing to average a measly .252 in his 8 years in the league, where most of his time was spent playing as a utility player, a bit of Human Spackle to fill the holes where he was needed.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Unfortunately when he finally hung up his cleats, he wasn't gone from baseball forever, for he, like many other ball players, had spent so much time playing baseball that his skills elsewhere were less than to be desired, and, like many other ball players, he possessed the itch - that need to constantly play ball whether rain or shine, till the cows come home. Yet the old body couldn't take such a lashing anymore, so he did the next best thing: he got into the commentating game. Fox sports graciously accepted Lyons on to their commentating team, for surely in those 8 years he picked up a thing or two about the game right? And seeing how his nickname was 'Psycho' and all, he could be a really good color commentator, right? A sort of funny, quirky personality, right?

Wrong.

As it turns out, aside from being a total retard, Steven 'Psycho' Lyons is also a racist. . . Which is a real hub-bub when you're trying to put out some of that Emmy Award Winning shit. Lyons has criticized Shawn Green during a game, essentially calling him a 'dumb Jew' for sitting out a ball game on Yom Kippur, dumb because he "didn't marry a Jewish girl, and from what I understand, he never had a Bar Mitzvah, which is unfortunate because he doesn't get the money." He's praised Hideki Irabu, a ballplayer who punched a photographer's camera and broke it, stating "Its ok because the photographer is Asian. . . And you know they make cameras, so he should have many more." In 2006, he implied that certain Italian players had connections with the Mafia, simply because they're Italian, and that messing with them would be foolish because they are all well connected. Also in 2006, he picked on a fan in the audience who had an apparatus attached to his face to help him see, saying "He's got a digital camera stuck to his face." It turned out that the man was in fact blind, and his family was watching. Again, in 2006 he implied that Lou Piniella stole his wallet because he was of Spanish decent.

Even with the signature, these cards are fucking worthless.

Now Fox has a strict - Make 4 Racist Comments and You're Fired Clause - so naturally Lyons had to be let go, but this wasn't the end for him, no, not yet. Instead of crawling up into the asshole of obscurity, he was picked up by KCAL to do road games for the Dodgers organization, much to the chagrin of Dodger's fans, who have been spoiled with the epic greatness that is a man like Vin Scully. Vin Scully, unlike Lyons comes from the oldschool, when radios were a big part of the world, and therefore his practiced tongue only adds to the experience of listening to a ball game, as opposed to subtracting from it. Despite the contract, Lyons is on strict probationary terms, and is even forced to go to Diversity Training. . . Which seems to be working, but his retardation still shines through as if polished over the years by a fine wax. Its most apparent on nights when he works with Charley Steiner, an actual Emmy winner and college grad with a fondness for big words and hyperbole. The two are such a juxtaposition they'd be a perfect pairing for a William Blake poem, and listening to them both is much like sitting down with the college professor and his monkey trying to talk baseball.

As for his future, it depends on his ability to latch on and not say anything racist - and its looking like he's a sufficient enough parasite for the job. The fact that he's most remembered for being the only baseball player to pull down his pants during a baseball game should sting Steve Lyons a little, that is if he was all that well remembered, but he's so retarded he instead revels in it. He actually enjoys it. He's taken his 'psycho' image, and even his sudden undressing during the game in full stride, and has used it as gimmick to get him hosting jobs on blooper shows and trashy DVD's with titles like '100 of Baseball's Most Outrageous Moments.' It is for his long career and seeming permanence with the game, his willing acceptance of his retardation and further use of said retardation to make money, that iR declares Steven Lyons hopelessly retarded.

There's just no saving this one.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Steve Lyons is one of few players to have played all 9 positions during his baseball career - not because he was good at everything, but rather because he was equally mediocre at every position - and hell Steve Lyons at shortstop is better than no one at short stop - yah dig?

Steve Lyons 'wrote' his own biography, entitled Steve Lyons: PSYCHOanalist oh how clever.

Steve Lyons obviously tampers with his own Wikipedia page, as the site says: "Considered by many to be one of the greatest players to come out of Oregon." The idea that Lyons could be the greatest at anything, other than generally sucking leads me to believe that perhaps Oregon just may be the most mediocre state in all the damned Union.

Survives off small television parts in sports themed comedies like Arli$$.

iR

Randy and Evi Quaid, A Modern Day Bonnie and Clyde?

In the halls of justice, where the heavy axe of democracy swings. . . Where wooden benches like church pews sit gazing blindly into the golden eyes of an eagle emblazoned on the belly of the judge's bench. . .

Randy Quaid undergoes trial.

I sit between a greedy writer and an obese man, the latter of which is even now sneaking nibbles on a breakfast pastry. I can smell it, the sugar I mean, and that mixed with the aftershave and coffee of all those around me makes for a real assualt on my empty stomach - empty save for a beer or two. I should have eaten first. The beer burns my guts and the man of the hour walks in, Randy Quaid himself, with wife in tow. For a man on trial he looks ridiculously calm, looking more like the Prom King with his Queen next to him - in this case his crazy Queen, her arm placed between the crux of his, the two parading down the aisle and through the gate to his attorney, for their first dance as King and Queen. Randy sits down next to the attorney, his wife next to him, three ducks all in a row. His wife looks like a strange bird, her face contorted into a constant grin, her hair greased up and all over the place. A simple creature with small tiny bones and a small tiny face, yet behind those eyes is a circus that performs year round, and its always entertaining her judging by how she's always smiling. Trapeze artists do flips in her head, she smiles and Randy hardly even looks at her. He's accustomed to it too and is furthermore far more preoccupied with a satchel he had brought in on his shoulder. He keeps gazing down into it, his lips moving, telling crazy secrets, telling crazy truths, telling 'everyone one of them' bastards off.

The judge enters, everyone like the sunrise, the judge sits, everyone like the sunset. The stenographer comes to life as the trial proceeds, her record the only thread of reality running through the courtroom. . .

JUDGE OCHOA: Randy and Evi Quaid, you have been charged with defrauding the San Ysrido Ranch, in Santa Barbra, California, to the amount of ten thousand dollars, and in turn conspiracy, and burglary. . . How do you plead?

RANDY QUAID: Didn't do it.

EVI QUAID: I was there - yep - didn't do it. We paid you see, we paid! I've got the card right here! Went -swoop- right through the machine and everything.

Mastercard she says, amazed, and with a quick tug from her purse she pulls out the credit card in question. In a fit of madness she proceeds to press it into her forehead until it sticks.

EVI QUAID: See! See!

See! she keeps shouting, while the judge's gavel pounds out his disgust. . .

JUDGE OCHOA: Order! Order!

Order! he keeps shouting, Order! Order! bouncing off the walls and through the air like pure gravel. After long Randy gets into it too, having just recently woken up to the sound of Order! Order! pounding in his ears like his own heartbeat. He had been daydreaming, a smile on his face, his head aglow with the images of squirrels on water skis. . . he had never seen a squirrel ride water skis before, more or less a whole Gawd-Dang-Fleet of em' and it was all so peaceful and all so funny, but that Blasted Gavel, that Infernal Racket! His eyes blink open like the revolving numbers of a pin ball machine, and his mouth goes to work, as the stenographers machine, like a metronome keeps the beat. . .

RANDY QUAID: I've even got a witness! He was there the whole damn time! The whole damn time!

Randy reaches down and pulls out his 1987 Golden Globe Award for his part in a television drama about Lyndon B. Johnson called LBJ: The Early Years. He holds it up above his head, and it reflects in the sunlight, like a beacon of Randy's innocence. he revels in it, he stares up at it, his lips curled back in a wicked smile. . . And Evi with her See! See! and the judge with his disgusted gavel, the stenographers machine, all beating together in a cacophony of noise and utter madness.

RANDY QUAID: I'm innocent! Golden Globes don't lie!

JUDGE OCHOA: Order! God! Damn it! Order! Damn it! Order!

The court room ceases, the madness cut by the bladed words of the judge, cut just like a string. He eases himself back into his seat, lets his gavel fall over dead. He's embarrassed by his outburst, but he had just about had enough of these two ninnies, and rightfully so. Since their initial arrest, the couple posted bail, and then proceeded to miss their first court date, and then three more after each rescheduling. It has been a long ordeal that has cemented Randy Quaid as a real fucking psycho, something which the Actor's Equity Association knows full well - for in 2008 they banned Randy Quaid from the American Actor's Labor Union and fined him more than 81,000 dollars after he "physically and verbally abused" all 26 members of a Broadway play he was headlining. Like a champ Randy played it off like they just didn't understand him, that he was just "being artistic."

Yet no matter how you look at it, smacking a bitch is smacking a bitch. . .

Aside from those questioning his sanity, his ordeal with the law and subsequent disappearance led many to believe that Randy Quaid had died, and combed the coast looking for his dead body. When he showed up to court the vultures of Hollywood with hanged heads went back to whatever stoop it is they occupy, waiting for the next victim. . . Word is that Randy Quaid and his wife were scumming around the country while on the run, living in rat holes and abandoned mines, feeding off of vermin and whatever they could find. Hell, there are even rotten tales of a man with a Santa beard (Randy) and a crazy wife (Evi) swooping into towns and scooping up children to take back to whatever hellish den they originated from, to clean the screaming child of his bones and drain him of his precious blood.

The stenographer types out in verbatim:

JUDGE OCHOA: It is advised that the defense gets a hold of its clients before I throw you all out for contempt of court!

The defense recoils, the attorney takes his clients into his guidance and silences them with his sanity and judgment. He instructs them for a few minutes, talking to his clients as if he were explaining some horrible event to a couple of children who happened to witness it; he was kind, forgiving, and spoke rather gravely in simple terms the events that were to follow "if they didn't obey and 'play nice.'" And all with a rotten smile on his face. He nods silently to the judge.

JUDGE OCHOA: Good, now, how do you plead? And the simple answer. . . please.

RANDY / EVI QUAID: Not guilty.

The court room eases. The air gives way to silence and no longer seems hard to breathe. Even the fat man next to me feels it necessary to ease his belt, which strains to keep its hold on his pants in a constant tug of war with gravity. His stomach threatens gastric disturbances and to keep him from bursting I try not to look at him. They say looks can kill. Instead I concentrate on Evi and Randy, and my head rings with a rhyme, the story of Bonnie and Clyde:

They don't think they're too smart or desperate,
They know that the law always wins;
They've been shot at before,
But they do not ignore
That death is the wages of sin.

Some day they'll go down together;
They'll bury them side by side;
To few it'll be grief--
To the law a relief--
But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.

They were the words of Bonnie Parker herself, and the same words that fools who believe in a thing like true love often quote. Its romantic, its brutal. Its nothing like real life. Its for people who fail to realize that the notion of being buried side by side with the one you love, means very little to worm food. I wondered what Evi would write, what epitaph she would frame in rhyme for her and her love Randy if she had the chance:

We tread the Earth exposed and naked,
Hiding amongst the leaves and thus;
We know we're incomplete,
And when we think to weep,
The country just laughs at us.

We know all our lines,
We've got them handy,
And when word gets 'round,
And we together go down,
You'll never forget Evi and Randy.

And surely, they will go down.

Randy's celebrity status isn't strong enough to deter any stiff sentences from being doled out by a star struck judge with constellations in his eyes. Even during his prime when the money came in and he wasn't exactly the talk of the town - but still folks were talking, he couldn't pull many strings, at least not as high up as when it came to matters involving the law. Furthermore family connections had slowly frayed over the years, and the recent press wasn't doing much for his image in the eyes of those of similar blood. So, like a cornered rat, he did the only thing a man wild with fear and weapons to fight but no real enemy to strike can do in a situation like that: he took off running. . .

Play your music stenographer:

JUDGE OCHOA: Now, Mr. and Mrs. Quaid. . .

RANDY QUAID: It was all Dennis' fault. He just couldn't take the jealousy. It ate him up for years, my wife knows. . . He was always envious that I managed to wrangle such a catch as her. Aint that right hon?

JUDGE OCHOA: You do realize you're under oath, Mr. Quaid?

RANDY QUAID: Are you implying Dennis aint jealous of me? Cause he sure as shit is - you ever see The Rookie? Can't hold a flame to a single Vacation movie - not a one- and that aint no lie.

JUDGE OCHOA: I will not have such language in this court. Now you're treading a fine line, another bit of profanity and you'll find yourself in jail - and I'll have a nice little cage for that bird of a wife of yours, too.

Evi cooed, as dumb as a dove.

As the court room was slowly begging to lose control over itself, the one true part had already been said: it was Dennis' fault, or at least in Randy's mind. For it seems that Dennis, aside from being a 'jealous prick' was also a big fan of prostitution, and often took women of the night to the San Ysrido Ranch. This endeavor proved profitable for the hotel as Dennis was a generous tipper, especially when shitfaced, and to Dennis hookers and liquor went together like peanut butter and jelly so he was almost always good and oiled up. This relationship between Dennis and the Ranch as his den of iniquity had eventually blossomed into a genuine friendship between Dennis and the owner of the hotel, one which hurt Randy as much as it aided Dennis.

And just like Dennis, not to share - not to share anything. . . Not the Ranch, not the prostitutes - not a damn thing. . .

People sometimes forget that jealousy, whether deserved or unleashed unfairly, can sometimes be a dangerous thing. For some it leads to horrible deeds Cain would be proud of, but for Randy it meant throwing a temper tantrum in a hotel room, destroying its insides during a whirlwind of emotion, and then skipping town when the rage subsided and he was able to think enough to know he had no way of paying for any of the damage.

The stenographer:

RANDY QUAID: Not a God damn thing! Not the hookers! Not the blow! Not a God damn thing! That jealous bastard. . . Could never stand to be in the shadow of big bro! . . . Not a God damn thing!

He swelled with anger and turned as cherry as his rose colored hair - the result of a dye job and new identity. The judge had them escorted out of court, and as they were pushed along like cattle, Evi sang out her best blue jay imitation - a cackle that rang in the ears of all those around her. Miraculously, their attorney managed to have the trial extended, and will convene once again in April. . .

But what happens next?

Well only time will tell for this couple of retard royalty. . .

iR

Vin Diesel Plays Dungeons and Dragons

or; Meet Melkor and Mark Sinclar Vincent

Through the dastardly vines barbed with lashing spines; in the deepest thickets of hairy jungle, four brave warriors tangle with the harsh environment, carrying on despite Mother Nature's cruelty. Driven by immortality, they cut through greenery vicious in nature and wicked by design. Melkor leads the crew of collected hopefuls, a blade in one hand, a bow draped across his torso. He's light footed through all the brush, and surveys the land with expert eyes capable of spotting a tick on a hounds back nearly a mile away. The men behind him lack the benefit of light Elvish feet, so they struggle through the bunches of burdock sprinkled about like spiny mines ready to go off and lodge in the skin; sweat through hanging vines under the mask of dense tree growth over head; curse at the sight of poison ivy, and its friend Foxtail; and generally spit out their discontent at everything around them. The harsh winds burn their eyes: this land was not made for man, but rather for beast, who cared little about burning sand winds, nor pits that made meals of men, nor skies which always seemed black and drowned all the world in misery. . .

Roll forward in time, a thousand or so years to 1974, to a land of much more comfortable living: to a dug in basement. A radio sings and the walls echo back the radio's laments. The room smells moldy, dust dances in fragments of sunlight coming from a nearby window, and from these rays, like a celestial gift from the Gods, lays a game of Dungeons and Dragons - already in full swing. Four boys sit about the table, all of them looking meek and malnourished. They speak in a vernacular of ritualistic lines and practiced code, in a language foreign to outside-above-ground dwellers. They sound like real squawkers, fitting in that they are but children, but one, the youngest one, talks above all others with a voice like that of a man already swelled from years of listening to his own ego. . .

"I can do this. . . " He booms.

"You must'n. . ." A fat mage with a nasaly voice pauses only to eat a few Fritos before continuing. "Let us down Melkor. . ."

Back now: great buildings slowly peel back their window and wall skins, slowly disassemble themselves steel bone by steel bone. . . Whole cities retreat from their cancerous growth, back over hills and rivers, shrinking to their very centers. . . Fallen civilizations once evaporated reappear, grow putrid, start fights, become angry, settle prosperously, rise slowly, and evaporate once more with the footprints of a single group of human beings. . . All of time slips back, ticking gently to the passing second hands of day and night. Slips back to Melkor and his men, back in the year 856. The crew stumbles upon a nest of giant scorpions with claws strong and big enough to split a man clean in two. Melkor raises his bow, steadying it with forearms built of steel cables. He spies his target. His comrades stalk through the nightshades. He fires.

The boy with the voice of a man rolls a twenty sided die. The arrow is released, whizzing through the air with silent certainty.

"With precision and speed, Melkor helps all those in need. . . With bow and blade, all enemies are slayed. . . For the world cannot yet begin, until it is purged of its sin!" The boys voice straines as he tries to produce a higher pitch.

The die slowly tumbles to a stop, resting on the table face up; 20. The arrow pierces the scorpion right between the eyes, precisely where he intended it.

"20!" The voice shrieks. "Critical hit!" The voice deepens, back to its mature tone. The owner of the voice lowers his eyes, ashamed for breaking character. He never heard an elf with a voice like gravel before. . . Never heard an elf with a voice that deep before.

The scorpion hisses, spewing green fluids thick and congealed the instant it comes into contact with the open air. It dies as its comrades are slain by the other three members of the group. Melkor's eyes shine with a glint of the fading sunlight, but shine even brighter with a glint of defeat. This is the boys defeat. The blistering heat waves across the skyline. Melkor wipes his brow. The boy wipes his brow. Somewhere stampeding beasts rampage across the tortured earth. The boy's mother is coming down the stairs now, heavy heels and squeaking wooden steps. A great rumbling is heard, born from the trampling feet of yet another potential danger in the lands of Dungeons and Dragons. Melkor's ears perk up, the bones in his ears having heard such a rumble before. Its recognizable, but somehow out of place, as if from some other distant time far off. . . The steps continue. Its something big and nasty, he says, and his comrades ask what? Something. . . something, he stumbles on his words. Something. . . The boy's mother reaches the bottom of the stairs.

"Something. ."

She speaks.

"Hey honey." She says.

"Treacherous. . ."

"Just doin' some laundry. . " She places the basket down matter-of-factly. Goodbye scorpions. The washer goes on with the rush of unseen water. Goodbye hellish land. With her work she begins to hum, a habit picked up to help past the time. And with each note, another layer of a fantasy begins melting away in the collective minds of the four boys, and before long Melkor is no longer an Elvish Ranger, but rather simple old Mark Sinclair Vincent (Vin Diesel,) a shy 7 year old boy driven from popularity due to an unusually deep voice capable of sponsoring beer commercials.

So life was for Mark Sinclair Vincent, battling fierce dragons and beasts in a far off land materialized in the thin filaments of his imagination. A world kept pocketed, where not even the harshness of reality could get to it. Battling fierce dragons, and losing it all when Mom came clunking heavily down the stairs, as if she were climbing down into his very imagination, to where he felt the most safe, and then upon arriving shattered it with the heavy blast of the clothes basket. Shattered it so easily. She even had the the nerve to address 'Melkor the Magnificent,' as honey!' 'Honey!' And in front of his comrades no less. . .

Mark Sinclair Becomes Vin Diesel: Porn Star Action Anti-Hero

His interest in acting began when the practice was thrust upon him - it was either that or jail. As it turns out, aside from Dungeons and Dragons, Vin and his friends were also into vandalism. One night they broke into the community theater with the intent to spray paint vulgarities all along its insides. They failed however in their mission of youthful deviance. They were caught and offered the opportunity to be in the play, instead of in the arms of some strange man behind bars that night. Naturally they excepted the former, and all became members of the theater that night. For Vin it was a good thing, for he found that he loved life on the stage, the acting, the prancing, the pantyhose. . . His love for the stage effectively rounded out his nerd status, giving bullies tired of beating him up for playing D&D a fresh new reason to beat him up. It was a malady which struck him for most of his life, until he turned 17 and finally gained some muscles and dropped his nerdy image. Having found himself a paradox in the Dungeons and Dragons world, Vin decided it was time to move on, and get himself a job. Due to his size he was able to get a job bouncing at a nightclub in New York City called "The Tunnel." It was there that he would change his name to Vin Diesel, namely because Mark Sinclair Vincent simply wasn't gay enough - which leads one to wonder just what "tunnel" the club's namesake refers to. . .

Now I know what you're thinking, with a name like Vin Diesel, he was destined to become a porn star, right? No: not quite, instead he became an action star, but I'm sure that was your next guess. One of his first films was a short film which he wrote, directed and a appeared in, called Multi-Facial. It was basically about how Vin was a mutt, which meant he wasn't black enough to be typecast as a black guy, and not Italian enough to be typecast as an Italian, making it rather difficult for him to get a good acting gig. So he gave up and went into porn right? No: it was this 20 minutes that got him a part in Saving Private Ryan and effectively started his whole movie career.

A movie career made up of Riddick movies, Fast and the Furious movies, and xXx movies.

Pitch Black/Chronicles of Riddick

The movie said to cement Vin Diesel in that anti-hero-bad-ass-does good role, Pitch Black was a movie that simply had no budget. Its about a criminal named Riddick who's being transferred by ship to another planet. The ship crashes on a real shit planet, allowing Vin to escape captivity, along with a select number of the crew. They soon discover not only is the planet in a perpetual dark phase, but it is also inhabited by human eating aliens.

Shitty right? Yeah, for everyone but Riddick, whos got eyes that glow like quicksilver and can see in the dark. . . What follows is a tale of morality, as this bad ass murderer with glowing eyes some how comes to the notion that he too can do good, and in doing so becomes the good guy, helping all those around him with not only his strength but his cat like eyes. Which is some Hollywood shit I can't bear to swallow, for anyone who's delt with a charlatan, or thief, or a liar, knows that these unworthy characteristics aren't shed on a whim - and for murderers, one must assume its very much the same. For that cancerous defect in them, that seed that germinates into a budding thorny flower cannot be cut as simply as a bunch of daisies. . ..

The movie was received with mixed reviews, as science fiction fans found there wasn't enough science fiction to satisfy their appetites. For horror fans there weren't enough spine tingling moments. But nonetheless its become a sort of cult classic, adored by those still stiff in the pants from images of Barbarella floating around in their brains. So naturally a franchise was born, complete with its own endless line of useless fluff bearing the Riddick name and Vin's likeness.

Chronicles of Riddick, being a chronicling of retardation has also been made into a cartoon, for which Vin Diesel lent his voice, and is also said to be returning to the screens with a third movie, not yet titled.

yay.....

The Fast and The Furious (2001)

A fast paced nitrous boost of retardation, this shit fest is all tough guy antics, unrealistic street racing, and even more unrealistic scantily clad women. But hey, its Hollywood right? And in Hollywood, street racing is all Papa Roach and Limp Biskit songs, candy colored Honda civics, bitchy racers, and cars that blow up when you shoot them with uzis. Vin Diesel plays Dominic Toretto, a douche bag racer/team leader in trouble with the law. The movie moves quickly, which is a blessing, in that it isn't very good, pausing only for brief moments so that a character may say something prophetic sounding. Words no doubt, every street racer should live by, and keep written in a little book to be placed in the breast pocket before every race. . . The first nugget of wisdom dispatched by Ja Rule:

"It's not how you stand by your car, its how you race your car."

The second comes from Vin himself. He's cocky after winning a street race which nearly resulted in the horrific crash of a fellow racer (its Hollywood so he only fishtails and stops abruptly without a single scratch - but had it been real life the car probably would have rolled across the highway like a tumble weed, crushing the man inside. . . and Vin probably would have gone on gloating and strutting anyway.) Vin Diesel:

"It don't matter if you win by an inch or a mile, a wins a win."

Again Vin imparts the last bit of polished romance the movie has to offer, a view on life every REAL racer echoes wholeheartedly into the waking void:

"I live my life a quarter mile at a time. Nothing else matters: not the mortgage, not the store, not my team and all their bullshit. For those ten seconds or less, I'm free."

Somewhere in there, there's a story. I think.

Fast and Furious (2009)

8 years later Vin would return to the franchise, after a minute part in The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift, that served as teaser for the already slated fourth film.

Like many sequels it befalls its previous incarnations and therefore has a need to top them in order to appease the audience. For Fast and Furious this means more outlandish driving and explosions, often to the point of being utterly impossible or totally ridiculous. Things happen in this movie that shouldn't really happen, things so over the top that its successors will have to jump a speeding car over a shark during the middle of a raceto top the crazy stupid shit in Fast and Furious. Aside from the excessive CGI and over active imagination, this movie is essentially the same ball of shit that was the original - their practically identical names are just a proverbial middle finger to any douche bag who actually paid good money to see this movie.

Fast Five (2011)

Fast Five will probably be the last incarnation of the series, or at least the last one with its main reoccurring cast members. By the sixth movie, the only people desperate enough to do the movie will probably be guys like David Spade and Ray Romano. . . and there won't be any budget, so they'll go driving around in beat up old station wagons. . . Now that's a movie worth seeing.

xXx (2002)

I have been lucky enough to have not seen this movie, so I can only go on what Wikipedia has to say on the matter. "xXx, pronounced "Triple X", is a 2002 action film starring Vin Diesel in the lead role as Xander Cage, a thrill seeking extreme sports enthusiast, stuntman and rebellious anarchist turned reluctant spy for the National Security Agency who is sent on a dangerous mission to infiltrate a group of potential terrorists in Eastern Europe."

Now that just about sums it all up right there. A thrill seeker, extreme sports enthusiast, stuntman, rebelious anarchist, reluctant spy on a dangerous mission. . . Cool, but does he know any show tunes?

Sam Jackson is also in it, and although he has appeared in many a fine film, he is also well known for his inability to turn one down - even the shittiest of shitfests, like this movie. I'm sure he plays the bad guy, and is the usual sort of villain he always plays, probably with a scar on his face.

Another sign of this movie's retardation is how much money it made, as movie goers have lowered the their standards over the past decade. xXx made 277 Million dollars, a good haul considering the budget for the movie was only 70 million dollars.

Still not convinced? Well then this photo should do it for you:

Yeah, that's totally Vin doing a board slide down a railing on a silver serving tray.

Aside from all the cool shit: the jumping out of convertibles with parachutes attached, the plane jumping, with jet skis, the sweet explosions, Vin wasn't invited back for the sequel. . . He was instead replaced by Ice Cube, the studio probably figuring any man of ethnicity would make for a good replacement.

Boo hoo right? Not quite.

xXx: The Return of Xander Cage (2011)

Currently Vin Diesel is in talks with the studios to come back in the third installment of xXx, where he is sure to milk the pigs for all their worth. It is likely that he will be returning, as the studio found that having a main character (Ice Cube) who is also known for spouting out explicit rap lyrics kind of scares away the white audience - at least with Vin he kinda looks white - or at least Italian.

Further Retardation

Vin Diesel really does play Dungeons and Dragons. . . a lot. He's been with the whole gang since day one. Die Hard kid, die hard.

His D&D character is named Melkor, a witch hunter. The name appears tattooed on his stomach in the movie xXx.

People can't seem to decide if he's gay or not, seriously, type in vin diesel on google, the first suggestion is 'vin diesel sexuality.'

Was accused of trying to get a 23 year old woman kicked out of a bar after she refused to go back to "the room for a little boom boom." Oh, we failed to mention Vin has a way with words? Well he does.

In 2005 a certain studio thought: "Wouldn't it be funny. . ." if they hired a certain bad ass to play in a comical family movie with kids. The studio was Disney, and the "badass" was Vin Diesel, the family movie was The Pacifier, and no, it wasn't funny.


He's into World of Warcraft, even installed it on a computer in one of his cars.

iR.

Rob Schneider the Deep Sea Pilotfish

The Early Years; or The Cookie Cutter Kingdom

Some celebrities are so big and frivolous with money that they, like sharks attract parasites that gladly feed off of their leftovers; pilotfish and human chancre sores who without the benefit of such a lovely relationship would be down the drain and off to sea - bye-bye. Adam Sandler is one such shark in the douchey waters of Hollywood, and his pilotfish live fat off of his weak heart made far too papery to turn away even the scummiest of friends.

Friends like Rob Schneider.

But don't let Rob fool yah, he's a slippery one, a chameleon of the silver screen with the ability to cover up his inabilities with prosthetics and fake mustaches. For Rob Schneider, the ability to make himself unrecognizable isn't just a part of his job, its an integral part in forgetting that he's mediocre, and always will be - and only got to where he is today because he's a half Jew who happens to know Adam Sandler.

Observe:

Shitty blurry quality because blogger.com sucks bawlz. better version here.
If you had to look at that Jew Fro and pair of Steve Buscemi bug eyes in the mirror everyday, you'd consider prosthetics too.

Rob Schneider was born in San Francisco, California, in 1963. His parents, having looked around and found nothing but beatniks, spades, and soon-to-be-hippies, decided to leave the dangers of the city for the Formica safety of suburban life. A good decision when considering that the boy would have spent his more vulnerable years in the very heart of the ballooning ideas and social change that was Frisco during the 60's. An even better decision when considering the fallout of that social change, when the balloon finally burst and there was very little to do other than pick up all the pieces scattered about like confetti. Ultimately, it was a decision which made him the weird bastard he is today. There's just something about squared off normal living that isn't normal.

It is in this suburb called Pacifica that Schneider witnessed a life that was plain and monotonous. He use to sit on the porch and watch all the fathers come in like clockwork after work, in cars like big boats, coming home expecting a hot meal to be ready and already on the table. He watched days drift on by with a fluidity that only changed when someone died, or when the old became annoying and were shipped off randomly to live in special suburbs made up of nothing but people like them, of nothing but old people. He watched it all, and he was terribly bored.

Terribly bored and it was all his parents fault for playing it safe. For sticking him in a doll house on a street full of other doll houses occupied by dolls that were all insane.

So, like many suburban kids, he took to doing his best at constantly pissing them off.

And so like many suburban kids, he pledged to never be them, and therefore did his best to act as wreckless as possible.

Straight out of high school, he went into comedy, which he assumed his parents hated - for only a humorless bastard would choose to live in the cookie cutter kingdoms of 'pleasant living Pacifica.' Unlike his parents however, Rob was apparently funny. He worked nightclubs around the Bay Area for 5 years until he won a spot on the 13th Annual Young Comedians special. Although he didn't win any awards for his stand-up comedy, he does have the distinction of being one of the few douche bag comedians NOT to come out of Mitzi Shore's The Comedy Store. A year later he was picked up by Saturday Night Live as a comedy writer, and eventually became a regular on the show. Admittedly some of his best work, but more importantly Saturday Night Live is where Schneider met Sandler.

What followed were the Parasitic Years.


The Parasitic Years; or Sex Acts for Movie Parts

Since Schneider's first appearance in Waterboy, and the handjob he gave Sandler to get in it, Rob Schneider has appeared in 10 more Sandler flics, and performed countless sexual acts, each growing more and more perverse with each movie. He is also slated to appear in one more flick not yet released (Grown Ups June 2010). Tack on a music video, and 6 movies produced by Happy Madison, and you've got nearly 80 % of his movie career - all thanks to Mr. Sandler. Sweet.

In regards to the quality of these films, well that all depends on the specifics. Is it a Rob Schneider movie? Well then yes, the movie most probably sucks balls. If he's only making a cameo, than its either hit or miss. There is an exact theory in fact, that many Hollywood studios are well aware of (except Sony,) called The Rob Schneider Threshold. The threshold of course referring to the number of minutes Rob can appear in a movie without dragging it down and all hopes of turning a profit with it.

The theory states:

"Any move, film, or short, whether live action or animated featuring Rob Schneider for more than 15 minutes collectively, or more than 5 minutes in one scene is destined to be a flop and utter shitfest."

Critics don't like him much either. In fact they most often find him offensive. For instance, his part as the Japanese minister in I Now Pronounce You chuck and Larry, was considered a throw back to the prejudice representation of Asians dubbed "Yellow Face," all he was missing was the two large front teeth like Chicklets. His Hawaiian character Ula in the film 50 First Dates has been compared to Spicoli meets Cheech and Chong - a sort of stoner with an intense love for the ocean, so great in fact that he doesn't seem to mind shark bites; though it could easily be assumed that he's too retarded to find them dangerous. . . And I'm sure Armenians are upset his portrayal of an Armenian landlord in Grandma's Boy wasn't hairy enough, and besides he wasn't even very good at speaking Armenian. Yet Schneider has all the money regardless, and with it he often uses the power of the press to really stick it to any naysayers. He spends money on ad space to publicly call critics who have given his films bad reviews douchebags - in so many words. He's done it with Roger Ebert,and we can only hope that we're (I'm) worthy of such a distinction. . . that is, if he ever reads this.


Many of you may think that he's probably right, but worry not, for I won't go on much longer, as I am already grasping at straws. Nonetheless, lets see what my notebook has written next, shall we?

Aside from the movies, Schneider has also appeared on Inside the MMA, with none other than dangerous retard himself, Bas Rutten. It seems Schneider even had the balls to poke some shots at him citing "how sucky it must be to get beat up a person who enjoys it as much as you. . ." He grinned and then did a shameless impersonation of the man, perhaps not realizing fully what he was doing; waving a long dense red flag in front of a mean and tired bull, out of action but still running clean through with that aggression. . . Or maybe Schneider dared assume the man wouldn't kill him on live television - would he?

You bet your ass I would - grab you by the head. . . maybe a headbutt, a left straight and it would be over. . . who's laughing now funny man?

So what next? you may ask. (Or not. Mostly I've been asking myself this.) Well that all depends on how far rob is willing to go to appear in the next Sandler flic. I hear for the movie Grown Ups Rob had to hire a whole menagerie of wild animals and don a bondage suit before Sandler was excited enough to even consider Rob for the part.

iR

Further Retardation

Duece Bigalow made 95 million dollars.

Impersonations include Adolf Hitler, K.D. Lang, and Elvis Presley. Hitler because its mandatory of any Jewish comedian, K.D. Lang because Rob is practically her, only with a penis, and Elvis Presley because well - anyone with hips and an upper lip can do a Presley impersonation.

Hosted the 1997 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit T.V. special - why? Still no one knows.

Realizing appearing as himself would be detrimental his career, Rob appeared on Leno (Boo - Leno - Aww I don't give a shit) in drag, as Lindsay Lohan, who apparently couldn't make it to the show because she was too busy getting wasted.

The Truth

Rob Schneider is actually a really nice guy - he donates money to kids and everything. He even has a certain keen eye which defines Hollywood as a collection of douche bags and assholes.

Rufio, Rufio, Ru-fi-Oooooooooooohhhh


Totally un related, but look, its Rufio!