The Adventures of Evi and Randy Quaid

Randy and Evi's first adventure can be read here.  

They're laughing at the judicial system.

In April, Randy and Evi Quaid ran out on a hotel bill in California, and a court case much like a circus ensued, as Randy with a Santa's beard, and Evi with the eyes of a demented bird fought against their accusers. Golden Globes were presented as witnesses and were spoken to by Evi, and although no one had any idea what they had to do with the case, everyone knew one thing for sure: that these two were Fruity Loops. Loopy.  Crazy.  Insane.  Out there.  Wacky. . .  Retarded.  So naturally they lost their case, but celebrity status had saved them from any real punishment: they were required to do nothing but community service. . . But now, they've up and done it again, and this time, they've done a similar job on a hotel in Texas. . . Texas, where the boys of the Cibolo Creek Ranch gather now to tell stories of them, in the dirt and the dust and the boiling heat. . .

"I hear the Santa lookin' feller is real crazy."  The boy spat.  "They says he can act, but I saw him in that Chevy Chase movie t'other day in Ma's trailer.  Talk about a real goof."

"I hear he won a Golden Globe, and now all his wife does is talk to it."

"Yeah, I heard that."  Another said.

"What do you suppose an inanimerated objuct like that says?"

"Prolly nothin'."

"Then whys do you suppose she talks to it."

"Fer company.  Don't you know anything?  Crazy people always have to have something to talk to.  Most often its inanimerated objects, on account of them being so crazy.  Just like you said."

"You sure?"

"As sure as they's both crazy.  Look."  The boy pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.  "I hear em talking so I went to see for myself, and lookee here, its their bill.  And its got all kinds of strange requests. . ." He handed it to the other boy who looked at it in bewilderment.

"Five pounds of turkey. . . Four pounds of bacon. . ."  He read them off, one by one, slow and steady.  "Ten jars of mayonnaise. . . Seven towels. A bathrobe.  Fifteen pairs of socks. . . Eighteen quarts of whiskey. . . Five jars of pickles?  A hogs head?  A barrel of nails?  What for?  A hundred oranges. . . One hundred and fifty feet of rope?  A pick ax? Twenty copies of Vegas Vacation?  Do we even got most of this stuff?"

"No'm.  But its really somethin' aint?"

"Sure is. . ."

"But there's more."  The one boy smiled.  "'Parently the lady got some dirt on Dad and the hotel.  She said something silly like how she saved a'couple of camels from being destroyed by some 18 wheeler Fed Ex truck, and all the ranch hands just stood and laughed."

This is true.  In light of being sued once again for running up and out on a 24,000 dollar bill at the Cibolo Creek ranch with her husband, Evi decided to bring up a little dirt on the place, in hopes of it helping her case. According to Evi she saved two camels from being run over by a mad man Fed-ex employee in an eighteen wheeler, and as she did so, ranch hands working for the hotel just stood there and laughed. . . No one knows what this has to do with the case, but hell, she's Evi Quaid: she tried to use her husband's Golden Globe as a witness in their last trial. Fruity Loops man.

"Well if that aint the dumbest thing I ever heard."  The other boy said  He couldn't help but laugh, and he didn't like laughing much, on account of it sounding so funny.  "There aint no camels in Texas!"

This is true.  Back in the 1850's, they tried to bring camels to Texas, and boy was it a big failure.  You see horses were dying due to dehydration, and mules couldn't quite keep up either, so some smart doucher decided that perhaps camels would be the solution, but alas, they couldn't handle the rocky terrain, so the idea was scrapped.  The only camels in Texas are kept in 'zoo's,' they hardly roam around like feral dogs. . .

"I know it."  The boy laughed.  "But it gets better too.  'Parently my old man used Randy Quaid to attract business!"

The boys laughed.

"Who's Randy Quaid?"  One asked amongst the laughter, which of course only fueled the hilarity.

"'Xactly my point, boys.  If my old man put anything about Randy Quaid coming to this here establishment, the titled read:  SANTA CLAUSE IS COMIN' TO TOWN!"

Even more laughter.

"No, but seriously, who's Randy Quaid?"  The curious boy still pondered.

"Oh you ninnie, he aint nobody.  Nobody.  His old lady too.  Theys both nobodies.  But they surely do think they's somebody.  Like a Bawnie or a Clyyyde.  Little lady left some note in their room too, reads like some sort of a calling."

"A calling, like with the phone?"  One boy asked.

"No, like an emm-ohh.  I hear all the good robbers do it.  Listen here to this."  And he read it.

The Ballad of Evi and Randy

We came for the sun,

We came together,

We came not on the run,

For things to get much better,

Our fingers have told our tale,

Leaving very little up to guess,

How we did fail,

We really didn't, but regardless,

Father time came back again

And so we've built up a bill

And though we haven't got a friend

We've still got our pills

The gold man has seen it all

Just like the last season

But this time he will heed the call

And tell all of our reason

The boy folded it up with precision and put it in his pocket.

"Aint that somethin'?"  He asked.

"Yeah."  

"You ever heard a song like that?"

"Maybe from a dying bird."  One boy said.

"Hah, it aint nooo song.  It's a po-em, you dummies."

"That aint no poem.  I know a better one."

There's a place in France,

Where the naked ladies dance,

There's a hole in the wall so the boys can see it all,

But the girls don't care, they wear their underwear

Randy and Evi Quaid have simply lost it, their actions alone in their last court case were enough evidence to that very fact.  Yet somehow, the court didn't seem to acknowledge any of their antics.  Celebrity status has saved them from the ax of justice, but like so many other celebrities given the opportunity to redeem themselves, they've fucked that all up too. They've up and done exactly the same sort of thing they did in California, almost as if they were rockstars with a fondness for destroying hotel rooms.  They ran up and bill and made it quite clear to everyone at the hotel that Evi and Rany Quaid were in deed, in the building, and as a result made sure that they were treated like real stars.

So they were.  Room service the whole damn way, regardless of how strange the requests were.

And when things went sour and Evi 'failed' to pay the bill, they decided it was best to make it seem as if the hotel was ever so eager to have them both there, (because everyone wants a second-rate actor with a history of ripping off hotels visiting their establishments) that there would be no way that they could possibly be to blame for anything that happened. . .

YES... WE SERVE THIEVES, COME ON BY!

It isn't even like they were copping bars of soap and mini shampoos, or raiding the mini fridge to drink all the clear liquors so that they may replace them with simple tap water.  Nah, it aint anything like that.

Its a shit load of money, much as the case with the California hotel.  

They are certainly in need of real help.

It is in light of this new information, that iR strongly stands by its previous diagnosis of the Quaid's retardation.  iR again, declares Randy and Evi Quaid, regally retarded.

What happens next, only the courts can decide. . .

love,

iR

Amanda Bynes and The Plastic Polystyrene Face

There's nothing like a torture chamber to bring two people together: the constant drilling eating away at enamel like sugar only a million times faster, the patients and their blinking eyes full of terror, much like a cornered rat, the cold clinical feel of steel.  . .  Its precisely the sort of torture dungeon in which Mr. Rick Bynes met a lovely little dental assistant named Lynn Organ, over the muffled screams of a poorly dosed patient still painfully aware of every poke and prod.  Soon they wed, for they were in love:  Lynn liked Rick's jokes, and loved the dental profession, and Rick found her to be beautiful and a wonderful assistant, but more importantly, he loved that she laughed at his jokes.

For you see, despite being a dentist, Mr. Rick Bynes was such an asshole that he was also a part-time comedian.  That is to say, he often played around with the idea of telling jokes and being funny, but he always had the worst timing.  For instance Mr. Bynes loved to try out his jokes off on his patients, and soon it got around that anyone who had Bynes as a dentist not only had to endure the gruesome pressure of his drill, but also the pressure of his equally gruesome humor.  The idea that anyone having such a sense of humor while filing away at someone's nerve endings with a demented tool was something nobody could really swallow, so naturally Rick had to cut out the jokes.  And besides, they weren't even that good to begin with.

But Lynn liked his jokes.

I guess she's just as demented.

So they based their relationship around these two frail things in common, and had themselves a couple of children, one of which just so happened to be Amanda Bynes.

Yes, she's the product of Dentist Fucking.

Amanda grew up well enough, and made herself quite the famous little actress/comedian, but it was the years afterwards that were slightly unsettling.

Lots of girls can account for it: its all downhill after blowing Frankie Muniz.

Whhhhhhaaat?

It wasn't much different for Amanda Bynes either: after Big Fat Liar, the psychological damage Frankie Muiz did to her was enough to fuck her over, and at a very young age.  (Frankie was unavailable for an interview.)  Everyone's favorite little star, who was confident enough to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers at the age of ten and belt out horrible, but albeit somewhat adorable lines became so obsessed with her image that she constantly found herself looking at herself in the mirror, and researching physical disorders that she didn't even have.  And so she, like so many other stars that are surrounded by nothing but critics and dwindling numbers of loved ones, became infatuated with the blade, and plastic surgery.  Over night, a face that had othing wrong with it became just another casualty of a horridly fucked up world called Hollywood. . . A world so horrifically awful that a person can self destruct publicly and no one says anything, even as the vultures come out to pick the bones clean.  It was the same for Amanda, she was slowly allowed to decompose, to molt without the ever watchful eye of celebrity, and when she got too old to be profitable in regards to children, she was kinda stuck.

Kinda, really, stuck.

So it was time for a change, and unfortunately Amanda sought change with the help of a surgical blade.  She did something to her face, what exactly, only an expert in face mutilation could really identify, but even without the eyes of an expert, anyone can see she did something to her face. . . The once lean face of just another American girl changed and gave way to the face of a chipmunk - with cheeks bulged due to a large haul of nuts found out in the forest.  To be foraged for winter.

Yet, it didn't wet her appetite.  Her mind had already picked out other features that she found disadvantageous, so she altered them too.  A young casualty in the war against plastic surgery, little Amanda Bynes has already had at least three superficial procedures, and she's only twenty four years of age.  She had more and more, till now, she only slightly represents the girl she once was, and can only be considered beautiful in the right lighting and from the right angle.  Its a real shame, considering that even now she's not happy with her appearance.  In fact, her alterations have made her even more conscious of her look and has made her just another statistic.

Look:

Time between alterations became more and more frequent.  Poor lass.  Congrats, now you look like everyone else.

I swear, if you were to see her now, your heart would sink and any boner you had for her would shrivel almost instantly.  In fact, the only roles she gets these days are playing the stuck up blonde cheerleader, as full of herself as she is full of complete and utter bullshit.

And that may just be the saddest thing of all.

Recently she's outing herself as a non-drinker (lame,) and spouting all this shit about how she's not your typical Hollywood celebrity.  But these days her Twitter proves otherwise:

GF= Girlfriend

BF= Boyfriend

OG = Original Girl

If you love someone, and want no one else, marry them immediately

I like black guys, just fyi

tats = tattoos

I know 24 is a young age to retire, but yes I am

Yeah Amanda Bynes' Twitter totally proves her celebrity status, in that more often than not, she can't help but let something retarded slip out of her mouth, and all under 140 characters.  And yes, Amanda Bynes totally retired from the business. . . for a whole month, before she came back to say "I'm back!"

I guess she had to do this because if she didn't, no one would recognize her.

Although she was highly annoying as a child, it was ignored because everyone knew she would eventually grow out of it.  She did, becoming a tween with a strange creepy pedophile fan base.  Then she lost the teen and became a twenty-something, a twenty-something with a much bigger issue than just being annoying.  Her new fault however, cannot be as easily shed, or lost in time as the mind and body matures.  Her face will never be the same, and upon seeing it it produces feelings similar to waking up on Christmas and running downstairs to see all the presents glowing bright under the tree, and running to them and tearing off all the pretty paper and instead of an army of toys lay only a funeral procession of clothes. . . stinkin' clothes.

A real disappointment.

iR cannot blame Amanda Bynes for her disorder, or her skewed body image, that's a rabbit hole far too complex for anyone without the proper education to travel down.  And as a result I've laid it on all real sweet, real sugary sweet, because the idea of a twenty four year old already caught up in the whole plastic surgery thing is far too sadly retarded to ever really accept.

So its with winced eyes, and a voice as timid as Oliver Twist that iR declares Amanda Bynes, sadly retarded, for no joy can come from her decisions here on out.

Amanda Bynes is a Thousand Oaks girl.

Amanda Bynes tried to start her own clothing line, but soon after it started up, the company had to file for bankruptcy.  

Amanda Bynes was one of the highest paid actors under the age of twenty one.

Bynes has recently been "reevaluating" how to spend her time socially.

In 2010 Bynes did a photo shoot for Maxim magazine, declaring "I think every shot. . . was sexy."

Boners boners boners.

Dustin is going to kill me.

Amanda's twitter

Amanda's official website

love,

iR

Erik Estrada and His Extensive Ego

Retards like to stick together, in fact, I'd be mighty pressed to tell you which of the two is the bigger egomanic, Carlos Zambrano or Erik Estrada, but for the sake of this iR, we'll say its Erik Estrada.

Erik Estrada strolls through the supermarket, another everyday shopper tending to his everyday needs.  He is hassled only by the occasional employee asking him if he needs any help, to which the answer is always 'No, but do you know who I am?' and it is always answered in the negative.  This bothers Erik, because he starts to feel like a ghost --like a mediocre ghost-- with a career hidden under many more years of mediocre television, and oh how ruthless that blonde dame Hollywood can be.  Its not the workers that bother him, its that only the workers are bothering him.  There are no old women drooling over his visage, asking for a rather hefty autograph; no young teens to beat off with a stick.  He begins to itch.  It bothers him, so he does his best to scratch the itch, and the only way to do so is by getting himself noticed.  (Yes, he's that big of a pompous asshole.)  What comes next is a moment of such pure desperation that anyone who's ever seen it knows that upon seeing it, you almost wish you were never born with eyes to begin with.  Put simply, the vanity oozing from this man's pores is enough to drown the whole world, and leads one to believe that he perhaps spends hours in front of the mirror talking to himself and rehashing great moments on the screen, in life, and in bed.  For Erik, the mere notion of a single human being on Earth not recognizing him is such a terrible blow to his ego that one could easily believe it could kill him.

His phone doesn't even ring, but the preceptive braggart picks it up with all the urgency of a man expeceting his wife to give birth at any minute, and pretends that he indeed has some important business to attend to; important celebrity business that anyone who happens to hear wind of it, will certainly come to decipher just who's business it is.  He answers:

"Hello, Erik Estrada's phone.  Mr. Estrada is busy at the moment with important business, so important that it deters him from answering his own phone, but I Tom, Erik Estrada's personal --and rather grateful-- I might add, assistant am more than willing to help you in anyway possible."  And then he added, a total lie of course.  "Make it quite, I've already got another call!"  He proceeds to nod his head as if he were hearing great news, and responds intermittently with only the name of his 'boss' Erik Estrada, with enough gusto to ring out into people's ears, just like a ringing bell.  "Oh!  Delightful!  Yes!  Yes!  And what luck. . . MR. Estrada just stepped into his office.  One moment please."

An announcement goes out over the loud speakers "SPILL ON AISLE 4, TOM?  SPILL ON AISLE 4!"  And its loud enough that Erik fears it may have been heard on the other end, but he cools himself and hands the phone out to no one in particular at all.  Erik then steps over and takes the role of himself, and immediately changes from fearful and tiny, to triumphant and gigantic.  His chest puffs out like Hercules, his teeth gleam with a pure shine as Erik believes himself still to be young, and through every fiber of his being you can easily see it.  And likewise when he's done, you can easily see how much it takes out of him.  But now he's running along at full steam:

"Yeah yeah, hey buddy.  I, Erik Estrada, have been good friends with you for a long time, ever since I, Erik Estrada, appeared on that hilariously great television show ChiPs. . . Oh you think its great too?!  Yeah I hear that."  Erik lies again.

Finally his efforts are noticed by a young twenty something and his equally young twenty something of a wife, strolling the aisle for some Rice-O-Roni.  He's suspicious, as they appear too young to have been around during his hay-day, but then quickly his ego reminds him that the name 'Erik Estrada' is fucking timeless.

And that he's still in his hay-day, Goddamit!

"Oh my God, look, its Erik Estrada."  The blonde wife says very nonchalantly.

Erik smiles, a warning signal.

"Yes, its me Erik."  He stops, putting on that offensive horse smile full of pearly white dentures.  "Yes. . . I'm afraid its me."  He says, all smug.

"Wow. . . wait, is that who that is?"  For even with a confirmation from the man himself, and even so much as an ID stapled to his forehead, people still struggle to recognize him.  Most people just don't give a shit.

"Yup!"

Erik stands up straight, putting his arms out for what he figures is coming next: a photo op for two lucky customers who just went out to get the Sunday's groceries, but were lucky enough to stumble upon a star such as he. . . Clearly, a Facebook moment. . . He gets to thinking about how they will put the photo up and how all of their friends will comment on it and like it, and they would all be so damn jealous that they got to meet him, he!  Erik Estrada!  But to his dismay, the couple just laughs in his face and walks away.  He begins to pout, for he had built himself up so high, and with a little bit of laughter the two had chopped him down, and with ease.  The slightest bit of a tear graces his cheek, but before he can start a full on tantrum, his cellphone rings for real, and it shocks him so bad he nearly drops it.

What comes out of the ear piece is even more shocking than the notion that anyone would call him (he was starting to hate his cell phone for proving his lack of popularity,) for what comes out is a job offer.  An actual real life job, paid with real life money.

His website would like to tell you different, that Erik is quite busy just being a celebrity, what with functions and dinners, and mini mall openings and all, but really, Erik does very little all day, except trying to get noticed.  His website would also like to tell you that he 'captured the hearts of millions' with his performance on ChiPs, but that's a lie too.

But anyway, I digress.

Yes, the phone call was a real job, one which paid real money, and quite naturally Mr. Estrada was quite happy about it.  In fact he ran right out of the supermarket, leaving his cart of goods forlornly left behind like some abandoned child; ran right out of the place into the waiting light of what he believed would be a more than earned (and in fact long overdue) run in the spotlight once again.  A slight miscalculation however, in that this job wouldn't do anything for his career but further cement the fact that he was a has-been, and has been so for many years.  But naturally Erik didn't see it this way.  

Sometimes ego can do much for a person, and sometimes it can do nothing but set them up for one big let down, and in Erik's case, he's been setting himself up for one big let down, for years.  He just doesn't know it yet.

The job?

Why to be a spokesperson for Butterfinger, along side two other washed up nobody's named Lou Ferigno and Charisma Carpenter, to be assembled together as a package under the title:  The Butterfinger Defense League.

Look ma, failure in triplicate!

Now I was all set to write this phoney story about the Butterfinger Defense League, and how they had to go out on an assignment to track down a stolen shipment of Grade-A Butterfingers, and how all they had to do was just get Erik Estrada to waltz on in, because nobody would notice him anyway, and how he could walk out of the place with the shipment just as easy, because with Erik its almost like people unintentionally advert their eyes (just some natural reaction) whenever he walks by, almost as if he were a burning sun or a bright light. . . (Yes, epic run on sentence.  Go me.)  But upon writing it I gave up, because in all actuality, the whole fucking thing is stupid.

I mean really stupid.

At least when it was Bart Simpson hawking out the lines and saying all that cool rebellious kid shit he said, it made sense, because at least children watched The Simpsons.  But with these three its just ridiculous. Do kids really know a thing about Erik Estrada?  Nope.  Certainly not Lou Ferigno either, nor Charisma Carpenter, so what's the point?

Whats the point of getting star power if those stars are lost in the eyes of children?  They're hardly star power anyway, these stars died out long ago, all you're offering is dusssst.  Is Butterfinger really advertising towards adults, the only people who could possibly know who these people are?  And upon realizing, do they actually expect us not to laugh? Obviously you guys don't have any of the pull the Mars candy corporation has cause they actually have really celebrities to shove sugar down children's throats: you know like Patrick Ewing and Aretha Franklin.  

All you guys can muster up is an Egoistical Nobody, a Half-Deaf Juice Head, and an Over the Hill Fitness Freak?

Why not lay down and die?

All three of yah?  And the company too?

We can dig you all a big ole grave, and can put up your gravestone, and it'll say something real pretty too, something like:

Here lies mediocrity, may we bury it in the hopes of never seeing it again.

Sounds pretty right?

Well hop on in...

Erik Estrada, you are a nobody.  Frankly no one cares that you were once in ChiPs, because ChiPs was lame and mildly gay.  And its not even like you played a bad ass cop that went on crazy car chases and dodged bullets and always managed to come out of any scrape alive. You were a fucking high way patrolman on a souped up bitch bike. The most dangerous thing you ever tackled in that show was traffic, gridlock baby, and thats it.

Its real sad that you can't get over your stardom, especially since everyone else has.

But you could never really let go of being a CHP (California Highway Patrolman, for our international readers,) now could you?  Certainly you couldn't, as these days you sometimes ride with a biker club made up of nothing but law enforcement officers called the Blue Knights International Law Enforcement Motorcycle Club. . .  And you must think its really dandy huh, riding around in a 'pack' with your 'brothers' with a big snarling monster between your legs; ready to leap out at every flick of the wrist, huh Erik?

Huh?

Just listen to that rooooaaar.

Well Erik, sadly your little occasional rendezvous with your biker buddies don't make you anymore of man, no matter how big of a Harley you can straddle, just like you going around name dropping yourself and trying horribly to get noticed doesn't make you a star.

Or make anyone really remember you.

Or respect you.

Do yourself a favor and grasp it.  Why most celebrities wish they had Erik Estrada syndrome.  Most celebrities have to whack paparazzi off with sticks and sneak out of their homes under the cover of night. . . 

But then again, you're to vain for that.

And it is for that reason alone, that iR declares Erik Estrada vainly retarded.

Erik Estrada got his start voicing a racist Mexican character called the Frito Bandito for the Frito/Lays corporation.  The idea was that all this guy did was go around stealing peoples Fritos.  Nice.

Erik Estrada was named one of The 10 Sexiest Bachelors in the World by People magazine in 1978. . . I'm sure he still holds on to that title with all his might.

Erik Estrada is actually a well known Latino actor.  He's done shit tons of movies: fourty-nine of them to be exact.

Erik Estrada has also appeared in over thirty television shows.

Erik Estrada threw out the ceremonial first pitch at a Seattle Mariners' game.

Erik Estrada was on The Surreal Life, told yah he was a douche.

Erik Estrada is a full-time deputy sheriff in Bedford County, Virginia.

Erik Estrada's official website

The Butterfinger Defense League 

Erik Estrada's Wikipedia

This about sums it up:

Oh I'm suppose to plug the show? 

love, 

iR

Fred Durst is A Giant D-Bag

This blog has been inspired by the fact that the other day I happened by Subway and had me a meatball sub.  To my surprise, Fred Durst was the poor bastard making my sandwich.  No, not really, but it sounds funny anyway.  

Gastonia, North Carolina is a beautiful county, home to long stretches of nature's beauty.  Its wealth is apparent, seen right down to the silk US flags draping as large as life from all of the towns finer establishments. Founded by Quakers and people forever bleached in pure milk, it is a place which has thrived and become quite the tourist destination.  In fact, the top attraction in Gastonia County is a fucking botanical garden, and not just any botanical garden, but one of the nations top twenty botanical gardens. . . But more importantly, Gastonia, North Carolina, with its pretty little homes with perfect cut lawns, and its people all the same shade of pale, is home to one of the biggest bad asses (sarcasm) in the world:  Fred Motherfuckin' Durst.

You may ask yourself, how does such a 'hardened' rap/metal 'talent' come from such humble and sweet beginnings?

Well, despite his upbringing, and his parents wealth, Fred Durst tried his best from day 1 to be a real hard bad ass.  And yes, he failed at it, every damn time.  For instance, young little Fred Durst, after graduating from high school, joined up in the United States Navy, namely to impress his father, and then girlfriend.  Naturally, being a soft little pussy, he soon dropped out after he realized it was actual work.  His girlfriend then left him, ashamed, and his father went on believing his son was a total wuss (and he was right.)  Distraught and horribly ashamed as well, Fred Durst went home that day and cried his little eyes out.  There are young Fred Durst raps written in forgotten handbooks about this time:

Yes sir this, yes sir that,

I aint doin' shit without my baseball cap

You don't know what you askin'

You're really fuckin' crazy

I wear my shit everywhere

Just ask mah ole' lady

After the tears were wiped away, and mother made his favorite meal, Fred Durst came to the conclusion that there was no way to act gangster in a town that was as white-washed as they come.  Its awful hard to get street-cred in a place where the only real menace is an unknown assault team of hungry gophers with an appetite for digging in all the watermelon patches.  So naturally, Fred Durst decided to move.

To Florida.

Florida?

Yes, the sun soaked beaches of Florida, which at least has some bit of crime element amongst all the old and retired.  There Fred Durst pursued a career in tattooing, figuring that perhaps he could gain some rep as a man of ink.  Alas he failed at that too, after he realized he just couldn't stand the sight of blood; and besides he was a shitty artist anyway. There are raps scribbled on wads of wrinkled paper that tell of these times:

Down in Miami, lookin for a mami

Ink up flesh so fresh its easy like origami

Salami, the air so balmy

Damn I'm a pretty sick rapper *Note to himself

The needle it goes in the skin

And we begin, free of sin

But when I open my eyes, I'm surprised

I can't stand the site of blood

So with no girlfriend, and a bitterly ashamed father, Fred Durst started to take some worth in these freestyles he happened to be writing, and after three months in Miami, he had enough songs about getting fired and prematurely ejaculating to make up an entire album.  So he formed himself a band.  No, not a rap group, no not a metal group, but a combination of the two in such an annoying way as to make the ears bleed and the mind scream in need of real stimulation.

Enter:  Sam Rivers, John Otto, and Wes Borland.

Enter:  Limp Penis Biscuit Bizkit.  

In Florida, the band did their thing and scummed around from venue to venue, slowly building their treacherous 'sound' amongst the locals.  Soon Fred met 'Fieldy' (if my name was Reginald Arvizu, I'd change it to Fieldy too. . . No wonder he got his ass kicked in high school,) from the band KoRn, and even gave him a few tattoos, namely a shitty portrait of Scott Baio:

After that, it was all smooth sailing for Fred Durst and Limp Bizkit.  They were standing at the base of a wave of shit that was just about to drown the world whole, and it all started with their debut album Three Dollar Bill, Yall$. . .  Which I guess was the bands way of saying that they were "As queer as a three dollar bill," and to further explain their rap influence and make everything even that more awkward, they added the tagline Yall$. . . Yes, with a Goddamn dollar sign.  Their first hit was the cover Faith, which was made popular mainly due to The Devil (Carson Daily,) and the show he hosted TRL: Total Request Live, a show which was ingeniously used to tell stupid sheep what music is worth listening to, and does so by arbitrarily proving that the whole world listens to it, so so should you.

Regardless of how, or why he made it, it is abundantly clear that Fred Durst was still trying to chase some sort of street cred, and in return, respect from his father for 'being a man.'  This can be seen in this horrible music video, which is played off to be some sort of impromtu Limp Bizkit concert that at the end results in Fred Durst being arrested.  Which is entirely scripted by the way, which further goes to show that Fred Durst was such a pathetic pussy that he had to stage arrests to get street-cred:

And then Limp Bizkit was asked to play Woodstock 1999.  Now, I know this may be but a paltry thing to you, but the truth is that Fred Durst killed Woodstock.  Now, thirty years prior, every band spoke of good vibes, and good energy, during a time of utter turmoil and blood shed.  That coupled with the fact that drugs were making their own valiant war against the status quo, it is quite a miracle that at Woodstock 1969, there were only three deaths, and all of them accidental.  This with half a million people squandered in on a plot of land that could hardly hold a thousand cows, let alone half a million people. . . Yet in 1999, Limp Bizkit, along with a bunch of other shit bands were asked to perform at Woodstock 1999, the thirty year anniversary, and what followed was such a shit storm, that the vendors could only place all the blame squarely on the shoulder's of Mr. Fred Durst. . . And upon viewing their performance, I can't say that this claim wasn't totally valid.  Look:

@4:54 a girl gets sexually harassed.  @6:44 a girl gets sexually harassed. . . What a piece of shit Woodstock.

Fences were destroyed, people were trampled, trashcans were burnt, and women were raped, yes raped.  Way to totally not understand the point of Woodstock, asshole.   There were four rapes reported during the song, one of which reportedly took place right in front of the Limp Bizkit stage (I shit you not, on this one.)  Impolitely, fuck you Fred Durst.  No really, fuck you.  

And when asked about all the rapes, you just said "I told you so," just as you did two years later when a young sixteen year old Australian singer named Jessica Michalik was trampled by a bunch of people during the song "Break Stuff," the same very song, mind you, that was responsible for the debacle in Woodstock, New York, during its 1999 rendition of the world famous concert.  Yeah, she was killed, right and good.  And all the while, all you had to say was 'I told you so,' and 'I warned security,' but obviously you're too retarded to take any credit for starting an utter fucking mob.  With a little success, Fred Durst became an even bigger asshole.  He personally started fueds with Creed, D12/Eminem, Zakk Wylde, and Slipknot (he called all Slipknot fans "fat and ugly."  Just because its true doesn't mean it still wasn't a dick move.)  On top of that, Fred lied about having sex with Christina Aguilera, and actually had sex with Britney Spears.  Besides the whole kiss and tell thing, Fred actually went into intimate details about Britney and her body on the Howard Stern Show, totally cementing the title of a complete and utter d-bag.  

Then sex tapes became popular again amongst the celebrity world, so of course, Fred Durst had to make himself one too.  The only problem was that Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit suffers from Limp Dick, so there wasn't much sex going on, mostly just flailing around in the hopes of getting hard.  Aside from that, no one really wanted to see Fred Durst naked, or to see him have sex with anything, so it is regarded as one of the more retarded sex tapes out there.  According to Fred Durst, the tape was 'stolen' off of his computer, which is of course the most ludicrous part of the story, given your track record Fred, and your willingness to divulge your ability to con girls into spreading their legs for you.

When he's not performing and pissing everyone off, or trying to get it up, Fred Durst likes to run people over. I shit you not.  In 2005, Fred Durst was charged with seven offenses, namely, battery, assault, and reckless driving.  Being a celebrity, Fred Durst, who was originally sentenced to 120 days in jail, was given a lesser sentence of twenty hours community service, and was stripped of his 'right to bear arms.'  Fuck you Fred Durst.

Outside of performing, Fred also owns his own record company, called Flawless Records (lulz,) and has directed shit tons of music videos, including all of the Limp Bizkit videos and a few KoRn videos.  Fred also directed the movie The Longshots, and The Education of Charlie Banks.  Aside from directing, Fred has also appeared in numerous television shows, and even had a small part on Revelation.

Under that hat is nothing but a sad bald man.  And he's about as bland as they come, I'll tell yah.  Its why he's got all those tattoos and pierced ears, and why he wears big poofy parka jackets and walks like a real G, because to him their all just accessories: just things to make him cool. And sadly, even with all of that, he still isn't cool.  He's just a limp dick d-bag with a mouth like a sailor and a fondness for letting it fly.  He's talked himself into more shit that a rotten politician, and is just as good at swaying the people, but only in one direction.

Fred Durst is such a d-bag his most recent wife (now ex wife) divorced his ass after only two months of marriage.

Fred Durst is such a d-bag, he actually performed for only 17 minutes during a concert, after which he went in the back and bitched.

Fred Durst is such a d-bag, he tells everyone Limp Bizkit sucks, but he doesn't really mean it.

Considering Fred various flirtations with many different types of retardation, it has actually been rather difficult trying to diagnose his retardation.  At first I believed he perhaps is a prime example of a new retardation that I perhaps as overlooked, but that would give him way too much credit.  Wouldn't want it to go to his head now would we?

Well there we go.

It is for Fred Durst's inability to see his actions as retarded, and his fondness to talk about them as if they were something to be proud of, that iR declares Fred Durst: vainly retarded.

Fred Durst doesn't work at Subway, sorry.

Limp Bizkit is actually putting out a new album, Gold Cobra, said to release in the fall.  After the intro track the first song is entitled Douche bag.  

They suck so bad they actually have to leak their own shit to try and stimulate some buzz.

Fred Durst appeared in the Fight Club, video game.

The Limp Bizkit store features I FUCKIN HATE LIMP BIZKIT shirts.  I would buy one, except the profits would go to Limp Bizkit. . .

Official Limp Biskit Website

Fred Durst's Twitter

Urban Dictionary on Limp Bizkit

The Official Anti-Limp Bizkit Page

love,

iR