Nikki Cox: Tragic Retardation

infinitely Retarded, now with more pictars!

Today kiddies, our fable is about beauty. Specifically how it fades.  A harsh working of nature, it is a calamity we all must face, but for some vanity cannot be so easily shed. . . as you will soon discover in a tale of tragic retardation I like to call (for the sake of time under such uncreative circumstances):  'Working Title.'

Remember Nikki Cox?  That bimbo from that Married. . . With Children rip off show called Unhappily Ever After?  The one with the red hair, the massive tits, and the inversely minuscule brain?  This chick:

Jugs McGee

Ah yes, now its coming back to you.

Yes, well we are gathered here today because these days she looks like this:

Yes.  Another victim of the surgical blade.

How haunting success can be. . . How dangerous in regards to looks, for as so clearly stated earlier, beauty like the tide will rise, and a person so accustomed to the delight of such waters will frown when in time, as it must, it begins to roll back.  Some will do anything to obtain it.  No doubt Cox got many jobs based on her looks because a) she had no talents other than looking pretty or b) men refused to see her as anything other than a sex object.  I'll quickly change the subject, for such a serious debate has no place on such a retarded blah-g.  The fact of the matter is had she other talents, she would have been able to assault the seasons and still bear fruit despite it being fall.  Besides she's not very bright either.

I mean she married this guy:

Bobcat Goldthwaith

Talk about no self esteem. . . She did however divorce him six years later and promptly married this douche:

Jay Mohr in douche mode.

And meanwhile, she was beginning to look more and more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, her lips resembling those of some disgusting fish creature.  Paparazzi didn't help either, as they at times caught photographs of her looking a lot like those ugly people in that Twilight Zone episode "Beauty is in The Eye of The Beholder." That episode where they make it out to seem like this poor woman is ugly and trying desperately, through operation, to to look beautiful like all those around her, but at the end when they unwrap all the gauze from her face she is a classic beauty with flowing blonde hair and jewel like eyes but she screams, and the nurses scream and she's still ugly, because to them she looks so hideous.

Seriously, wtf?

Don't think for a second that I am being cruel or superficial, but there is very much to be said in that episode, ideas expressed no doubt more poignantly than I ever could.  My point is she's only thirty two years of age.  Such a young face so afraid of age lines that at twenty-four perceived age was conjured where there was none.  It brings to the skin a blemish of the soul, a dysfunction of the mind, the confusion of the heart kept concealed under emotion --  made visible by the naked eye with the help of plastic and foreign collagen.  Tis a strange scene that is becoming more and more popular.

Women walking around like monsters.

And thats all I have to say about that.

Happy Halloween

Imperial Stars; The Dumbest Thing Going

Sit your child upon your knee.  Warm by the comfort of the fire.  Hear it crackling?  Its almost as if upon the edge of its warmth one finds safety, whereas outside of its reach, in the dark, there exists only cold and discomfort. 

Move closer.  Keep safe.  Don't worry little lass, ICP won't get you, they're scared of the dark too.  Better still.  Better move close. Safe.  The young mind and its imagination can create a great deal of evils, evils which grow with the mind and over time, become very real things.

But hush.

Hush now, let me tell you a story.  Drink your milk and eat your cookies.

Listen:

Drink your milk and eat your cookies!

Listen:

Dearest Little One, With Eyes So Bright and A Heart So Pure,

. . .

Grandpa is talking now.

. . .

That's better.

There once was a shit band called Imperial Stars, that was made up of nothing but a bunch of total losers pushing thirty years of age.  Quiet now, while Grandpa wets his lips with some adult juice.  All the better to remember with.  Don't say anything, you'll understand when you're older. Yes I know it smells something awful, but it isn't consumed for the smell young one.  Besides, why do you think your parents left you with me? They hate you, as they hate me.  You better get use to ghosts. . . Now may Grandpa continue?

Where was I?  Ahh yes yes, my finger tells me I was right here, right on the pulse.  These Imperial Stars fellows were somewhere else, their hands probably rested firmly upon their genitals, or perhaps on the genitals of their cell mates. . . A quick laugh and I realize that perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, and surely in such a case I must be getting ahead of you, for although an old man has a brain made of mush, it is still more functional than that of a witless child!

And I'll prove it damn you, I'll prove it!

Listen now, listen to Grandpa:

Yes well, there once was this band called Imperial Stars, and since their name made mention of some sort of status, these men walked around believing that they were of such a distinction that they deserved to be called stars, but not just stars, Imperial ones, as retarded as that may seem. . . No dear, not supernovas, that would be silly.  Just stars. Well anyway. . . yes, oh yes, they would frequent bars and clubs and speak of their musical talents and rope in young blind girls with copulations and fake fancy suits and a little bit of money.  What they did with these women you're neither old enough nor wise enough to understand, but what they did is fuck them. . . Oh yes. . . Well pardon me. . .  I probably shouldn't have said that.  Don't ask.  Just listen.

*The sound of the chair rocking, the wood squealing, the fire sucking in air, warming the room and lighting the both of them.

Their sound dear, can be described as borderline retarded, often spilling over into dubious bouts of utter bullshit and douchery.  Shield your ears young one, no new soul should have to listen to such degradation and vague, empty notions of celebrity.  For you others, watch  and listen closely. . . As I put on this video :

Wait is that Carlos Mencia?

Yes, little lass, apparently these guys did a video with the same director that did the Miracles ICP music video: Windows Media Player.  Where does the story come in?  Where does the story come in?  Oh you young ones and your constant questions, your jumpiness, your lack of patience. . .  Where does the story come in. . . why this is the story! Now be quiet and drink your milk and eat your cookies and listen to dear Grandpa:

Due to their general suckage and pending decline into the waking void that is the music industry, these D-bags felt the need to get their names a little press.  Oh how they were successful in this endeavor, for the assholes, writers of a song called Traffic Jam 101, felt it was necessary to start a traffic jam on the 101 during peak hours of traffic by parking ACROSS the freeway in their giant SHITMOBILE.  They then proceeded to perform a mini concert of their song 'Traffic Jam 101,' from atop their shitmobile, with their speakers blaring on out at everyone within a 200 yard radius.

*The chair rocking and the smell of booze.  Boozey ole grandpa.  Hell yeah.

Oh you fools, hell hath no fury like a California native stuck in rush hour traffic trying to get to work.

*speaking to no one at all

Oh you fools. . .

Not only did the coppers show up and impound their shit van, but they also arrested the members of the band and put a hefty bail on each and every one of them.

Talk about total fucking morons.

In case you didn't know, I'm sure you don't know lass, you're still young yet:  highway 101 serves as one of the main nerves connecting the Northwest to the Southwest, spanning 1,500 miles.  Its a veritable vein draining from Seattle, Washington down into the muck of Los Angeles.  And these assholes clogged it up.  For a song.  For a real shitty song.  And they're a band.  A real shitty band.

*The chair rocking and the smell of booze and the fire, lighting the room and warming all around it.

Now one can assume that they have tremendous balls - you know for getting arrested promoting a song that generally sucks to begin with.  On the other hand, lass, one can assume that they are tremendously retarded - you know, for getting arrested promoting a song that generally sucks to begin with. . .  Its one or the other, depending on how you see it, for although having balls sometimes results in stupidity, it only delves over into retardation when the individual (i.e. owner of said balls) is already retarded to begin with; the brain is only willing to take as much damage as it perceives it can take, especially when testicles are involved.

But you wouldn't really get that, now would you lass?

So what am I saying?

Your average man wouldn't willingly stick anything into a bear trap, let alone reproductive organs.

A retard, however, would.

Like these Imperial Star guys.

And thats precisely what they did, snagged their testicles in a steel bear trap.

You see, in Los Angeles traffic is a bitch, especially in the early mornings when people are going to work, and again, when they are coming home. Tis why they call it the rat race lass, so many years of their lives spent going SOMEWHERE in the hopes of becoming SOMETHING, just like everyone else.  Everyone biting at everyone else's heels and no one ever really getting anywhere.  The second they interrupted that race, they incured the wrath of all those mice, appalled that they should be so bold as to claim they were anything but the average fur covered vermin, and further angered by their interruption of their race with such an extravagant and foolish display of arrogance and douchery.

Naturally its only time before they disappear, some sort of career perceived in their heads due to 10 minutes on the local news being described by d-bags as being d-bags.  So let it be know lass...  Let it...

*The chair and its rocking ceased, Grandpa's chest heaving and spewing clouds of gasoline out into the air in easy. . . steady. . . beats. . . Let Grandpa sleep now... Sleep.

The Imperial Stars have really made a name for themselves.  For all the wrong reasons.  Not only do they generally suck, (making one wonder how they ever got an album deal to begin with, moreorless their own tour bus,) but they're total assholes on top of that.  And now I know who they are.  And now you know who they are.

Fuck.

But at least the internets has willingly dispatched its own bit of justice: the trolls have come to feast.  Not only has their phone number been posted for angry commuters to bitch and generally flood their voice mail, but they've also received and outpouring of hate -the majority of which they have censored, yeah cause not only do they like traffic jams and general douchery, they like censorship too.  

Never mind the people who were late to work that day, or the people who fired, or who never got that job interview because they showed up late, or even worse the real emergencies that were put to a hault by your antics; a real shitty concert was totally worth it.  Yeah, totally worth all the money its gonna take to bail your asses out of jail and get your SHITMOBILE out of the impound lot. . . And yeah, its totally gonna make you guys famous.

And it is for these reason alone: that your music career is effectively over before it ever started, that iR declares 'Imperials Stars' finitely retarded.  

The best part?  These assholes are supposedly working towards ending children's homelessness - by stopping traffic - commerce.

The Imperial Stars is also a science fiction novel.  

These d-bags aren't even on wikipedia.

Totally unrelated, but check out this retardation:

No wait, like really?  Owen Wilson wanted to kill himself BEFORE Marmaduke was ever released, or even offered to him?   Weird.

iR

The Tragic Retardation of A&E's Teach

We be spendin' most our lives livin' in a gangsta's paradise

Aristotle. . . Paulo Freire. . . Confucius. . . Michele Pfeiffer. . .  All of them teachers, all of them with their contributions to generations of young minds fertile yet not yet planted with the seeds of wisdom.  Some had to overcome a government wanting poor people to stay illiterate and in turn powerless. . . Others had to listen to rap music and wear leather jackets to reach students dabbling in gang life and endangering their lives. . .  But none of them have ever had to face the hardships that face Mr. Tony Danza, yes, Tony 'Who's The Boss' Danza.  Not only is he going to teach a classroom of high school students English, but he's going to do it with a bunch of television cameras and no teaching experience whatsoever (yeah he has a college degree, but he's never taught before.)

I present to you, A&E's Teach, with Tony Danza:

Pompous asshole am I right?

Its not a role, its reality. . . Well unfortunately, the only person who doesn't know this is Tony Danza himself.  He sincerely walks into the room like he would any role, and assumes that due to past 'successes' that teaching wouldn't be any different; the door to the classroom would swing open and the spotlight would shine down upon him, his audience some thirty odd youngsters ready to absorb every word that came out of his mouth, to praise his genius, to provide applause with astounding test results.

Yes a crowd of all your usual high school stereotypes: the sports jock who excels in sports but is too busy thinking about scoring on and off the field to bother paying any attention in class, the annoying nerdy kid who takes nothing but A.P. classes for the extra GPA with a tongue about a mile long and a fondness for licking the teachers ass; the weird lesbian chick with spiked greasy hair and a rainbow colored necklace, the stuck up cheerleader chick who knows she's pretty and therefore will forever be retarded. . .  All of them exhibiting that same glare in the eyes, like those of a man looking but not looking, their eyes connected to a brain that is not entirely thinking.  Just buzzing away if you listen close enough.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

And despite his efforts to come into the ring, so to speak, and knock out yet another opponent, here in the teaching arena he has failed, miserably. Surprise surprise.  Things are woozy.  The ref is counting ten.  Has he counted to ten yet?  It seems so long ago, that I once was standing and cocky and full of shit.  Funny how a stiff right can really sober a man up. Yeah.  Maybe because teaching actually requires effort, you fucking jack ass.

The episode I happened to watch went something like this:

Tony reads aloud Of Mice and Men, and proceeds to tell the class that its a book about a retarded guy and a guy who takes care of him.  That it is a love story.  These two love each other.  Immediately students are repelled by the book.

The students complain they don't get the book.

Tony decides to give a quiz the next day, regardless of his students apprehension. 

The next day the quiz is given.  Tony is as happy as a pig in shit.  His first quiz!  His first quiz!

Tony grades them.  Half of the class fails.

The next day Tony walks into the class and starts dogging on the kids.  Blaming them for it all, even making one girl cry in the middle of class. To Tony, the kids aren't reading.  To the kids, Tony isn't teaching, and quite frankly, the Principal feels the same way:

"You are multi-talented, you can do everything, you dance, you sing, you play instruments. . . And I would never think that I could just stand beside you and just put on tap shoes and do what you do. . . Well I expect that same respect for the art of education."  

Oh shit burn.  It goes on:

"Its serious work, and you don't get the tag of teacher, you know. . . you don't get the tag of teacher, until your students are learning. . . You got that?"

Ahaha oh fuck.  This show is amazing!  Its not everyday you get to see a high and mighty worm get cut down by someone he thinks is beneath him.  Nope, not everyday.  

I don't know what's worse, that A&E and Tony Danza collectively thought that they could teach these kids, or that the parents of these children actually signed off on this shit.  I mean, we all know the state of public education in America is fucking bullshit these days, but there's no reason to actually prove it on a reality television show.

I swear, this is just the sort of thing a foreign dictator would use as evidence of the deficiency of America and its education system.

Yeah, if we get bombed, I'm saying its all Tony Danza's fault.

Teaching is fucking difficult.  Its a profession which reaps very few rewards, very little money, and shit tons of anxiety and stress.  Many a good soul has gone into the profession with the hopes of doing good, only to pack up their shit a year later with a heavy heart and defeated eyes.  With this knowledge one can only assume Tony Danza to be a complete and utter asshole to think that he could just waltz into a classroom, with cameras no less, and change the lives of all those around him.

Kiss my fucking ass.

Its not a movie we're talking about here, Tony, we're talking about real life.  Real students, real futures in jeopardy, and some how A&E and Tony Danza has turned it into a circus sideshow with ratings and everything.

And I thought my high school education was a joke, this shit is just fuckin' tragic.

And it is for this reason that iR declares A&E, and Tony Danza's Teach, tragically retarded.

Teach: Tony Danza appeared October 1st, 2010.

Tony also helped with the football team, the band, the debate team, and even fingered a couple of cheerleaders.  Way to go teach!

He even organized a fundraiser for school.  AWWW.

love,

iR

Yet Another Siren of Retardation: Jeff Van Gundy

Jeff Van Gundy was declared legally retarded upon birth.  He came out all cries and slime, a disgusting discolored thing sprung forth from the crevice of a woman who upon seeing him found him to be the biggest regret in her life.  He had eyes like a bullfrog, with a head squished in on both sides, and when he cried bubbles of unknown substances foamed about his curled lips; a physical reminder of the stench which crawled up his throat and came out his mouth whenever he opened it.

"Holy sheep shit," the head physician said, and he never said that.  He nearly dropped him.

The doctors found that no matter how hard they tried, no matter how malleable newborns heads are said to be, Jeff's was as hard as a rock, and was throughout the rest of his life an oddly shaped rotten egg.

Look, a shit sandwich.

Although it was 1846, it was still frowned upon to get rid of children.  At least if you weren't rich enough or if they were of the same skin color, so Jeff Van Gundy's mother took him (grudgingly,) and raised him to be the complete and utter moron he is today.  Each day, he would be served his oatmeal for breakfast, which he didn't eat as much as he drowned in, and after a good cleaning (again for the third time already), he'd skip on his merry way off into the wilderness to hopefully catch typhoid or get bitten by a snake.

His childhood really was troublesome for his mother, for Jeff kept on living. The doctors hadn't given him many years to live, due to his apparent retardation, but still the boy kept living, kept growing, to the point where each laugh became scornful in her ears, a constant reminder that he was still around and not only that but healthy enough to laugh!  To where he'd go out the door in the morning and come back in the afternoon, all scraped up and dirty from play outside, from wrestling in the dirt, from impromptu races from the shed and back. . .  It became apparent he wasn't any sickly child soon to die, but rather a normal boy, with a lacking brain and an oddly shaped head.

Darn.  No really.  Shucks.

Much to his mother's dismay, Jeff Van Gundy grew up, and without any medical scares or tearful nights 'worried' about him dying.  Not so much as a high fever.  He even went on to Yale University, where Jeff Van Gundy found his true passion: basketball.  He managed to make the team and played a few games, but was soon cut from the team.  That's right, Jeff Van Gundy was so bad at basketball, he couldn't even make a team full of nothing but a bunch of pasty white guys.  Naturally, he did the next best thing, he became the towel and water boy for the team, and proceeded to watch the rest of the games from the sideline, and the more he watched, the more he 'learned' about the game of basketball.  He began to feel that getting cut from the team was a blessing, for it had shown him what his true calling in life was: COACHING:

Thats right, Jeff Van Gundy was the original Waterboy.

He got a job coaching for the McQuaid Jesuit High School in Rockefeller, New York.  Immediately the team was transformed, they even managed to win a few games without having to pay off the referees first.  Johnny Mackiwitz, his star point guard, was finally coming around and by Hanukkah he was leading the league in assists and steals.  The teams sluggish and ultra fat center Timmy Steinberg, had melted to a svelte 325 pounds, the school newspapers had changed hateful headlines into ones of praise, and all the players were happy and often sitting at kosher meals made by proud parents that towered high and steaming with all the smells of the old country.  The team however, never made it into the playoffs.  There was no victory parade for them at the end of the year, in fact when they took their final lost, there wasn't anyone there to see it, not even the kids' parents.  But for Jeff it was a successful year, it was the year he got his feet wet and finally got into this coaching game.  He knew it would only be a matter of time before he would be noticed, and asked for a better job elsewhere.

And he was right.  Jeff Van Gundy shot up like a bald turd that refuses to be flushed.

He became a 'graduate assistant' for some d-bag coach at Providence College, which I guess means he was some assistant's assistant, who assisted in the assistance of the assistant coach, implying that perhaps the assistant coaches assistance wasn't enough, and did indeed require outside assistance.  (How annoying was that, eh?)  He succeeded in his mission and took the job of the man he was assisting the next year, becoming the assistant coach of Providence College.  He would spend another year there as assistant coach before being asked to come coach for the tippy-top: The National Basketball Association.

Yep, it only took this d-bag 4 years of coaching to make it to the Big Show, where he would get a job coaching for The New York Knicks.  He would become a fixture on the sidelines there for 12 years, (although six were as an assistant coach,) with his chrome head shining,  his wind pipe always belting out arguments and complaints as his face turned into a grimace as his faucet of a nose leaked.  He actually did well with the Knicks, even making it to the NBA Finals in 1999, when there wasn't a single soul who wasn't a Knicks fan that thought they had a chance in Hell (in fact most Knicks fans felt the same way.)  Yet they made it, only to lose.

Even still, he's best known for this:

"Nothing was going through my mind."  There you have it, self proclaimed retard.

From there it was off to the Houston Rockets, where he put in four years with the team.  He only failed to make it to the playoffs once with a losing season, the other three seasons resulting in first round losses in the playoffs.  During this time he unleashed about a million tirades, one of which resulted in a one hundred thousand dollar fine, after he claimed NBA referee's were targeting his star center, Yao Ming.  It still, to this day, is the heaviest penalty ever levied on an NBA coach.  

So without a ring, Jeff Van Gundy resigned from the team, and wasn't hired by any team the next season.  By this time, everyone was sure he was going to kill himself.  I mean he looked like a miserable bastard, a guy who apparently loved the game, but all the game gave him was sourness and hole where his heart should be.  In fact, I'm pretty sure he had his toe on the trigger of the shot gun when he received the call.  

Again, his darkest days had cleared to reveal a single thread of light, this, his true calling, COMMENTATING:

Now. . . at least when Van Gundy was a coach, we only had to hear him when he was complaining about a call, about to get himself thrown out, or bitching to the media hours after a game.  Now - we've got him the whole game, throughout every NBA Finals. . . Letting Jeff Van Gundy commentate is a lot like giving a chatterbox with the intelligence of a retarded monkey a mic a stage and a trapped audience: you know you're gonna get some shit flung at you, of the retarded kind.

Listen:

Fellas, there's a game goin on here

Shit Whoopi Goldberg in 'Eddie' has better commentary then you fools... "Lets go back to the barbershop thing..."

Really Jeff you were a successful coach?  Well that must have been the work of the players or your assistant coach, because something tells me the only things you ever talked about to your players in the huddle were how much you dislike Grey's Anatomy or how much you dislike everything in general.  You'd think with all that supposed 'basketball' knowledge in your heads you'd be able to talk about the game and provide some insight, or at the very least be able to describe whats happening.  Its almost like listening to The View commentate baseball, just a bunch of women talking about anything and everything other than what is important.

These guys fucking blow.

love,
iR

Anyway, Jeff's brother Stan Van Gundy is also a coach, and he looks just like Ron Jeremy.

The NBA's Most Retarded Tattoos

I make lots of money entertaining people by running around on a hardwood court throwing an orange ball around and putting it in the hoop. If I don't have the ball, I get the ball.  When someone throws up a clanker, I'm all over the boards and ready to swallow up the orange and look for the outlet pass. When I play, everyone makes money.  Nike. Gatorade.   Even your average gambler or two.  Its the way it works.  I'm on television, and I'm seen by bajillions of people around the world, bajillion is a word right?  I'm not sure you see, because I've spent that much time on the court.  And there aint no books 'round there.  So anyway, I'm seen by a lot of people, so I'm gonna wanna represent myself well. . .  I know!  I'll get a Fred Flintstone tattoo!

Or so Greg Ostertag, thought right before he hit the court in beautiful, lovely UTAH. . .

Look:

Good placement by the way.

But Greg Ostertag isn't the only one.  D-bags all over the NBA are permanently securing their retardation until death with sick tats of cartoon characters and all sorts of other retarded shit.  Come.  Join me.

Marquis Daniels:

Less is more buddy, less is more.

When not sucking on the court, Marquis Daniels likes to get tatted up -- I mean, just look at all of em.  You would think with so much experience getting tattooed that somehow he would have some sort of taste, but alas this is not the case, as his right forearm features a cartoon of a dude blowing his own head off with a shotgun.  The title above it reads:  Only the Strong Survive.  I don't care how strong you think you are Marquis, a shotgun to the face would kill anybody, even you.

Chris "Birdman" Anderson:

We all know and love Birdman, and by that, I mean we all love to hate on him.  With all of his ridiculous tats and fondness for the Mohawk, he is one of the NBA's most ridiculous players, ever.  He's kinda like Rodman, only without the toughness and skill.  Chris use to be a normal guy, in fact he almost looked like a hippie, but then he discovered heroin or some crap and had hallucinations about birds. . . For awhile the guy thought he was a bird, so he got wings tattooed on his arms, bright and red, like a robin's wings.  Aside from that he's also got a chain running up one arm, a bulldog on his chest, and honky tonk written on his belly. Classy... Fucking' classy.

Chris Anderson is kinda like a walking billboard for retardation.  He's what happens when an addictive personality can no longer partake in drugs and alcohol, so instead of destroying his insides, he decides its best to destroy his outside, and turn himself into a total fucking joke while doing so. Way to go!  But Chris, if you were a bird, I would say you'd be a rooster, because you're a total fuckin' COCK.

You suck and you know it.

Loser.

Mike Bibby:

Sick perspective work there, those block letters look like they're melting... but I suppose you'd say that was intentional, right?

Sometimes people get a tattoo to remember an important event in their life, like a wedding or one's first orgy.  Sometimes people get a tattoo to remember a person who changed and helped shape their lives, I know, I've seen that shit on LA Ink all the time.  In Mike Bibby's case, his tattoos serve to remind him of his name:  Mike Bibby, and of his employer and his occupation:  The NBA and basketball.  He also further proves that just because you have lots of money, doesn't necessarily mean you have taste, or know tattoos, because these are by far some of the shittiest looking tattoos in the entire league.

He's also got Team Dime on his back in equally horrible block lettering (see above), with portraits of family members all around it like floating cadavers, and he also has all the names of his children written on various locations on his body, which I assume is in case he forgets them. . . and for the record, he's running out of room.

Shawn Marion:

Sometimes people get tattoos in foreign languages because they think it looks cool, or pretty.  But mostly people get em because they're pretentious assholes. Getting a foreign language on your body usually requires trusting your translator, as if it is wrong, you could end up with Douche Bag tatted or your body in Japanese, instead of Warrior, like you intended. . . Well thats exactly what happened to Shawn Marion, as his tattoo, according to him means "The Matrix," in Chinese, but guess what Shawn?  It doesn't. The Matrix of course is his nickname (Why?  No idea.)  But unfortunately for him, his leg doesn't say The Matrix, it says, literally: "Demon Bird Mothball."  

*cue lulz.

Hey at least this way your jump shot isn't the only ugly thing about you Shawn, you also have an ugly retarded tattoo. . . We can fix your jump shot, but the tattoo?  Uhhh, not so much. (Don't know what Shawn Marion's jump shot looks like?  Well just YouTube search Shawn Marion Jump Shot, it'll be the first video.)

Reggie Miller:

Looks like peach fuzz about the bellybutton. . . and Reggie whats with the limp wrists?

Sometimes people get tattoos because they see someone else with the tattoo, and think it looks fucking awesome.  The problem is people are usually wrong in this assumption, and just end up another d-bag with another d-bag tat.  Cue Reggie Miller.  I suppose after seeing Rodman's tattoo, which is what I assume is a sun about the belly button, Reggie got one too. . . And yes, he looks retarded.

LeBron James:

Sometimes people get tattoos with self proclaimed nicknames and attributes that they think apply to them.  Usually, they don't, and the idea of having 'American Bad Ass' tattooed across your chest may seem cool at the time, but think if you will, what its going to look like when you're eighty.  Sure it already looks ridiculous now, but by the time gravity's done with it and age has turned your hair white (that is if you still have any) you'll look like anything but a bad ass. . . I'm just saying.  Well, this is where LeBron James comes in, who's so egomanical that he's gotten CHOSEN 1 tattooed on his back, because you know, "He's the chosen one."  For what?  Who knows, but its certainly not winning Championship Rings.  ZING!  I'm gonna pat myself on the back for that one.

Nice job J. Wood.

Thanks.

He's also got Loyalty tattooed one his ribs. . . After leaving Cleveland, we can only assume that this 'loyalty' his is speaking of is not to the team nor the city of Cleveland, but rather, himself.  And Chosen 1?  Really LeBron?  After you actions THE ONLY ONE seems more accurate, because that's the only thing you care about: yourself.  And for record, I think you're overrated anyway.

Stephen Jackson:

Sometimes people wanna get some 'gangsta shit' tatted up on their bodies, sometimes people wanna get something religious.  Well in the case of Stephen Jackson, he's some how managed to combine both of these contrasting ideas into one tattoo.  I present to you, 'The Stephen Jackson':

Yes, that's a pair of hands praying, with a gun nestled in between them. Because when Stephen Jackson prays, he shoots up prayer bullets bitch.  And don't you forget it.  Actually, he doesn't pray, he just really really likes guns.

Carmelo Anthony:

Sometimes people get tattoos of famous people, or personalities on television and radio.  Sometimes people put movie company logos on them?  I guess, maybe.  Well Carmelo Anthony did, because he loves all the Batman movies.  Wait, did Warner Brothers do Batman?  I dunno.  Whats best is that Carmelo has another similar tat, the always popular 'tramp stamp,' and its the Oxygen Channel logo.

Kenyon Martin:

Sometimes people get motto's to put on their body, to serve as reminders as a certain way to live life.  Little diddies to live by, short quips to motivate the soul and revitalize the body and mind.  The only problem comes when you fuck up a saying, or are retarded to begin with.  Which is the case with Mr. Kenyon Martin, who got 'I Shall Fear No Man But God' tatted on his back.  Its nice an all, and a pretty good saying to live by.  Only one thing.  God isn't a man.  Just a thought buddy.

Honorable Mentions:

Jason "White Chocolate" Williams:  WHIT EBOY written on his knuckles, so when put together it says WHITE BOY.

DeShawn Stevenson: who got his last name and the number 2 tattooed on his back, just like a jersey, which I'm sure he got so everyone would know who he was when playing basketball shirtless out in the prison yard.

Michael Beasley:  his back reads "SUPER COOL BEAS" which is eloquently sitting atop of a pair of angel wings. . . Because getting super cool tatted on you is super cool. . .  

Marcin Gortat:  Gortat still thinks Michael Jordan shoes will make you a better basketball player, just like he did when he was a kid.  So, he figured if he tattooed Michael Jordan's infamous logo onto his body, it would forever make him a better basketball player.  He was wrong.

Jordan Farmar:  'Just the two of us, framed around a picture of a dude in a basketball jersey holding a basketball, with his arm around the shoulder of presumably his younger sister.  Touching really... Only the artwork blows, the shading sucks, and the text is off-center.  Sorry bro.

Brad Miller:  for his utterly retarded tattoo of Scrappy Doo, in scrap mode:  let me at 'em let me at 'em.

Richard Jefferson:  apparently he and Mike Bibby know the same shitty tattoo artist.  OFF Center Fail

J.R. Smith:  swish neck tat

Robert Swift:  GINGER ANGRY.  GINGER GET TAT.

Most people put a lot of thought into getting a tattoo.  Sure there are always those morons who get tattoos on a whim or when they're drunk, or even for bet, but the average person puts much consideration into it.  Which is understandable, when considering the price of tattoo (or good one at least, and I hope that if you were to get one, you would try and go for some top notch shit,) its permanence, and the pain involved.

Sure you can always get it removed, although I hear thats more painful than getting the damn thing, or you can cover it up, but if you got shitty tattoo in the first place, chances are you don't have taste, or the tattoo sucks, and therefore covering it up will do little more than making it look even more retarded.

I suppose the problem with basketball stars is that they don't have to worry about the money issue.  Yeah they can get any ole tat, any ole time they want. . . But you would think this means they would be willing to put down some dough for a real nice tattoo. . . Yet often this isn't the case, further proving that even basketball stars are fucking retarded.

It is due to their inability to notice that they're permanently degrading themselves for all the world to see, that iR declares this whole damn tattoo fad to be blindly retarded.

HAI GUYZ!

STREET CRED, GINGER STYLE.

love, 

iR

MTV's Made: Become Something You're Not

Becky Stevenson was always the model student; her grades far exceeded her social skills, and in class she was always silent unless called upon.  Generally regarded as disgusting by her peers, she had no friends and thusly walked the sullied halls of Washing High School a specter, a pale ghost with pigtails, glasses, and a way of hunching in her shoulders that made her look even smaller and more fragile.  She had accepted her fate, and as such thought often of the future, during which time all her efforts in school would pay off, and she would be rich and famous and laughing in all the faces of those who had so wrongly written her off as insignificant.

But then one day MTV's Made crew came to her school, as part of a campaign which combed the schools for potential television personalities without any of the hassles of actually having to pay them.  They came and ended up telling her who she was wasn't really good enough, that a happy future would only come if she somehow conformed to a certain stereotype of a happy, successful person with shit tons of friends who will probably turn out to be a bunch of phonies anyway.

They held auditions in the auditorium, and lots of d-bags came to state their case and level of douche baggery, though at the end of the day none of them had been picked.  MTV was about to pack up its shit and go plague another high school when little Becky Stevenson walked on stage.  She was clutching her notebook in front of her, almost as if she were using it as a chest plate for protection from the mighty and scornful eyes of MTV.  If they said no, she knew it could very well kill her, that was if she didn't already think she was dead.

Before she could squeak out any sort of a statement MTV swooped in for the rescue, and was full of hey's and hello's and how are you's and they took her into the principals office and he signed off on papers, and she signed off on papers, and her parents came and signed off on papers, and before you knew it, the quietest girl in the world was about to be asked to partake in a television show.

"Now now, Becky, I'm sure you're familiar with the show."  One of the producers said, a real slick d-bag who in some circles was known as a swinger and embezzler of ladies brassieres.  "We come in and help turn kids like you into kids like them..."  He pointed out the window at a group of stuck-up bitches, who above anything else were firm believers in their superiority in every way, to everyone else.

"What?"  She said politely.  "What show?  I was just going to. . ."

"Oh she's nervous."  He smiled.  "Don't worry, we're gonna make you into one of them, the popular kids."

"I don't wanna be them."

"Oh of course you do."

So without many more hassles, after many mentions of signed contracts and the bindings that come with them, MTV eventually got its way and Becky was thrust into the shitty world of MTV reality television.  Since Becky had no other persona she wished to be MADE into, MTV provided her with one:  Cheerleader.

They gave her a MADE coach, to help her along with the process, a lady simply named 'Adam:'

U-G-L-Y you aint go no alibi
You're ugly, yeah yeah, You're ugly

And oh how 'Adam'  worked young Becky, with mile long sprints around the neighborhood, stretching routines which not only tested her body but her mind mentally, slave hours in the gym running on treadmills that led to nowhere, and even laps in the pool (just so Adam could see Becky all wet and in a bathing suit.)  Routines were driven home with hammer like aggression, and under the creepy and rather oppressive glare of MADE Coach Adam, Becky came to some what resemble a cheerleader.

This was good, because poor Becky was gonna have to compete in a cheer leading competition, with girls who had been indoctrinated in the sport as soon as they were old enough to walk.

Youch.  How embarassing.

But first, she had to be made to look like a cheerleader.

Glasses were tossed aside, the victims of a much cooler way of seeing that didn't include head gear, but rather just contacts that could be placed on the eyeball wahhla!;  pig tails were unpinned, let loose to squeal about her back and shoulders, hair was chopped and conditioned and run through with all the finest chemicals known to the stylist world.  Eyebrows were plucked and shaped into menacing arching furs above the eyes.  Make-up was aptly applied in colors deep blue and rose.

  

Later the body would be daubed with hot wax and hair would be ripped from its pores about the legs and armpits.

With the image complete, all that was left to do was to go out on the stage and make a fool of herself.  Yes, but it isn't put this way, its always a phony uplifting moment, where the MADE coach gives a speech and tells their trainee that they can do it!  by God they can do it! Becky went out with a squad of ninja cheerleaders, and did a routine that included a beheading and lots of awesome flips. . . It was truly the story of Yojimbo, only with skinny teenagers and pom poms.

Artist's Portrayal

With the competition over, there was only one thing left to do, and that was to wait.  The judges tallied their scores as the crowd hummed with dispersed quips about nothing at all.  Backstage was tense, teenage girls waiting for that moment when they would squeal in victory or cry in defeat, either way the announcements were sure to turn the back into a slaughter house of squealing littles piggies.

Becky and The Ninjas didn't win third place.

Nor did they win second. . .

When the winner was finally announced, the crowd burst forth from their chairs to shower the winners with their adoration.  Hands went wild, children bounced in chairs, and the proud parents beamed bright enough it was obvious to every parent around them that their offspring were the ones who now held the first place trophy, and not theres.  And after the trophy was raise Adam the Made coach charged from out of the back, racing past the winners and down the aisle, never to be seen from again.

Becky left the stadium with her parents on both sides of her, the faint sound of crying muffled by a coat she wore high up around her face.  She didn't want to be on television anymore.  She didn't want to be seen by anyone.  Although she didn't win the competition (or even place,) she still felt like a cheerleader, and knew that she had transformed into a different being.  With teary eyes she thought of next year, and hoped to join the school cheer leading squad, and was excited by all the new things that would come with it.  She knew that eventually, one day, that she might become so blessed as to be one of them; popular and content and capable of practically anything. . .

Quickly forgetting who she once was, and what content she had before.

MTV's Made teaches kids that who they are simply isn't good enough, which is perhaps the last thing any teenage kid stuck in The Great Suck (high school) should ever, ever hear. The retardation of the teens is evident, but alas it is not their fault my dear colleagues!  No, tis a calamity that results from societal pressures, human nature, and having a brain only seventeen years old.  The real retardation comes from MTV.  For instead of giving these kids any real advice, or instead fortifying the talents that they already have, the things that already make them unique and therefore fuckin' cool, they tell em the exact opposite and furthermore help them become whatever stereotype they foolishly wished to be.

And in between all the commercials bombard viewers with acne medicines competing with one another, sometimes one right after one another, and weight loss commercials and technical school commercials.

Talk about some real shit.

I mention MTV's Made because their 200th episode is approaching, a real big deal, or so MTV would like you to think.  What's hard for me to believe is that this show is still around, and that nobody has really said anything about it.  Am I the only one that finds this show a little off-putting?  I mean all the awkward kisses and date invitations from losers on the show are a bit much to watch.

The only lulz from this show is when the kid is trying to be the complete opposite of what he really is like:

Like this kid, Mikey Ramos, who loves dancing, commenting on how well dressed all the girls are at school (even though he's the self-proclaimed diva of the whole school,), oh, and he also loves wearing a Dracula cape. . . And what does he want to be MADE into you ask?  Well a baseball player, which isn't really all that funny until you factor in the fact that like Mikey Ramos has an INTENSE fear of getting hit with the ball.

Or this kid, Brandon, who's obviously over weight.  He loves junk food and junk food.  What does he want to be MADE into?  A fucking tri-athelete.  I SHIT YOU NOT.

And now I'm hungry.

Anyway, yada yada yada iR declares MTV's Made: tragically retarded.

love,

iR