The Many Faces of Tony Danza

The feeling of gloves was a welcomed one.  The sound they made, his hands taped and inside them.  Nice.  Tight.  Quick.  His walk out to the ring was slow and deliberate, and at the moment those gloves felt just like sledgehammers, and he was ready to do some damage with them.  Be cool now.  Along the way he'd hop about to get the blood flowing.  The crowd acknowledged him and cheered him and he smiled his usual trade mark smile.  Come on now, cool your jets. Down the aisle.  Up the steps and into the ring.  The smell of a boxing ring can be an incredible thing.  Its just another fight.  Come on now.  Be cool now.  Cool.  The crowd hummed as the ring announcer went to work.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Diner's Club of Dubuque, Iowa proudly presents tonight's main event. . ."  His voice amplified out over the speaker system, loud but only slightly louder than the crowd.  "Presenting first, the challenger, fighting out of the red corner, weighing in at 245 pounds, a local boy straight out of Dubuque, Iowa Ronald "Head Cheese" Williams!"

The crowd roared appreciation for their fellow Dubuquer, and for once Tony Danza felt that perhaps the majority of the crowd wasn't behind him, even though he was, indeed Tony Danza.

"And in the blue corner, hailing from Brooklyn, New York, weighing in at two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. . . Tony "I'm the Boss" Dannnnzzzaaa!"

The mild crowd of some hundred or so Iowans cheered as Danza juked and moved for the crowd, his strutting punctuated by occasional hooks and jabs.  He met his opponent in the ring, and although he was no longer the young man that he was when he first got into the boxing game, he was confident in his body and his skill, if not as a boxer, but as a well rounded individual with his hand in nearly everything.  Tony and Ronald touched gloves in the center of the ring.

"Remember its for charity."  Tony said, with a smile.  The bell rang and the match began.

Tony came out defensive and smiling, thinking that the match would just be a little exhibition, an opportunity to further his name and showcase a little bit of his boxing skill.  He knew if anything, it was an opportunity to definitely get laid, as chicks often go for the big buff guy involved in violent sports (see Jenna Jameson/Tito Ortiz).  Yet his opponent came in with other plans.  He wanted to win, he wanted to dominated - and he fucking hated Who's The Boss? and furthermore couldn't stand 'grown men with monkey' movies like Going Ape!  He came out swinging and hit Danza square across the jaw with a right hook.  Danza had his bell rung and went down with his head still ringing.  He heard the counting.

1. . . 2 . . .

He got up and kept fighting.


3. . . 4 . . .

He was fighting Earl Harris in his first professional fight.  He was fighting in his first match and was full of jitters.  Although he had been knocked down, he didn't feel any pain.  He was far too excited.  He got back into the match, by defending him self and even tagged Harris with a few good shots.  He followed his boxing style - he swung away and caught Harris in the jaw and knocked him out.  His first match.  His first win. . .

5. . . 6. . .

His parents were so glad after the fight that he wasn't hurt.  It didn't even matter that he won.  But this wouldn't always be the case for Tony and his short boxing career.

7. . .

Danza got to his feet, angered by his opponents nerve; nobody messes with the boss.  The crowd cheered at the notion of more violence.  The referee checked him out, and the match continued, the first round not yet over.  The fighting continued and Danza held his own, though his opponent was obviously more skilled than him.  Ronald controlled the round, taking Danza all over the ring.  By the end of the round Danza's face had begun to swell, and a cut had developed over his right eye.

The end of the round came with the ring of the bell and Tony went to his corner with spaghetti legs.  He felt woozy.  Water from a sponge went cool down his back.  He wiped his forehead.  He saw blood.

"Look now, you've got pasta sauce all over you."  Marc said.

"Well you know your dad, I've always been a messy one."  Tony smiled.

He wiped the pasta sauce from his hands with a white towel.  Discarding it he went to the pot on the stove.  It bubbled and steamed and produced a smell that filled the house.  He took a spoon and tasted it.

"How is it?"  His son Marc asked.

"How do you think it is?"  Tony asked.  "This recipe has been in my family forever.  It was shipped over from Italy!  I know you're quite the chef but this recipe here isn't taught in even the finest of culinary schools.  Not even the one you went to.  This. . . is tradition!"

"Well what do you think about putting out a Father/Son recipe book?  You and me dad, what do you say?"

"A father/son recipe book. . ."  Tony thought.  "A Tony Danza. . . and son cook book. . . A Tony Danza cookbook. . ."  It had been months without any public exposure, he felt it eating at him.

"So?"  His son asked.

"I love the idea Marc!"

"Mark."

"Mark my words, you keep this up and you are going to lose this fight Tony!"  He trainer barked at him in the corner.  "I know its just for charity, but I hardly need the bad rep.  I don't want anyone, anyone, you hear me, thinking Charlie Pinnela don't know how to train a fighter, cause I know how to train a fighter!  Now get in there and defend yourself!  Work the jab you hear me?!  Huh?"

The bell rang and the next round began.  Although his trainer had provided valid advice, Tony still struggled to protect himself in the ring.  Each hit struck him cleanly, some drumming on his ribs and turning his innards to jelly, some tending to the cut over his right eye, tearing it open a little wider reach time.  The crowd roared with a bloodlust.  Some women looked away.  Some were bored.  A man in the third row thought about fingering his girlfriend.  Violence excited him.  He was a true full blooded American.

With eight seconds left, Danza hit the mat once again.  Time seemed to slow for Danza.  He felt the mat beneath him, felt the blood dripping from his forehead.  His lungs heaved out rust.  The bell rang, saving him.

The bell rang, class had begun.  At his podium Tony Danza gazed down into a book, glasses perched on the end of his nose.  Three camera men filmed from different angles. Class had begun.

"Well class. . ."  He closed the book.  "Today we begin reading a new book.  It is by Mrs. Harper Lee, and is called To Kill a Mockingbird."  It was one of only three books Tony had ever read in his life.  "To Kill a Mocking Bird, yes. . ."  Tony said.  It was the filming of a new A&E reality series called "Teach" about Tony Danza teaching a tenth grade English class in Philadelphia.  "Yes, To Kill a Mockingbird."  He was trying to think of what to say next.  He remembered his goal coming into this thing, one he had told the media countless times: to be a good teacher.

"Mr. Danza. . ."  A boy raised his hand.

"Yes, Malcolm?"

"To Kill a Mockingbird, isn't that a movie?"

"I swear kid, this aint no movie."  His trainer said.  "You're looking like a fool out there.  Weren't you once a boxer?  Well act like one!  You're acting like a movie star caught up in the spotlight."  The sponge ran cold with water.  Danza sat in his corner, wet with perspiration.  His mangled face like hamburger meat -- its a good thing his television career is all but over.  Vaseline smeared above both eye brows in an attempt to stop the bleeding.  Danza coughed, his breathing heavy.

"You hear me?"  His trained asked.  "I swear this performance is worse than your attempt at a singing career!"

(Hell is being stuck in a dentists office, waiting impending doom, the intermittent buzz of the dentists drill as he works on another patient cutting through the sound of Tony Danza singing "The House I live In" playing over the office's stereo system.)

Tony Danza thinks he's Franky Sinatra

"I swear if you keep this crap up you aren't even going to make it to the fourth round.  You're gonna get beat, and after that you'll catch another beating -- from me for making me look so damn bad.  Now get your God damn hands up and shake out the damn cobwebs. "

Tony tried to shake out the cobwebs, but he couldn't.  It was all Who's the Boss lines and distant memories.  The bell rang and Tony slowly got up, his fists fashioned to his waist.  He staggered and fell over his own two feet.  The crowd laughed. . .

"Hi Tony Danza here, and you're watching the Tony Danza Show, live right here in New York."  He was roller blading down the street wearing protective gear (of course) filming for his daily live show.  "As you can see I'm getting a little exercise today, as this week on the Tony Danza Show we are going active!  Today we've got a great sh--"

And then it happened.

The Boss ate shit.  Tripped right over a pole while looking at the camera.

Tony got up and staggered his way to the center of the ring.  His opponent waited for him, eager to take a couple more swings at The Danza and knock him out.  The third round began, the two circling one another: Ronald Williams full of energy, Danza slow and tired.  Ronald began to toy with Danza, throwing punches half-heartedly and with a grin, as if Tony were his kid brother.  The crowd swooned.  Ton's mind still swam with thoughts, Hudson Street and Broadway, the stage and the sets, the highs and the lows.  The ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and to him the lights were like diamonds in the rafters, high untouchable things, but oh so pretty to look at.

To Tony, he was tap dancing again.  To everyone else, he was a fool who was about to be knocked the fuck out.

The explosive combination came soon after the tap dancing fancies - Ronald peppered him with a left followed by a right and like the whack that finally topples the tree, so was that right hand, which sent Danza to the mat, a fallen tree.  At the point of contact, there wasn't a single butt in the seats, everyone was standing to see Tony Danza get knocked out, in a brutal moment of sudden violence.

The referee counted to ten, and Ronald was declared the winner.  The fight had ended how every Tony Danza fight had ever ended, in knockout.  The loss brought his boxing record to nine and four.  After the match, after the room had cleared out and everyone had gone home, Danza was left to stand all alone on the street corner, his eyes tilted toward the sky but his soul as low as ever.

Who's the boss?

Clearly not Tony Danza.

At least he can always go back to his blog, the Daily Danza.

Has "Keep on Trucking" tattooed on his upper right arm.

Has his own rendition of "Keep on Trucking,"  "Keep on Punching," tattooed on his right shoulder, complete with boxing gloves.

Tony really was a professional boxer, from 1976 to 1979, during which time assembled a record of 9 wins, 3 losses.

Divorced his second wife, with whom he has two daughters.

Tony really does have a cook book out with his son called Don't Fill Up on the Antipasto, and you really can buy it on Amazon, used, for one cent.

In 2007, Tony really did start a music career.  He put out an album called The House I Live In, it has reportedly sold 5 copies, all of them going to Tony Danza.

In 2005, Danza crashed his go-kart during a go-kart race with Rusty Wallace.  A few month later Tony would ride again only to skid into a wall.

Tony Danza really is teaching an English class for a reality show on A&E, which may be the most retarded idea since the Pet rock.

Tony Danza really does have a blog, called Daily Danza, and its dedicated to his favorite thing in the world.  Himself.

Look at this douchey tattoo:

Lawl:

love,

iR

Furries: Blind Retardation

Wearing a fur suit use to be something pimple faced nerds and thirty something pedophiles did to entertain snot nosed kids and make a little bit of money, but these days it has taken on a perversion far worse than clown fucking, or pedophilia.  It involves fur suits, something called 'yiffing' and the people who love them both.  These retards, know as furries (or simply furrytards) are individuals who enjoy and often want to be anthropomorphic creatures, which are beings with animalistic qualities, but are still very much human; they can talk and walk around on two feet and even wear human clothes.  To become these animals, many develop 'fursonas' or alternate personalities in which they act and look (with the help of fur costumes called 'fursuits') like the animal they wish to be.

Essentially there are two types of furries.  Furry Type A and Furry Type B.

Fury Type A is predominately made up of people who feel that furrydom is a chance to let out that inner beast trapped inside of them.  These sad sorry souls feel that they were perhaps a bear in a past life, or should have been born one, and the only way - they feel- to express this inner urge is to dress up in a retarded bear costume and start scratching, clawing, and roaring like one.  Others live whole lives through these fur suits, establishing their own characters and storyline, whether alone in their rooms or online with an entire community of other furrytards on forums or in chat rooms.  For most of them, its a chance to escape the harsh reality of being a pathetic nobody that no one really likes. . .

Like Wendy Brooks, age thirty-six, of Minneapolis Minnesota, a single woman who has not yet married and never really had a boyfriend.  She spends her days drawing pictures of her wolf character with a dull number two pencil.  She wants nothing more than a bunch of children, "a pack' all of her own, but in the real world she can't seem to get any man to look at her.  Her fox character, Kefi Wolf Kittens is attractive and a creature of high nobility, a strong, loving creature in tune with nature.

A creature very much unlike Wendy Brooks.

Why must Kefi Wolf Kittens roam this world alone?  WHY?!

She knows Kefi Wolf Kittens can earn her any upright walking half-man-half-wolf she wants, only there aren't many around her area - only simple Minnesotans.  She blames it on the harsh terrain.  She knows however, that one day, 'he' will come, trotting in, his tail wagging, and he will come and lick her face and they'll go and live happily ever after.

Until then, she'll just have to keep drawing. . . 

Furry Type B is far more demented.  These furries have psychological hangups after horrible sexual encounters with men/women in fur suits when they were children at carnivals, theme parks, Chuck-E-Cheese, etc.  They too have furry characters for many of the same reasons as Furry Type A - but they differ in that they prefer to don animal costumes and act like that animal, so that they may fuck other people in animal costumes, as that animal would do if it were out in the wild.  For some, their sexual perversions extend far beyond that, and for the sake of my own sanity, and yours, I'll forgo mentioning them here.  These people, however, are more like Linda Madson, age twenty-six, of Kansas.  Her inner furry isn't even a real animal, its a unicorn.  Linda likes to pose provocatively for the camera, and post them on the internet.  She gets a real kick out of it, and often finds many furry partners this way, including her current boyfriend: a squirrel.  When she's not looking for other furries to hook up with, she's checking out furry porn, refreshing up on some furry erotic literature, or gazing fondly at x-rated renditions of all of her favorite childhood cartoon characters.

Linda's boyfriend, Chip, a squirrel says that when he first saw this photo he just knew he had to have her, and quite frankly, we here at iR understand completely. . . How can you not have a massive boner looking at this?

When asked why her inner furry was a unicorn, Linda calmly paused and blinked dumbly as if it wasn't already obvious.  "I've always loved unicorns.  They're so pretty. . . I've always believed in unicorns."  She said.  "Like I think they are really real, just that no one ever sees them because they don't believe in them.  You gotta believe to see, and I think there's a whole world out there, that like, nobody can see because like, they just don't believe."  Yes, Linda Madson is a real special gal/unicorn, and her boyfriend is one lucky guy/squirrel.

Avatar

The fact that Avatar is about a crippled guy in a wheelchair who is able to enter into (by some bit of Hollywood mumbo-jumbo) a twelve foot tall blue fish person with both animal and human characteristics (even a tail) made Avatar a fucking furry's wet dream.  The entire idea of becoming something you're not, something better than you are, and better than you means some type of animal creature, is right up a furry's alley.  It dramatizes the experience, one glorious furry nut shot after another, and in glorious IMAX 3D!

Which leads one to wonder. . .

Is James Cameron a fucking furry?

City of Champions/Superheroes

Furrytards like to claim that many superheroes are furrys in spandex, as seen with characters like Catwoman and Batman, for instance.  This unfortunate connection between superheroes and furries has developed an entire spawn of superhero furries, developed by furries, for furries.  This means talking animals who walk upright and love to have sex with one another in between dangerous missions with dramatic repercussions, and they have superpowers like fire balls they can shoot out of their eyes, and x-ray vision and other silly shit like that.  These moody bastards will most often sit online playing roleplaying games, where they will just roleplay with them and their "pack" - a collection of other similar minded furry tards - and attack anyone who interrupts them with fire balls and mind powers.

Go away, mere. . . human.

Balazar barked - his tailed whipping about him like a black tail that whips with a blackness like that of a dark black night.  His pack gathered around him as gatherers do, around something, the women purring like kittens safe behind their furred protector.

Balazar growled - "once again, go away mere. . . human!"

Entourage and Television
Furries on television are not received well and rightfully so.  Entourage, The Drew Carrey Show, ER, and others have all made fun of furries with hilarious results.  It is these shows that lead furries to believe that much of their exposure has been skewed.  To them, they feel that they aren't as obsessed with sex as television has made them out to be, even though much of the furry experience is sexual, and can include such perversions as:

• vorarephilia - a sexual fetish where arousal occurs from the idea of being eaten or by the process of eating
• macrophelia - a sexual fetish involving giants
• paraphilic infatilism - a sexual fetish where arousal comes from the desire to, or act of wearing diapers (baby furs)
• pregnancy fetishism - a sexual fetish where arousal occurs from the image or idea of woman in their pregnancy (pregnant furs)
• plushophilia - sexual arousal towards stuffed animals
• infantophilia - sexual arousal toward inflated objects
• toonopphilia - sexual arousal toward anime or cartoon characters
• bestiality - sex with animals
• etc. etc. furries have many kinks

Aside from these anti-fur, furry haters, several production companies do exist, that are run and maintained by furries.  These film companies serve as a visual hub for the entire furry community.  Their films run anywhere from furry service announcements, news shows, convention specials, all the way up to straight up furry porn.  Most of their work is hardly if ever seen by normal human eyes, but if you were to see their work, you would probably find its friendlier versions on Youtube.  SEE?

Mascot folk... lawl

When they aren't making their fursuits, pretending to have claws, and/or drawing photos of their 'fursona's, furries somehow find a way to get together in such large masses that they necessitate an entire convention center.  Their conventions bring furrytards from all over the world (furrydom is apparently a world wide epidemic) to chat about the wonderful world that is furrydom.

Cities that do offer to host these conventions often report a rise in pet sodomy cases when the 'furry folk' come to town. . .

The largest furry incarnation is Anthrocon, held annualy in the shithole that is Pittsburgh.  Anthrocon is held every July and averages a little over three-thousand members each year.  The convention features many furry artists and writers, as well as furry lovers of all shapes and sizes.  It has honored such important furrytards as Dan Decario, creator of Josie and the Pussy Cats, Peter Lairo, co-creator of The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and the like.  The Anthrocon is popular because of its groundbreaking concepts, one of which is called The Zoo.  The Zoo is a sectioned of plot of the convention center, where furry attendees can just simply "lounge freely, eat and drink, rest, draw, and chat" in a sort of animal corral for all to enjoy.  Another concept is the Furry Run, where all furry contests compete in a relay race around the convention center.

Over conventions include FurCon, held in San Jose each January, and CaliFur, found right here in Southern California.  Other events include the Rocky Mountain Parade, a full length parade for furries to show their strength in the rigid Colorado Rockies.

Other less known conventions occur yearly, and are known about only by people in the community, as many of the acts that take place during these conventions are not only completely disgusting but also highly illegal.  In 2008, thirty-nine furry conventions took place around the world, exceeding sixteen-thousand attendees and more than two-hundred-and-fifty highly illegal acts.

So it all started with Josie and the Pussycats, but it wasn't all that bad, right?  I mean they are humans, they just happen to wear costumes with animal ears and tails, and that's still mostly human right?  And they are in fact girls, so you couldn't be that fucked up in the head, could you?  But then you remembered when you were a kid and how much you liked Loony Toons, how you liked it more than most kids, and in a different way.  It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, and safe, and happy, so much so that you still watch it today.  Watching it always helps you remember those good times you had, like that time when you were seventeen and you went with the family to Disneyland, because of the younger kids of course, and how you all took that family photo with Mickey and Minnie, and you remember how Mickey put his arm around you, and how it felt so good. . . felt so good. . . And you looked into his eyes, and you wanted to look forever.

And then there was that time with that inflatable pool raft shaped like a cow. . .

And that time when you watched Disney's Robin Hood and hoped that that fox version of Robin Hood would come and take you away. . . 

And then you started drawing fox figures, and chatting with other fox lovers, and soon this turned into roleplaying and weird sexual acts pretending to be a half human half fox named Dark Wolfe, and soon the whole thing just got weirder and weirder. . . Soon you met a friend online who knew how to make full body fur suits, and you saved up all your money so that you could buy one. . .

Do you remember that first night you put it on?  That night you really became Dark Wolfe, for the first time?  Do you remember how you just howled and howled at the moon, and found solace in being a wolf. . 

So you think you're a furry?

Well unless you've entirely embarrassed your parents and gone through years of therapy, only to still be completely fucked up in the head, and your only friends are furries too, and in the second grade you had a giant crush on Marvin the Martian, and you write poetry or short stories about you and your pack, and then rekindled in the tenth grade that cruh you had on Marvin the Martian you had in second grade, then NO, you're not a furry.

You're just some douche bag asshole.

So you're a furry, I get it.  You like anthropomorphic creatures, but why must it all become so damn perverted?  You look for acceptance, and claim that you've become misrepresented by the media, but all anyone ever sees of you is demented in every degree.  Furries are involved in strange and unusual fetishes, many of which are frowned upon because furry love could easily be considered bestality. . . and what is to stop a person who thinks they are a dog to start going around fucking real dogs?  Beyond the bestiality aspect, furries also engage in many other different sexual fetishes that should remain just that - fetishes to be kept private and concealed from the every day world.  Nobody really cares to hear about how you love just the feeling of fur, about how it excites you, nor do they even want to know that it would be possible for any person to be turned on by the idea of dressing up like an animal and rubbing up on some furrrrr....

Your lifestyle is strange, and in a world where gay men can't even get married, you want to introduce a lifestyle that includes elements from childhood and elements from the deepest and most deranged of sex dungeons.  What creativity you do have is wasted on creepy fur suits that only a complete freak would find attractive and boring long winded furry fiction complete with utterly retarded hand drawn pictures of two fox people fucking.  Not only that but you've found a way to ruin it for us all, by finding a way to make Tony the Tiger attractive, or The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or any childhood mascot for that matter.

Wanting to be a tiger is cool, when you're like 7. . . And wanting to be someone that you aren't is fine, lots of everyday average people do it too, just most people keep it to themselves.  You guys however put all your shit out on the internet for all the world to see, and its not exactly something without any shock value  You put out video of you fucking and whining like dogs in giant dog suits, and you expect the average normal person to just accept that?  To not ponder what it takes for a person to become that diluted in life?  To worry about their children, and the possibility of furries spreading?

And it is for that reason alone, that iR declares furries to be blindly retarded.

Many furries are artsy people.  They like to draw and write stuff.  Many of them plague a website called DeviantArt.  It is a place for aspiring artists to show their artwork and maybe even make a little money off of it.  Unfortunately however, furries out number normal people on Deviant Art three to one, and are entirely responsible for most of the shit on the site. . . Shit like this:

More furry fan art can be found on Deviant Art, here.

Nazi Furs are furries who enjoy dressing up in fur suits and wearing WW2 Nazi regalia.  Although many of them do wear the Nazi arm bands, complete with SS uniforms, they claim not to be anti-Semitic.  

Babyfurs are furries who enjoy dressing up in fur suits and wearing baby bonnets/diapers.

Burned Furs are furries who have been shunned by their own community.  I shit you not, they have a term for it.

Furry fandom began became in 1980, at a science fiction convention, when a drawing of a character from a science fiction novel started a forum on anthropomorophic characters in science fiction novels.  

The beginning of the 80's is regarded as a popular time for furries, as it was during this time that a lot of anthropomorphic characters appeared in television shows and movies. . . These characters were of course targeted towards children, and not freaks with a passion for plush dolls. . . 

The furry community exists mostly online, with members only going fully into their fursona at conventions and parades.

Furry haters are called 'anti-furs'

Furries even have their own wikipedia, called wikifur. . . Because apparently even furries have no idea what they're are all about.

Some furries "may view animals with a kind of religious reverence, reminiscent of Buddhism, Shamanism, or Otherkin. . . funny I don't remember anything about having sex with animals in those religions, but then again I'm not what you would call a 'religious person.'

thats about it.

love,

iR

Crybabies - an NBA/TBS Production

In an effort to branch out and showcase the everyday lives of NBA stars, the National Basketball Association felt it fit to select a certain number of superstars and film them and their activities.  TBS graciously offered a time slot, and soon a loving relationship was born.  The show in question, titled "Crybabies" will be coming to TBS: Very Funny, this summer!

Lets meet the cast of Crybabies, shall we?

PAUL PIERCE - CRIES UNTIL HE GETS HIS JUICE

Whaaaaaa

The quaint little one stands, illuminated by the sun coming from the playroom window.  He looks out it, sipping some "apple juice" out of a juice box.  He is smiling and thoroughly enjoying himself.  He seems nice enough.  His juice box empties--SLURP--the juice is no more.  Little Paul Pierce smiles and keeps drinking, but when no more juice comes he realizes his dilemma and begins to cry, a fierce cry that annoys anyone within a fifty foot radius.  Paul wants his juice--he wants his Goddamn juice!  He cries and cries until he gets his juice and then he is fine again, as if nothing even happened.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Despite being a Boston Celtic, which alone makes him a crybaby, Paul Pierce gets "injured" more than most players do, but he seems to have a body which heals at super human rates.  That is to say that by the time he gets his way (2 foul shots) the "injury" is gone, and so are all the tears.  His main offense came during the 2008 NBA Finals, against the Los Angeles Lakers.  During one transition during Game 1 of the Finals, Paul Pierce was "injured."  He was "injured" so bad that he had to be carried off the court by his teammates, as he grimaced and acted delirious.  Where am I Kev?  One would think he shattered a leg. . . no.  Not quite.  He came back 15 minutes later and proceeded to drain 3 threes in a row.

His bitch out had earned him a standing ovation from the Boston crowd, as they no doubt saw him as a real warrior, and not a real whiny bitch.  How did he come back from such a horrible injury so quickly?  I mean he couldn't walk before, but now after just 15 minutes he can run up and down the court and drain threes like he wasn't even hurt at all. . . How did he do it?

Simple, because baby Pierce wasn't hurt, he just needed his "juice," thats all.

GLEN "BIG BABY" DAVIS - HIS HUGGIES ARE THE MOST FULL OF SHIT

Is KG comin?

In the center of the room a drooling giant man baby sits alone.  The mild smell of shit emanates around him, a faint rotten smell that comes up when you least expect it.  His name is Glen Davis, and nobody really likes him.  He thinks and drools and thinks about how nobody likes him, so he cries.  He cries and shits his diapers, which makes everyone dislike him even more.  

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

He actually cried.  

On T.V.  

During a game.  

One game Kevin Garnett, his teammate (who isn't exactly the most frndly guy in the world) had some harsh words for Davis during a timeout.  Davis didn't like it much and responded by walking away and throwing a temper tantrum on the bench, complete with cursing, violent towel abuse/manipulation, and actual man baby tears. . . Man baby tears that must have tasted so sweet, mmm yes.

STEPHEN JACKSON - GANGSTA BABY

Even the playroom has its dangerous areas, and mostly because of little baby Stephen Jackson.  He's claimed his territory and walks back and forth, a gun sticking out of the back of his diaper.  He's also claimed all of his toys, and if anyone thinks about taking any of them, not only will he cry, but he'll blast you in the face a couple of times with his 9 millimeter.  He's good bud's with only one other crybaby in the room. . . 

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Aside from whining on the court, off the court Stephen Jackson whines a shit load lot too.  After not getting his way at a club he got into an altercation with some of the staff and fired several shots from a gun he kept concealed on him.  He claimed it was self defense, but a jury saw it differently.  He was found guilty of reckless endangerment and was suspended 7 games from the NBA season for his retardation involving the law.  Later that year Jackson was involved in the infamous brawl with NBA Fans, an act of bitchery that only got him suspended for 30 games. . .  His behavior on the court has also earned him more ejections than I care to try and remember, but two of them are worth mentioning in that they both came during the playoffs, both occasions costing his team a victory.

RASHEED WALLACE - BABY BALD SPOT

I can count to dis many!

In one corner of the playroom baby Rasheed Wallace and lil Stevie Jackson stand in the corner, sneaking hits from a spliff during an imaginary game of Cops and Robbers.  They like their version of the game, because in theirs there are no cops--only spliff smoking robbers.  Sometimes Stephen doesn't play by Rasheed's rules, so Rasheed cries, and refuses to share his sticky icky with him.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

In 12 minutes of basketball, Rasheed Wallace does 10 minutes of complaining and whining, wondering why it is he got a foul when the he didn't even touch the guy - why is he bleeding?  I dunno, a cut just spontaneously formed on his upper lip. . . Not to mention Rasheed Wallace leads the NBA with a record 304 technical fouls, and has set a record for most technical fouls in a season with 40.  

Rasheed was also suspended 40 games for threatening a referee after a home game.  It is reported that he followed the man, and threatened him with physical violence if he "didn't shape up."   But Rasheed's criticalness of refereeing is no secret, in Game 5 of the 2008 playoffs Rasheed Wallace went off on a tirade that would make any sailor proud: "All that bullshit-ass calls they had out there.  With Mike and Kenny--you've all seen that shit, you saw them calls.  The cats are flopping all over the floor and they're calling that shit.  That shit aint basketball out there.  It's all fucking entertainment.  You all should know that shit.  It's all fucking entertainment."

Dis cat got more whine than Napa Valley.

AMAR'E STOUDEMIRE: THE SHIT-TALKER

Another baby sits by himself in the playroom.  Hes got a fire truck and dinosaur.  They are his two favorite toys and he likes to make them charge one another head on.  He also likes to make the noise the carnage would make if such a beast were ever to crash with a fully equipped fire truck.  He does it again and again.  the dinosaur always loses, and he always says "Fucking fire twuck. . . you just got lucky.  Bitch-ass fire twuck. . ."  He likes cursing out the other crybabies too, especially if he feels like they are out performing him.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

After losing game 1 of the 2010 Western Conference Finals to the Los Angeles Lakers, Amar'e stated that Lamar Odom (who had a great game) had a "lucky game," and that talent was not involved in his performance whatsoever.  He further stated that he "use to handle him before big brother came along," 'him' being Andrew Bynum, 'big brother' being Pau Gasol.  What a poor sport.

And like a true bitch he followed suit, and was handled once again in game 2, yet when asked about the Lakers performance he had nothing but nice things to say. . . Perhaps he received a time out/good smacking after game 1.  But bitching is no new thing to Amar'e Stoudemire, he has a long extensive history of it, all the way back to his school yard days playing on blacktops.  And the Lakers certainly aren't his only target, after losing The Spurs, he cried to media that both Bruce Bowen and Manu Ginobli were "dirty players."

TIM DUNCAN: EVERY MOTHER'S DREAM

Hewwo?

On a chair sits a crybaby with enormous ears.  they stick out and are the size of a full grown man's ears.  They don't look like they belong on the baby, but nonetheless he finds a way to live with them.  The baby's name is Tim Duncan, and he's actually quite boring.  Especially for a baby.  He doesn't do much, so when blame is pointed in his direction he raises holy hell and pleads the fifth.  He makes a look as if he were the most innocent angel in the room, which is clearly, not always the case.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Picture in your mind for a moment, Tim Duncan of the San Antonio Spurs.  What is he doing?  Complaining.  He's got his arms extended, his shoulders up in a perpetual shrug, his eyes bugged out and his mouth wide open. . . He's pleading his case, for the millionth time.  When he gets called for a foul he acts so shocked you would think the referee just accused him of raping some white women.

During the playoffs his bitching is only intensified, as this big bastard has to content with yet another year of critics saying he hasn't got the stuff to win a champion, not without 'The Admiral' David Robinson.  My favorite move of his is when he grabs the ball as if it were the head of the referee - his knuckles are white, his fingers extended - if only it were your throat you bastard - his eyes bugged out, pleading his case as always. . . I got all ball, see all ball!

What the hell my name aint Kobe!

SHAQUILLE O'NEAL: BIGGEST CRYBABY IN THE GAME

Another massive baby takes up a whole corner of his own.  He occasionally runs around pretending he's flying around like Superman.  When he's done he sits down and stares at you for minutes on end.  If you ask him what he's up to, Baby Shaw will tell you he's using his "x-ray" vision.  Everyone tends to his needs, because when he gets upset, a lot of things tend to get broken.  

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

The entire Shaq/Kobe thing toward the end of their falling out.  Not only did he whine and complain about Kobe Bryant but after he was gone, he often made fun of his former teammate.  On some occasions, when asked about Bryant, he acted like he did not even exist.  Kobe who?

He's been described as a big kid - he's got lots of toys and money, and like any kid with lots of toys and money Shaq is a selfish, spoiled, little brat, who just so happens to not be very little.  This can be seen on the court during any game, regardless of the team he is playing for.  He cries yet he gets away with more shit than he's ever caught for, simply because of his massive size, for upsetting Shaq is much like poking a large gorilla with a stick: it isn't going to end well.

Yet the collective minds at NBA TV and TBS are no fools, they wouldn't let a whole show rest squarely on a bunch of cry babies. . .  Oh no they have their own nanny, if you will. . . This guy:

PHIL JACKSON - THE MENTOR

The man's resume speaks for its self.  Phil Jackson is a fucking winner.  With his degree in psychology and mastery of dealing with big whiny babies and massive egos makes him perfect for the job.  Will Phil be able to turn around these crybabies, or will they forever be sniffling little bitches?

Tune into to TBS, Very Funny, this summer to find out!

iR

Get it?  Its a muppet babies spoof....

Parkour, Because Skateboarding Wasn't Painful Enough

In the concrete jungle, grown men like monkeys swing from lamp poles, releasing into mid-air twists over benches; leapfrog from building to building, sometimes bridging 20 foot gaps; gallop down rooftops on all fours and run up walls.  They are members of an elite pedigree of human savagery, they are freerunners, or tracuers (male) traceuse (female.) Their game is parkour, a sort of poor man's version of skateboarding--without the skateboard-- fused with grace, retardation, and a willingness to possibly hurt one's self for absolutely no reason. It is explained as "the physical discipline of training to overcome any obstacle within one's path by adapting one's movements to the environment," but it is more like gymnastics without all the padding, just concrete.

In other words, if you were to run down the sidewalk and things came your way--perhaps an old lady--in parkour you wouldn't do the normal thing and run around her (wait, why the fuck are you running anyway?) no, you'd jump over her, or maybe kick her in the gut and use her as a launching pad for an awesome front flip which you'd cushion the impact of by going into a roll and then upon completion you'd keep on running, toward the next obstacle. . . Like this:

Weeding out retards one death at a time.

After that video is hard to disagree: parkour is fucking awesome.  Not only can it severely hurt you but its also technically illegal.  That building you're climbing like Spiderman belongs to someone else cheese head, and it looks really bad when-a-God-damn-motherfuckin'-upstart-family-run-business-just-trying-to-get-ahead-of-the-competition has a history of retards killing themselves there, all because the gaps there "look really cool."  People aren't really gonna wanna be shopping there, yah dig?  The act is called buildering, and businesses and law enforcement don't like it very much because it is dangerous and therefore retarded to engage in, and when you complete your act (that is if you don't injure yourself, or die) your prize is your own personal parade with you in the back of a squad car, and when the parade is over, you get your own personal party, in a 10 by 10 cell room with concrete floors, iron bars, and a couple of big mean party guests.

For he's a jolly good fellow. . .

And then they fucking rape you.

For he's a jolly good fellow. . .

Can you parkour through those bars and get away?

For he's a jolly good fellloooowww. . . 

Didn't think so.

Which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny. . .

The whole parkour thing started with David belle, a man with military training, as well as an extensive knowledge of gymnastics.  That's right, this guy can tackle the pommel horse and kill ten terrorists at the same time.

Like this. . .

In 1997, after years of looking like a moron jumping over guard rails and climbing up walls, David Belle had amassed enough footage of his "work" to comprise it together into a highlight reel for the media.  This was the spark that lit the gas fumes of retardation perspired by an empty generation of bored ass people, and although boys and girls in Europe knew all about parkour, it wasn't known globally until David Belle and the news networks got together to showcase this strange yet somehow exciting? world of street gymnastics.  And even then, it wasn't really well known, and still isn't, not really.  Regardless, it is somehow popular enough that a very select few number of people in the parkour community can actually make a living doing parkour, but how much they actually make in regards to this endeavor is unknown.

Despite these few tracuers,  part of the parkour philosophy focuses greatly on community, and not sport competition and rivalry.  The philosophy finds these aspects to be harmful to the sport and its competitors.  Instead it works on the philosophy that one can peer pressure their friends into doing stupid, potentially dangerous things everyone knows they're incapable of doing: all you have to do is push hard enough.  Other theories include that parkour is an expression of freedom for troubled youths "bogged down" by the big city, one which breaks down physical barriers and creates a proficiency of energy and movement and life maaan.

Parkour still today remains hardly noticed.  MTV however recently made an attempt to bring parkour to a certain market, while at the same time utilizing the show to promote even more shitty music.  The show was called The Ultimate Parkour Challenge, and featured some of the best, most "well known" tracuers in the game, including on guy who did everything on his hands, an albino gorilla who could run on all fours, leap, climb walls, everything.  Despite being parkour a show, it completely disregarded the very foundations of parkour, in that it was a competition, in which the winner won an obscure amount of money.  *I believe 5k.

Nobody watched the show, and besides it wasn't all that impressive.  The competitors, though varied in style and skill, often hurt themselves.  One hit his head jumping a gap between to roofs, and had to be wheeled off in an ambulance.  Another hit the side of a train car as if he were flung out of a cannon - he attempted to jump from the top of one box car to a ladder fashioned to the side of another car 15 feet away.  He totally ate shit and iron bars of the ladder acted much like a cheese grater - his skin was the cheese, and he too, had to be wheeled off in ambulance.  Thirdly, another contestant tried to span a 12 foot fence, but didn't - just went straight into it, he was not wheeled off in an ambulance, but did need medical attention.

Damn this parkour stuff seems dangerous...

Besides, every essential component of parkour had been showcased in that one episode, with its winner taking the shows entire budget (bad call there on who ever decided the density of the purse) there was no reason to do another episode.  Good riddance.

Today parkour lives on in obscurity.  

You probably only know of it because of The Office anyway.

So You Think You're a Tracuer?

You've got a friend willing to film you, you've seen all the videos on youtube and have been practicing in your bedroom for weeks. . . But now its time to venture out and prove to the world that you are a real, true to life tracuer.  You don the official uniform of a tracuer, a t-shirt and shorts, for protection, in case you slip and fall on rocks or concrete.  You've mapped out your route, (sitting on the bench, dash off, jump catch the fence, off, hurdle, another hurdle, balance down the top of the daring 1 foot tall wall the thick one, off onto the pole, over the puddle. . .) you know the exact camera angles you want to use. . . Now its just time to do it.

Months of training have lead up to this moment. . .

Let the camera roll.

So close. . .

So you think you're a tracuer?  

You're not.  The only people who are tracuers are the ones who are good, there isn't anyone who's just mediocre at parkour, because if you're just mediocre it means that you're bound to break your ankles, that is, if you haven't already.

In Conclusion

Parkour promotes efficiency of movement, as if to save time, while at the same time stresses being "safe."  But if I really wanted to do that, wouldn't I use the stairs as they were intended to be used?  Wouldn't I just walk down them, instead of hurdling over them?  Certainly, using structures as they were intended to be used is the safest and most efficient way to use them, or ones own 'energy.'  Surely its awful hard to hurt owns self going down stairs, clumsiness and attempted murder aside, so what's all this efficiency and ease of movement bullshit?

Why not come clean?

Why not just say, parkour is a sport for retards who like to do crazy things that could possibly injure them or kill them. . . If you like to do it because you like to do it, then fine, more power to yah, but when you try and come up with some bullshit philosophy as to why you like climbing up buildings and jumping off them, then you're just being blind to you're own retardation.  Furthermore, you're sport is entirely dangerous, yet the preferred attire is similar to one one would wear when playing tennis, short shorts and a tee.

And it is for this main reason that iR declares parkour, blindly retarded.


Futher Retardation


Parkour requires no equipment, just a damaged brain.

The official uniform of a tracuer is a t-shirt and shorts, and comfortable running shoes. . . No other protection is given.

Professional tracuers make a living doing television advertisements and news reports.

Some tracuers actually perform their feats barefooted.

The moves of parkour are based mostly around animals, for instance the Equilibre de chat, translated to Cat balance, is literally the balance a traucer has when on all fours. . . Saut de chat  translates to cat pass/jump, or monkey vault.

Parkour rarely if ever, gets you laid.

Parkout.Net is the home of the parkour campaign to preserve parkour's philosophy against sport competition and rivalary.

A Case of Herpes: Much Like Tila Tequila

Aint nothing in the world that can't be fixed by a fresh bowl of meth amphetamine.  It can make you forgive that time in your life when you fell in love with the surgeon's blade; it can help you look at yourself without really looking.  It makes it easy not to realize everything in your life is phony, including your prized silicone breasts.  It also helps if you're fucking retarded, as is Miss Tila Tequila.

When waking in the morning her first duty is to put on her face, because as stated before, nothing about her is natural.  This process takes anywhere from forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on the look she happens to be going for that day.  Today's look:  Trashy Slut.  With her look intact she heads to her computer, to write for her "celebrity gossip blog."  She often addresses her fans as her Tila Army, and when logging on for the first time she usually thinks of the glory days of Myspace, when she could easily keep count of her ranks simply by looking at her friends list.

These days things weren't so great.

AFter tapping into her muse - meth amphetamine, she gets to adding her latest bit of celebrity gossip, a dreary bit of vocal diarrhea made worse in that its written down, a rotten bit of text that hurts your brain the moment you try and read it:

WHOOO!!

I'VE BEEN SO BUSY LATELY!  EVERYBODY IS ALREADY TALKING ABOUT MISS TILA!  WATCH OUT PIGGIE PEREZ! LOL!

Things had gone awry somewhere.  A failed singing career, a failed stint on television, a failed modeling career, and now the last attempt for some bit of obscure fame rested squarely on her shoulders under the job title:  Celebrity Blogger.

LOL!  YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN LINDSAY LAST NIGHT!!  WE ALL SAW HER YOU KNOW WHAT!  LOLOL AND TILA WOULD DEFINITELY GET ON THAT!  TOO BAD SHE'S A JUNKIE THOUGH!   HAHA SHE KEPT LOOKING LIKE SHE WAS GOING TO THROW UP AND WAS STUMBLING AROUND EVERYWHERE!  I'M DIRTY BUT NOT LIKE THAT!  LOL!

Nothing but reaching out for the limelight, a quest to be constantly noticed, even if that means being noticed as a complete moron.  More hits from the muse.  Blue smoke and the smell of something rotten.

AND A CERTAIN FRIEND OF MINE, WHO'S VEYR WELL CONNECTED (obviously, he knows you Tila) SAYS THAT A CERTAIN FEMALE CELEBRITY KNOWN FOR HAVING A CERTAIN ABNORMALLY LARGE BODY PART, LOL!  IS ACTUALLY CHEAP AND RETURNS ALL OF HER CLOTHES AFTER JUST WEARING THEM ONCE!  I THOUGHT SHE HAD ASS...ETS.  LOL!

Nothing but a shitty blog writer picking on celebrities with whom she holds some sort of retarded grudge.  Her gossip stories are all from "friends" (probably imaginary ones) that have about as much redibility as an iR blog.  Fallen and as low as Perez Hilton.  The scum of the fucking earth.

WELL THIS UPDATE SURE IS GETTING LONG!  I HAVE TO LEARN NOT TO SAY SO MUCH!  I'M GETTING SO LIGHT HEADED!

MUCH LUV MY TILA ARMY!

XOXOXO MISS TILA!

The light coming through the shade meets with Tila's face, the prolonged exposure causing it to melt like wax. She shifts into the comfort of the cool shade and takes another hit of meth amphetamine.

Too much sun Tila, too much sun!

She slips off to sleep, to dream up Tila dreams, of bondage teddy bears and cotton candy.  As she sleeps the real world goes on, and in the real world she's not respected by anyone with a brain.  Her celebrity blogs only further serve herself and her love of herself as most of the material is about her, its merely dispersed with the sprinklings of total ramblings from a complete and utter retard.  In the real world, she's a has been that never really was.  At 18 she got her first job as a model for Playboy magazine - she had that Vietnamese hooker look that's been popular ever since the early 70's.  Her entire career was catapulted from mediocrity to toal retardation when she found a happy home for herself on Myspace.  She became somewhat of a 'Myspace celebrity' a fact that isn't all the surprising when considering the fact that the majority of Myspace users have been clinically proven to be retarded.  She essentially became famous for being famous, much like a similar plastic Barbie doll by the name of Paris Hilton.  With her newfound fame she took up a shitty music career I have had the luxury of not hearing a single note of.  Her singles "I Love U" and "Stripper Friends"  both failed to chart, and after many legal battles with the company who produced her only album:  "Sex: Tila Tequila," the album was shit canned and then released and then shit canned and then released only to have absolutely no one give a shit.  As recent as last month, (April 2010) Tila released another single that no one really ever listened to called "I Fucked the DJ," and is said to be coming out with another album entitled Welcome to the Darkside, slated to appear sometime in 2010.

Her T.V. career started on the reality show Surviving Nuget, a show which comprised of many scared and retarded contestants (Tila being one of them,) and one crazy-out-of-his-mind celebrity named Ted Nuget.  After losing the show, what followed was a given for any "celebrity" slipping into the waking void: a Vh1 reality dating show.  Being a highly diluted and egotistical person, it was a perfect match for Tila, as Vh1 pooled 32 of the country's most retarded individuals and put them to work vowing for her affection.  Tila loved the attention naturally.  The show differed from other reality dating shows in that Tila claims to be bisexual, so the contestants were both male and female.  The show pissed off a lot of Chrisitans and Asians, who became big targets for Tila and her rambling blogs, but shome how, despite all the slack and bullshit and lack of interesting material, the show lasted a whole two seasons.  At the end of the second season, Tila picked a girl named Kristy Morgan to be her "shot at love," but Kristy turned her down. . . Well aint that a bitch.

Tila's career in television isn't just limited to reality television, she's also completely willing to appear as herself on shows that are openly mocking her.  MadTV, The Clevaland Show, and Robot Chicken have all written her in in rather unsavory roles as herself, and she's so starved for attention she didn't mind appearing in any of them.

And then of course, she disappeared for awhile.  Not that she was ever really around.

Tila was only around in wrinkled magazines under troubled youths' mattresses.  Tila was only around on broken down iPods once owned by junkies who either died in the streets or ended up crazy or in the slammer.  Tila was only around in the remnants of her own personal blog, a ranting bit of madness coupled with shots of Asian beaver (for paying customers, of course.)  She was a faint whisper told from the mouth of a person with horribly bad breath.

Disappeared and petty.

This blog game just gotta make me.

And it is for these reasons, and her inability to ever die or go away, that iR declares Tila Tequila, repetitively retarded.

Further Retardation

Is pregnant with a boy.

Is planning on adopting a child from Haiti.

Has her own record label called Tila Tequila Records.

Has her own management firm called Little Miss Trendsetter Management LLC.

She became a model in California because of her "violent adolescence," in Texas.

Claims her nickname Tila Tequila came about when she started experimenting with alcohol at the age of 13.

Ha sher own book Hooking up with Tila Tequila:  A Guide to Love, Fame, Happiness, Success, and Being the Life of the Party.

Her celebrity blog is called MissTilaOMG!

iR

Farmville: Sad Retardation

By noon the men outside are already dripping with sweat.  Tired yet knowing their work is far from finished, they break only for lunch.  They eat outside near their unfinished work, some too tired to even clear a space out on the ground.

"You know."  One of them says, looking up from his sandwich.  His eyes are bright amongst a dirt stained face.  Its wrinkled from time spent out in the sun.  "The wife been complaining about the family."  He spat.  "Got some relatives from the city, from . . Ell. . . Aye. . . some girl that refuses to do work.  Don't wanna work none.  Too busy on the computer playin' some damn thing called Farm - Villll."

"Farm what?"  Another asks.

"Farm - villll."  The other replies.

"What's it 'bout."

"I don't try and understand it none, but 'pparently its 'bout farmin'."

"Well if that aint the dumbest thing I ever heard. . . Hey Randy you ever hear anything as dumb as that?"

"No, and I spend lots of time 'round you."  Randy says.  They laugh.

"What do city folks know about farming?"

"I don't suppose nothin'.  But they do say it requires the Dee-Es-El."

"The what?"

They all have a good laugh.  Down the street in a humble home with a beat up wooden front porch the man's wife tends to the stove.  Although she had started early preparing dinner, she's behind schedule and is preoccupied with a relative from out of town.  A little thing with pig tails and the demeanor of a "rotten vulture, a rotten vulture she is, I tell yah..."

"Off that blasted thing."  She yells.  "Off!"  There's work to be done."  She calls out into the other toom but no answer comes.  "God damn that blasted thing, Lucy."

Lucy's mouse clicks.  This is her planting a new crop.  Outside her cousin grunts.  This is him planting a new crop.

"Its downright disrespectful, Lucy.  To be so lazy when your family is outside working so."

Lucy's straw slurps.  This is her drinking soda.  Outside her cousin coughs dryly.  This is him dying of thirst.

"God dam Lucy. . . You're wasting everyone's time."

This is common sense nagging.

What plagues Lucy so?

In Farmville you pay money for fake crops and tell all your friends about it!  Its really awesome!

FarmVille, a legal drug manufactured by Zynga.org, one which is most often used by retards.  Zynga.org was founded by Mark Pincus, a silicone head with a bullshit idea to "transform the world through gaming."  In reality Znga.org's slogan should change to "lining or pockets through gaming," as all of his games are nothing more than a profit making venture which utilizes the retardation of an entire generation.  (Or"transforming the world through gaming for the worse" will suffice.)  And its no real surprise, Mr. Pincus has an MBA from Havard Business School.  Pincus' venture generates money by offering intaginble computer generated products to its gamers in return for real-cold-hard-cash.  For instance in the case of FarmVille, users are offered the opportunity to spend real money in return for special imited edition crops and items that can then in turn be planted and used on their farms - features that non-paying gamers do not have access to.  No other perks can be found from purchasing these "crops," other than the ability to brag about them. . . But who the fuck actually brags about having imaginary crops?  Well certainly the same people who would spend real money to buy something that is tangible only on the computer screen.  Retards, yes: these people are actually bartering something real for something that is entirely imaginary.

And the best part is, there's no way to really win at FarmVille.  There are no objectives other than to plant crops. . .  It is a life long game in which retards become to daily financial backers.

Aside from selling imaginary things to generate real life money, Zynga.org and FarmVille also utilize the social networking sites they run on.  Whenever gamers level up or receive new items/plant new crops, they're given the opportunity to publish these events on their social networking sites, for all of their friends to see.  This of course creates more potential gamers, and more potential money.  This mode of business in turn essentially makes all of its gamers nothing more than spammers and total asshole who become advertisers for the game, advertisers that actually PAY Zynga.org to advertise FOR THEM.  More users in turn generates more revenue - both from "in game features" and traffic through the use of ads.

And one of its most succesful "games," in this regard, is none other than FarmVille.

But why is it popular?

Because its nothing like real farming.

Aside from the fact that crops need to be watered regularly (using a computer's internal clock to register when crops are "planted" and in turn when they are "in need of water" hours later) Farmville is nothing at all like farming.  The fact that the game utilizes time management only furthers its retardation, as some players are actually giving up real social appointments to "maintain crops in need of water," and tend to farm animals that are "in need of care."  Its one of their 20 plus games which fully utilize (I.E. spam) nearly every social networking site/application, and also allows the option for its gamers to "share the experience" of the game, whether it be through Myspace.com, Facebook.com, My Yahoo, MSN Messenger, or cellphones, including applications for the dreaded-and-all-powerful-pompous-communication tool, the iPhone.

FarmVille and its other sister games are all described as life-simulators, particularly by Zynga.org.  The fervor generated by them and the utter time wasted by them makes them cancerous to the human body - the human way of life.  When considering the fact that people spend more than five minutes on these things, it must be a fraction of a growing preference toward simulated worlds.  This is further proven by the fact that people spend real money of virtual items, giving imaginary things worth.  It is a problem that began with World of Warcraft Douchetards, but was never fully utilized until Zynga.org came along with its mission to connect the world through gaming.  

What a crock.

And it is for these reasons that iR declares FarmVille, Zynga.org, and all of its products to be Sadly Retarded.

Further Retardation

Zynga.org boasts 70 million users a day.

19 Zynga games are featured on Facebook

8 on Myspace

1 on the iPhone

1 on MSN Messenger

Zynga.org's founder doesn't even play games. . . he's got a separate company that handles the actual game work. . . he just counts all the money.

A boy in the United Kingdom ran up a bill of over 900 pounds on his mother's credit card playing FarmVille, without his mother knowing.  When she found out she tried to get a refund, but Zynga refused, basically saying "be a better mother next time, and it won't happen again."

On any given day 500,000 tractors are sold in the game FarmVille. . . at 20.00 USD a piece, thats a lot of fucking money for a lot of fucking NOTHING.

Love,
iR