The Salvia Wave of 2011

MMMM CATSUP!

SOMEWHERE IN A GALAXY NOT SO FAR FAR AWAY; a hop and a skip into the near future: cars still cannot fly. . . But the children do.  Lots of them do, from the yard to the playground, down paths laughing hysterically on the way to school or anywhere they can get their next salvia fix.  Yes:  salvia.  Salvia divinorum

These children became the first components of a vast movement called The Salvia Wave, one which swept the country and all speculation of a 'Caffeine Craze' with it.  Starbucks took up Salvia and only rarely sold coffee.  The Coffee Bean became the Salvia Leaf. . .  It was first triggered on December 10th, 2010, when video was posted on the internet of Miley Cyrus taking a bong rip and inhaling smoke which then reduced her to a giggling buffoon. Observe:

As her friend predicted "You're gonna shit when you see this. . ."  Miley did shit upon seeing it, as well as the entire media world and anyone with a daughter.  Her people immediately got on this potential PR bomb and stated that the smoke she inhaled in the video was not the devil weed marijuana, but in fact the hallucinogen called salvia - and by God its legal! The backlash started slow, like any good menacing wave, for in the minds of young women everywhere the image of Miley Cyrus smoking and altering her mind had been planted firmly in their empty little heads and took awhile before it budded into a gruesome flower. . .

Their interest regardless, had been piqued.  They had never heard of Salvia before.

And now they wanted a piece of the action.

Weeks after the video went up children (particularly young girls) began to act peculiar.  Christmas began to take a back seat to some new obsession, even though signs of the joyous season were all around them and television sets kept barking out TOYS! TOYS! TOYS!  In response worried mothers mothered; foreheads were felt with the back of the hand, throats were scrupulously inspected, and for the more neurotic doctor's appointments were made and specialists were bothered at all hours of the day.  No definite answers came, but never before had so many children been misdiagnosed with attention deficit disorder and Asperger's syndrome.

The wave was slowly rising, building.

Seemingly over night the Disney star had become the head of a rising vibration that was worming its way down the spine of Middle America.  A Timothy Leary of sorts: a face to put on a drug and an entire movement of Salvia heads grooving to the sweet sweet tunes of some Hannah Montana.  Drugs, Disney, and Miley Cyrus maaan.  A ticket to enlightenment, lead by the hand by Mickey Mouse to a world of sunshine bright yet still outdone by the smiles of the people who live there.  Up to the queen:  Miley Cyrus.  In the streets she was praised by anyone under fourteen, touted as a visionary with a keen sense for wisdom and absolution.  While in Oaxaca, Mexico ancient shamans slowly shook their heads and spit in the dirt, for what kind of cruel fate would churn a practice followed and carried out in holy rite by ancestors for centuries (smoking salvia) and allow it all to be plastered over with a foolish lie like Miley Cyrus?

The hipper of parents knew all about Salvia.  Some had even tried it. Most however, were ignorant to its substance, and as a result were often glossed over with bullshit and lies.  Many became hate mongering Nazis, with fine buttons fastened to the chest that read things like: SALVIA turns our KIDS into SLAVES and Salvia Ruined My Child's Life (for bitter victims), and One Hit and Your Dead (recycled from old anti-marijuana campaigns.)

And still rising. . . rising.

In a month the concern on parents faces was even more noticeable. Curfews were earlier and earlier, and strictly enforced.  Some parents even took to locking their children in their rooms.  Others took a more novel approach and chained them to the bed.  It was apparent: this horrid drug was turning daddy's 'little princess' into a 'law-breaking junkie,' and there were articles with big bright headlines to terrify the Sunday reader and really boil his blood.  DADDY'S PRINCESS TURNS JUNKIE,  SALVIA: HEROIN FOR KIDS? SCHOOLYARD DEALERS. . .

"A 12 year old Salvia junkie was arrested late last night and charged with prostitution.  The girl had actually admitted to having sex for Salvia and an immense love for Hannah Montana.  Her parents have asked that her name be concealed for her safety."

-Ron Eastridge "Terror in Suburbia"

"Two girls, donned in Hannah Montana gear entered Dan's Smoke Shop this afternoon armed with shotguns. Screaming at the clerk they ordered him to the ground, threatening to take his life if he were to move or call for help.  They then proceeded to deplete the store of its Salvia supply, taking all they could and shoving it in pockets and Hannah Montana purses.  Both suspects are still at large."

-Sandy Chen The Chronicle

The pristine streets of suburbs everywhere had become battlegrounds;  the sections of concealed dysfunction sprang loose from their walls and spread out into the streets.  Whole throngs of little girls dressed like princesses roamed the streets like feral dogs.  Boys often took to the practice of trading Salvia to young girls in exchange for looks at their panties. . . The Great Fear once again crippled the balls of the common man and refused to let go.

In March Mothers Against Salvia was formed, a hard nosed coalition hell bent on getting Salvia off the streets and out of the minds of their precious children.  

Soon after, in April more and more clinics were reporting that children no longer dreamed!  Parents no longer heard tales of crazy dreams with cartoon characters and school teachers. . . no longer heard tales of nightmares.  This was the most frightening thought of all: children incapable of dreams.  What chaos the world would fall into!

Parents continued to fight, but still, the wave was rising, rising:

The disillusioned masses began to call Malibu their home, as it was the city where Miley lived.  It became a new age Haight/Ashbury, where Salvia heads came together to take up the streets and panhandle.  They had come for the philosophy: all the Salvia and Disney you could want, but instead of cartoons and polished happiness, they came face to face with a harsh reality.  A harsh reality where hunger and cold were a very real thing, the only thing worse perhaps being the way people looked at you.  It was a real bum scene, a real bum scene: young girls from out of town, strung out on Salvia and some disillusioned philosophy spit straight from the mouth of Mickey Mouse, mingling amongst prostitutes and pimps always looking for more girls.  It was a crime element the city had never seen before.

And still the wave was building. . .

The Summer of Salvia began soon after that.  It had been kicked off with an enormous concert held by Hannah Montana.  It drew over fifty thousand Salvia heads and was immediately in every newspaper in the country.

"The scene of the concert the day after is a desolate one.  The fields here, which once housed over fifty thousand young people.  Now, all that remains are memories, garbage, and an overwhelming cloud of disdain precipitating from an entire town of upset citizens.  Local shops are all out of energy drinks and Salvia.  Others cite damage- including destroyed fences and several broken windows."

-Javier Mendoza, New York Times

As the Summer of Salvia was getting into full swing, local governments were in a great stir, working on legislation to criminalize Salvia.  One particular douche was reported as saying "My God its worse than marijuana, and will probably take ten times more lives every year!"  But no, the man was not lacking in his math, he knew ten times zero still equaled zero, his error came in him actually believing marijuana ever killed anyone.  Despite constant pressure, still the movement grew, picking up steam.  The National coverage had given them credibility, and they certainly were not going to stop there: a few heads even appeared on Oprah during the peak of the Summer of Salvia.  It was a glorious time in deed, and when three rich daddy's girls came up with the idea for the end all be all of concerts, a lot of the Salvia heads believed themselves to be winning.  The technocracy was gonna crumble under mind expanding drugs and good music (at least in their estimation anyway.)

These three girls were all older than the common Salvia head, being 22, 24, and 25 respectively.  Together they scouted around for locations in a beat up Chevy, looking for the site of the next big Woodstock 69 incarnation.  They chose a particular lot which was deemed perfect after weeks of finding spots that were too small, or overrun with poison ivy, or logistically impossible: the owners wanting nothing to do with a bunch of Salvia heads.  Their eventual victim was a simple dairy farmer with a shrewd head for business and glasses as thick as Coke bottles.  Despite being a poor candidate in that his fields served as sustenance for the biggest farm in the whole county, and milk to three different counties within the state, the deal was signed, and the gig was signed, sealed, and days away from delivering to the world a giant fuck fest the media would call the 'Salvia Epidemic of 2011.'

The concert was to be a three day event of Disney and Salvia, held in the middle of August.  Media helped promote the event by predicting how savage it was, heads spread the word around water pipes, and the lineup spoke for itself:

• Billy Ray Cyrus
• Cast of Camp Rock
• Cast of High School Musical
• Selena Gomez
• Justin Bieber
• Imagination Movers
• The Cheetah Girls
• The Doodle Bops
• The Jonas Brothers
• Raven Simone
• Hannah Montana

With appearances by:

• Suite Life's Zack and Cody
• The cast of Sonny With a Chance
• Shake It
• The Wizards of Waverly Place
• Corey in the House

Even Nickelodeon got in the deal and added their talents:

• Yo Gabba Gabba!
• A fool in Sponge Bob suit
• Jamie Lynn Spears (and baby)
• Naked Brothers Band

The first day brought in 25 thousand heads, from all over the globe; a mass pooling of all frequencies, flowing through the very heart of the movement there in the nondescript nothingness of middle America.  The heart overflowed, and backed up all state freeways in all directions, and the site was declared to be a disaster area after only being seven hours in.  Still the souls piled in to hear the sweet tunes of Billy Ray Cyrus, who incidentally opened and welcomed everyone to the concert.  Additional acts had to be flown in over the masses, as every direct route had been clogged with cars and people, all drawn to the bright lights of the concert like bugs to a bug zapper.

The second day brought in even more people, as the sun rose from its shell to milk the fields in its light.  It illuminated upon 100 thousand heads, some mingling about the sleeping bodies, others making up the contingent of sleeping masses.  Word had gotten out that the poorly planned concert had no way of keeping anyone out, so as phone calls from cell phones went out, the masses kept piling on it, some walking as far as 10 miles to get to the site of the concert.  Interest in the show was already high, but when word got out that all participants would get a pewter Mickey Mouse pipe, it increased, and with it the heavy flow of human life coming down the highway and from all directions.  One girl went so far as to say it was "Beautiful.  An assembly of the whole army, of all the heads, gathered together for a single purpose.  You wake in the day and The Jonas Brothers are rocking out.  Its like a dream almost. You've gotta shake your head and remind yourself that it really is real!" She then proceeded to piss herself with Justin Beiber came out.

It was by the second day really, that I couldn't stop spitting.  The smell of second-hand Salvia had filled the air, reminiscent of abstestos and fresh dog shit.  My head also hurt, and there wasn't a single remedy other than more Salvia.  In a way, I was upset that they didn't have any REAL drugs, and the place was as dry as a Monastery: not a single drop of the good stuff anywhere--only sodas and energy drinks. . . Despite the discomfort, still I made some notes of the happenings around me:

13/14 year old girl fellating a boy of similar age, stopping only to take a couple of hits of Salvia.

Parents lost, conspicuous.  Smiling awkwardly as their children rock out to Disney Tunes.  A disgusting personification of Disney these days. Living proof.  Look at them.  Just look.  Dad looks like he's just waiting for someone to try and rape his daughter, so he can have a reason to kill someone.  Second-hand Salvia?  Pretty nice smile, while underneath the body revolts, and all kind of horrible thoughts boil in the mind. . .

Another Salvia kid.  You can tell.  They're like stepping stones in a bog of retardation, everything moving around them as they slump to the ground, motionless and smiling.  Like wet clothes.  Like regrets.  Slumped on the floor.

Along the edge.  Playing with the cliff.  To one side the stupid kids of the Salvia Wave, to the other PARENTS, outraged and clutching signs. Picking out the miscreants.  Keeping track of violations.  Screaming desperately into a wake that cared not to hear, nor possibly could anyway.  Tallying and bullying and building up to a moment in which all built up rage would explode; or so it appeared, with their reddening faces and boiling eyes.  What the fuck are they so annoyed about?  Nothing DANGEROUS going on here. . .

And that was where I was wrong, for as I woke to the third day of this glorious shit fest, I found that the numbers had thinned; no, not thinned, just not awake.  But after hours, still, children did not stir from their nests out on the hill, nor did they seem to pay any attention of the acts that were on stage. . . And Miley was coming up soon, to close out the big shindig with one final hurrah.  Had they had enough?  No.  According to reports after the concert, they were dead.  POISONING:

"A somber scene here today after the Salvia Fest.  Some mourn, while others can only shake their heads and say 'I told you so.'  So far two-hundred lives have been lost today, and the tally keeps increasing.  Yesterday, these hills were filled with the sounds of music and joyous celebration, today: they are filled with the sounds of tears as parents search for their children.  Since the beginning of the concert attendees were reportedly given pewter Mickey Mouse pipes, out of which they no doubt smoked Salvia.  But it was not that Salvia that killed them, it was the pipe itself.  According to experts and physicians all mortalities were a result of lead poisoning, as the pipes themselves were drenched in lead paint and were made in China.  Officials are still looking into the situation, while everywhere in the country parents are in an out roar over such a tragic obstruction of sensibility."

-Jizz McHandy, The Oracle

It took Miley coming out as the closer for everyone to realize something was really wrong.  The usual throng of retards she commanded was not present, and soon people got fishy.  These were no pooped kids, these were cooked kids.  They had finally cashed their ticket and were now descending on the ride, in a Disneyland not much like the real thing. Fantasy.

I was just able to get out of the place before the place was firebombed to hell: they had to get rid of all the evidence.

The causalities of that concert came out to 583, 288 human lives, but all of it was a trifle thing in comparison to the minds it had destroyed, the families it had cruelly left unlinked, and the destruction of Salvia and mind expansion all together.  It was best to play the game.  To take the ticket you were given from the beginning, and to not try and make any alterations at all; to sit in your seat and take the ride, and accept wherever it took you along the way, towards the inevitable distinction all living beings must face: death.

Could this ever happen?  No.  Which in a way reveals the hub-bub of Miley smoking Salvia.  Of course, the world isn't gonna change.  There isn't going to be any big Salvia wave.  But in the same breath it is quite understandable that she would be quite the model for young impressionable minds.  Sure, young girls love Miley Cyrus, who would say that upon viewing her doing Salvia that the very idea of doing the same damn thing wouldn't be implanted in the heads of kids everywhere?  Or at the very least, thought about?  Or considered?

No one, except Miley's people, but such is the purpose of having people.  Like politicians they serve to bend the truth and reflect attacks, and as such carry the thick skin and the thin dignity that makes them so perfect for the job.

But if you ask Doctor Drew, its a sign that perhaps there is a giant issue in Miley's life.  SEEK PROFESSIONAL HELP, PREFERABLY FROM ME, DOCTOR DREW.

So who's right?

Who cares?

Its much more fun to pretend that perhaps it could create such a movement like the Acid Wave felt in the mid to late sixties.  Yeah, much more fun.  And how fitting, is it not, that it be Salvia?  A hallucinogenic for the lazy man unwilling to put in all the hours: a short quick rush of madness for 10 minutes a hit.  A perfect drug for a generation accustomed to instant gratification, for the ADHD freak and the iPhone junkie.  Yes.  Quick.  Cheap.  Now.  And so quick one could go on to the next thing--a dozen things-- before taking up another hit and riding down the same old 5 second ride. . .

It is for these reasons that iR declares Salvia, and Miley Cyrus, in its limited potential of greatness:  finitely retarded. 

Happy 100th.

Merry Christmas.

Happy New Year.

pieces:

iR

Zak Bagans, Ghost Hunting's Biggest D-Bag

The only REAL ghost hunters...

Everyone knows about the glitz and glamor of Las Vegas; the riches to be had, the clean hookers free of STD's and drug addiction to defile, the copious amounts of easy to get drugs and booze. . . But under the pretty glossy images lie grime and grit, caked blood and dried semen, all belonging to an entire breed of swine amalgamated in the flat lands of the desert. They're as tough on the outside as cacti, some as cold blooded as vile snakes so disgusting they can actually LIVE in such a shit climate, and are above all, willing to do anything for money.  Its a distinction that does not segregate: teachers, nuns, lawyers, doctors, city officials. . . all suffer from the same great Las Vegas poisoning: the Big Dream.  The next convenient spin of the dial, or the wheel, or roll of the die, or turn of the card. . .

Yes: the five dollar all you can eat buffets are contaminated with salmonella and mad cow disease.

Yes: the twenty dollar hooker gobbling on your knob actually has a penis. And herpes.

Yes: there are dark spots in the brightest city on earth (as viewed from a satellite.)  And it is in these pockets of despair that one must be careful, for there are scavengers and swindlers everywhere. . .

Like Zak Bagans, a Michigan man who was attracted to the bright lights and gambling.  He indoctrinated himself in the culture and soon began a swindle of his own.  He started a 'ghost hunting' community called The Ghost Adventures Crew.  It served as his base of operations, from which he would sell 'ghost hunting' equipment to Ghost Adventures Crew members (who of course joined for a fee.)  It was a damn good racket, I mean check this shit:

CHECK THIS UBER COOL ASS KICKING EMF DETECTOR DUUUUDE, ONLY 64.99!!

What does it do?  Well I'm glad you asked. . . Apparently ghosts are said to be made up of electric magnetic fields, and this helpful little thing measures these fields.  Just watch for a jump in the numbers, and you're probably measuring a ghost!  Or the T.V., or electric wiring, or anything really, because electric magnetic fields are everywhere!  They even occur naturally!

OR WHAT ABOUT THIS ULTRA-AWESOME SUPER-DUPER BALL BUSTING VOICE RECORDER, YEAAAAH.  ONLY 84.99

Ghosts are said to be able to talk within the white noise, and with digital voice recorders you can actually pick them up if you turn the volume up loud enough. . . Yes, just like in the movie The Sixth Sense.  The problem here comes with noise pollution, and a likeliness for the mind to interpret sounds and through auto-suggestion perceive to hear certain words/phrases where there are NONE.  Fancy doctors call it aphophenia or pareidolia.  Google it.

Then there are all the other tools: the full-spectrum HD camcorder: 150 dollars and up, the laser grid scope: &29.95, the Infrared Camcorder: $44.90, and a whole spectrum of temperature gauges and fancy jigamawhatsits. . . 

And then there are the less conspicuous scam machines, like the unimaginative 'Ghost Meter': $27.95 (not bad for a bit of plastic, a blinking light, and a dead needle), and the illustrious McGuyver of Ghost Huntin', the RT-EVP Spirit Box: $286.95, which simultaneously records and plays back ghost sounds. . . Ooooh fanciful.

The gadgets made the ghost swindling business quite lucrative.  Quite lucrative indeed.  It made Zak a great deal of money, as membership in his Ghost Adventures Crew grew steadily with each succeeding month. Yet as membership grew, his members looked to their leader for more than just equipment: they looked to him for actual ghost adventures, the real raw shit that scares kids and makes grown men scream. . . So he took himself to Travel Channel, and with a bunch of his own money he started up a ghost hunting show.  Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce the always hilarious:  Ghost Adventures:

As you can tell, Zak is a little over dramatic, as apparently everywhere he goes is a "tunnel to," or "an island of," or "the bathroom from" hell.  But hey man, he's just jacked up on roids and hair gel!  He's ghost hunting's bad ass: a juiced up monkey with the arms of a gorilla, the hair of a porcupine, and the brain of a pulsating jellyfish.  He's not scared of any ghost, and isn't afraid to back down; he's got the Affliction shirts to prove it.  If he could, he'd make ghosts tap, bitch.

And why such the hard attitude?  Why the muscles?  Why the air of douchery?

Why genetics of course.

You see Zak was born in Washington and spent a lot of time in Michigan, and was raised by a stout couple who could stand the cold that came in every winter.  They could take the lake freezing over, and the eight inches of snow.  But not Zak.  At the time he was a trifle thing, all sinew and bone, as if crafted small and then stretched out to an above-average height.  He did not seem to have any of the genes his parents possessed, and because of it, he suffered.  The cold shook his bones.  He often got beat up for being such a fucking weirdo.  Even his parents didn't like him much, so in time Zak left Michigan and headed west, not stopping until he found the barren deserts of Barstow, and soon Las Vegas.  There he would start anew, as a different Zak not to be ridiculed or made fun of.

He packed on the muscle.

Got a couple of tats: a Dracula tattoo on the wrist, a generic cross tattoo on the bicep, and a back tattoo so douchey not even Zak likes to show it off.

Whala!

A bitch in tough guy clothing.

Watch the fuck out ghosts, Zak Bagans is on the hunt. . .  Zak doesn't even need all of those fancy machines to find ghosts, he's got his own special equipment, tuned to pick up even the slightest bit of ghost activity.  Why yes, whenever a ghost is around Zak gets so excited his nether regions become hard, his erection like a natural Geiger counter beeping along when he finds radiation. . .

Watch the fuck out ladies, Zak Bagans is on the hunt, and yes, he will hit on you with that creepy smile of his. Never mind his wife, she's a dumb bitch; I mean, she actually married the guy, right?

The only thing worse than Zak Bagans and The Ghost Adventures Crew is its many fans.  You know the type. . . d-bag dressed in all black, hanging around cemeteries doing grave rubbings and reading Edgar Allen Poe--cause you know-- 'he's so dark duuudde.'  Once you get past the throngs of women who find him irresistibly attractive, you'll find a mixture of ghost freaks and devil worshipers, amateur Wiccans who get all butt hurt when the term witch is used negatively, and the odds and ends of a douchey goth world bordering on the occult. . .  Whatever they may be, they all have one thing in common: a modicum of intelligence.  But don't dare tell them that, for they will defend Zak and his crew to the death, as if in some way, if one were to out them as total phonies and fakes it would in turn be a direct challenge to their beliefs and the fragile state of their mortality.  

Their beliefs?

Well, there are demons, and they can shape shift.  Oh and there are portals everywhere, through which said demons can enter the real world anytime they like.  Demonic possessions are real, though rare.  Ghosts are not only capable of learning, but also know that the world is going on around them, and adjust accordingly (a defense used by a GAC fanboy when an EVP of a supposed ghost from the 18th century used 'modern terms.)  Also wiccans are not horrible witches, and in fact magic is VERY MUCH REAL.  

So naturally, retardation breeds retardation.

Gosh, I love this show.

Hilarious.

Ghost hunting is much like trying to prove who in the room farted, the only real way of knowing is if someone comes out and says it, and people are known to lie.  In ghost huntings short history, all of them have been proven to be phonies.  Starting with Charles Fort.  He was said to be America's first ghost hunter, which means he was the first one to hear voices and not blame it on booze or God.  Nah, he said he was hearing 'dead people.'  But then again... Charles Fort also believed in fairies and giants, and UFO's and all kinds of retarded shit, and even wrote all about it in a book called The Book of The Damned.  He's so popular in fact, that today he still has a magazine named after him called The Fortean Times, which covers such similar bullshit, including Big Foot and vampires.

Yay.

Then of course there was Harry Price, who set the trend for modern ghost hunters today.  He was one the first ones to create his own machines that could supposedly 'detect' ghosts.  The real plus here was that no one knew how the machines worked, except for Harry Price, who knew they didn't work at all... Because he was, in fact, a fucking phony.

Next came the Fox Sisters, who put on bullshit seances where they would supposedly talk to the dead.  They were real popular for awhile, until someone discovered that they weren't talking to ghosts, but instead eavesdropping on potential customers in the parlor before seances, and using any information they let slip out under the guise of it being some dead relative talking to them.  Even better: they were only 10 and 12 when they started this little swindle.

Then of course came our modern wave of ghost hunters:

The TAPS team: started by two plumbers... I shit you not.  Oh and yes, they were totally proven to be phonies too:

Which of course leads us to the Ghost Adventures Crew, who also have had troubles during live shows, and have been outed as phonies as well:

Apparently a ghost pulled it from his hand... But obviously he's throwing it.

Of course fans will always defend them, even with such footage: stating bull like "Its a shame that they have to lose credibility by faking shit to draw more viewers and make more money."

Yeah whatevers.  Ghosts may be real, but all of these ghost huntin' shows, and an any evidence presented on said shows has been proven to be FAKE.  Get over it.

And its for this reason that iR declares Zak Bagans and ghost hunting: shamelessly retarded.

No Zak, isn't really a swindler.  Or at least he doesn't present himself that way.

No, he probably wasn't born all tendons and bones.

No, his parents didn't dislike him.

Yes, ghost hunting is fake.

Yes, I enjoy eating cheese.

love,

iR

Dr. Xiu's Monster: Yao Ming

Yao Ming was crafted in a Chinese factory, and like so many products that are 'MADE IN CHINA' he breaks easily. . .

He was made by a mad scientist, just like Marry Shelley's Dr. Frankenstein, named Dr. Xiu.  The good doctor had taken a recently deceased Chinese man and brought him to his factory under the cover of night. With this specimen he not only planned to create new life, but also new life that was everything he wasn't.  His paradoxical equal.  Dr. Xiu had been ridiculed for being short all his life-even amongst his own countrymen-so he made his monster gigantic.  He removed bits of bone from the shins and the upper arms and lengthened them with bamboo shoots, until his monster stood at seven feet, six inches.

Dr. Xiu was always weak and cowardly, so he gave his monster a stern and heroic jaw line, and slapped muscle over the skinny frame with arms and legs like toothpicks. . . Yet still with all these enhancements and his genius, Dr. Xiu could not find a way to get his monster to grow facial hair that didn't look like a twelve year old's pubes.

See what I mean?

After months of preparation and long nights alone in his factory, Dr. Xiu revealed his creation to the world on September 12th, 1980, claiming to be the creatures father.  Like Frankenstein's monster, many towns people found Yao to be not only hideous, but terrifying. . . I mean we're talking Godzilla flashbacks here. . .

Distraught, Dr. Xiu took his monster into hiding with him, where he raised him and taught Yao everything he knows.  After ten years Dr. Xiu passed away of natural causes, and the monster was set loose upon the metropolis with a stricken heart.  He was as conspicuous as a dead fly in a bowl of milk.  As he walked the streets people ran from him, and for awhile, Yao Ming lived a very lonely life.  One night however, Yao made his first friend, a blind hermit who he happened upon while walking the streets.  The blind man knew not the monster he had encountered, but knew from his voice that he was a very large man.  Weary, but desperate for company, the blind hermit took Yao Ming in.  They drank tea together, and talked, and Yao was happy to have a new friend.  It was from this old man that Yao discovered basketball, for though the man had no sight, he often enjoyed listening to the game on the radio.

From listening to the games Yao pictured players streaming up and down the court, tossing the orange and putting it through the hoop; and in his head the game of basketball came alive to him.  He yearned to practice what he had heard, and to see an actual game.  He left the old hermit to begin his life, as every man (or monster) must, saying his goodbyes and a little glad to be leaving: for Yao was terrified of tiny little stuffed dogs. . . and the old hermit had shit tons of em.

SMALL DOG PLUSH TOY BADDD

He saw his first game a year later, and although the seating situation was quite uncomfortable, he found that the game going on the court was far better than anything he could of imagined in the tiny room with the radio and its constant static.  From there he learned on his own, and became a fixture on street courts around China.  Word got around of a behemoth with the ability to 'ball,' and society in its fickle nature changed its ways, and began to adore the monster with the ability to literally drop the ball in the hoop if he wanted to.  Yao was also touted as a shot blocking machine, which would have been impressive if he wasn't three feet taller than everyone else on the court.

Soon the Chinese Basketball Association took an interest in Yao, and the rest, quite frankly, is history:

Yao would go on to play for the Shanghai Sharks as a teenager.  It is here that Yao would gain even more fame, and not just as a monster, but as an athlete.  He became one of the most recognizable sports figures in China, as well as one of its richest.  He was given sponsorships with major companies, and hookers to try and fuck.  Yao would bring the Shanghai Sharks to the playoffs numerous times, eventually ending his tenure with the team and The Chinese Basketball Association by winning a championship with the team.

Due to his popularity, he caught the eye of the National Basketball Association overseas, and was drafted in 2002 by the Houston Rockets. It was said to be 'The Year of Yao,' and a documentary was even made chronicling Yao's first year, his attempt to get a grip on the language, and all the other fun stuff that comes when moving to an entirely different country.

The documentary, like Yao Ming's career in the NBA, was a total flop.

Many commentators and so-called 'sports experts,' didn't give Yao much of a chance, many saying that he would fail in the NBA, with Charles Barkley going so far as to say he would 'Kiss Kenny Smith's ass' if Yao managed to put up 19 points in any game during his rookie season. . . luckily for everyone else, Yao did manage to score twenty points, going a perfect nine-for-nine from the field against the Los Angeles Lakers during his rookie season.  Barkley really did kiss Kenny Smith's ass, but it was a stuffed donkey purchased by Smith.  (Oh soo clever.)

Awww shucks... I guess Barkley likes kissing on the mouth more:

If they don't dance, then they don't kiss, if they don't kiss, then they won't fall in love!

Yao Ming would finish his rookie season averaging 13.5 points per game, and 8.2 rebounds per game, and 1.3 racist comments directed towards him per game.

For instance Shaq once said:

"Tell Yao Ming, Ching-chong-yang-wah-ah-soh."

For instance when The Rockets played the Miami Heat, the Heat for some reason thought it would be super cool and funny to pass out 8,000 fortune cookies to fans.

In his second year Yao would take the Rockets all the way to the playoffs, only to be thwarted by the much better Los Angeles Lakers. 

He would finish his third year with a new coach: Jeff Van Gundy and a new teammate, Tracy McGrady.  The Rockets would make the playoffs only to lose to The Dallas Mavericks, who beat them in game 7 by a whopping forty points, which still remains today to be the biggest deficit any team has lost by in a game 7.

So far his career in the NBA had been shaping out nice, with playoff appearances that resulted in loss, but everyone was hopeful for next year. Surely next year will be it!  The whole fuckin' kit-and-kaboodle!

But it was at the start of his fourth year that parts began to break down.  

He missed twenty five games, out with osteomyelitis: an infection which affects the bone marrow.  Apparently his bamboo legs had cause the infection in the first place, terminating in his big toe on his left foot.  Yao had foot surgery and recovered from the infection, but was never really quite the same after it.  When he returned, Yao immediately injured himself again, this time breaking a bone in his foot. 

It would need 6 months of rest, effectively ending Yao's season right there.

The following year Yao was injured again, this time breaking his knee - if you can call it that.  The big man had gone up for a block and when he came down his knee splintered into a thousand bamboo pieces.  Up until that point the monster was up for MVP and was averaging 26 points per game. . . The injury would cause him to miss thirty four games.  

His next season, as repetitious as this sounds, Yao missed another twenty-seven games, with yet another fracture in his left foot.  This time, doctors would reinforce the bamboos with screws to prevent any further breakage.  Estimated recovery time?  4 months.

The next year?  Well he managed to play 77 games, but in the playoffs once again fractured the same damn foot and was out for the rest of the playoffs.  Not that it mattered anyway, because The Rockets were soon eliminated thereafter.

Well surely next year he'll be better right?

Wrong.

The next year he injured the same damn foot in the very first game, and was out for the entire season.

This current season, he's being limited to only 24 minutes a game, to ensure his health, and will not play any back-to-back games.

Still homie got skills:

Nobody has to make Shaq look stupid, he does it on his own.

What next for Dr. Xiu's monster?

Only time will tell.

Yao Ming is actually a real nice guy who gets a lot of shit from everyone.  Maybe its because he can't really verbally lash back out at them, though his English is always getting better.  Maybe its because he's not an over dominating type like Shaquille O'Neal.  Whatever it is, he gets a lot of shit.  If he wasn't 7' 6" he'd be neck deep in it.

But guys like Yao Ming will always be profitable in the eyes of NBA teams, because height does't really require any talent (see: Shawn Bradley.)  Its nice to have, if even just superficially, just like its nice having a big burly looking dude on your side in a fight.  He may not necessarily even know how to fight, in fact he may be a softie, but the other guys don't know that.  He looks MEAN.

And though Yao doesn't exactly look mean, he certainly is an obstacle in the post.  He's like a giant gumby, with long slender arms just perfect for blocking shots.  He makes you doubt yourself for a second.

His only real problem is that he's made of brittle.  His tall frame sits on two feet not quite meant to carry such a load, and at a reported 300 pounds, its no surprise the tiny bones in his feet snap like twigs underfoot.  Perhaps you should be in another line of business Yao, like I dunno, human ladder, uh, retriever of things off the top shelf, uh... coat rack?

Otherwise this will keep happening:

And it is for your frail bones that iR declares Yao Ming: tragically retarded.

Yao Ming was not created in a factory.  He was born like everyone else.

Yao Ming is not afraid of little plush dog toys... I totally made that up.

Yao Ming is married to a Chinese Basketball player named Ye Li, she is 6 ft 3 inches.  He won her heart after giving her his team pins from the Olympics.

Yao does a lot of charity work. 

lalalala.

love,

iR

Marv Albert Likes Lady Panties

Marv Albert was born Marvin Philbert Aufrichtig in 1941.  At the time Great Britain and France were at war with Germany, and his parents owned a little grocery store named after their last name Aufrichtig, a German word that can be loosely translated to 'devout or honest.'  Though this may have been a fitting name for their grocery store, it hardly was fitting for their son Marvin, for he would grow up to do a great deal of strange things only to lie about them.

But that comes much later.

Marv spent his childhood in Brooklyn and graduated from Abraham Lincoln High School.  Later he went on to Syracuse University's Newhouse of Public Relations: the very same establishment responsible for Bob Costas.  Three years later, he graduated from New York University.

From there it was off to Madison Square Garden, where he became the official voice of the New York Knicks in 1967.

Something to keep you reading. . . What does it mean?

But don't dare assume that that was all Marv Albert did, although he did have a thirty seven year tenure with the New York Nicks.  His voice was deemed vital in narration of all sports in general, including baseball, hockey, and football, and as result has done commentary work on NBC, TNT, and MSG.

He was there when Jordan was tearing up the NBA, building a legacy that still today inspires douche bags to shout his name mid-shot, despite having no talent and being far worse than Michael Jordan ever was.  He was there in 1998, when Jordan drove home the winning shot against the Utah Jazz in the NBA Finals--that day he was wearing a pink brassier, with matching panties.

He was there in 1986. . . when the New York Giants football team went 14-2. . . and for their final game was wearing a bright red pair of lady panties, with a white tuft said to represent a rabbits tail in the back.  

He was there in 1994. . . when the New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup.  That night he happened to be wearing a maroon lacy number, with tears in the panties and skid marks in the back.

He has called countless Superbowls since 2002, and often likes to go 'commando' during such games.

He has called Tennis championships wearing purple thongs - before they were ever made popular.

He has even co-hosted Breeder's Cups, wearing dog themed panties, complete with a big wet tongue in front.

And why does Marv Albert like wearing lady underwear so much?  Well, because he's a freak:

In 1997, Marv Albert became a subject of much controversy, after a forty-two year old woman came out and accused the man of forcible sodomy. The woman had had a ten year relationship with Marv, and stated that one night he threw her on the bed at a Ritz-Carlton in Pentagon City, Virginia where he then proceeded to bite her on the back fifteen times, sodomize her, and force her to perform oral sex on him.  He also reportedly made her sit on his face for periods of up to forty-five minutes.

It went to trial and Marv was sticking to his story: she was just trying to defame his name because she was upset that he was ending their relationship.  (hah, like thats believable.)

Yet soon another woman came out, relating a story that involved Marv Albert wearing lady panties and a garter belt.  She too claimed he forced sex on her, and he even forced her to shit in his mouth.

I SHIT YOU NOT.

Still... Mr. Marv Albert was sticking to his story: he's no sex fiend, and his hair?  Totally not a hair piece.

The trial heated up, and Marv Albert, if convicted would face life in prison.

ARGGH I'm a Panty Pirate

The court room was right down the middle, as there were those who refused to believe such a well respected man could be capable of such heinous acts--for who in their right mind would put up with ten years of such abuse unless it was consensual, and then there were the cynics who couldn't wait to see him receive justice for the abuse of an undeserving victim, with over tones of masochism.  

Did you keep her in the kitchen too?

I'm sure you denied her the ability to get a job too?

Feminists everywhere were in quite the uproar.

The turning point in the case came when DNA proved the bites were indeed Mr. Marv Albert's.

Immediately, he pled guilty to misdemeanor assault and battery charges.  The Judge, being a big fan of his work and his "Oh!  A facial' trademark 'Albertism' when one player dunks on another (apparently he uses it in the bedroom too,) and had the sodomy charges dropped.  Instead, he was given a 12 month suspended sentence, during which Marv Albert could not consume human waste, wear lady panties, nor bite anyone anyone for any reason--whether it be sexual or in self defense.

As a result, he was fired from NBC after twenty years of service.  He was replaced by fellow Syracuse University School of Communications alumnus Bob Costas.  Ouch.  He also lost all football duties, the position instead being filled by tom Hammond.  It is also reported that he was slated to lend his voice to an episode of The Simpson, but was quickly replaced after the scandal broke out.

. . . . . . . .

Summers came, children were free, and summers went, and children were caged again.  The winter turned the world white and brought Santa Clause and all the lights.  Spring melted the snow and the world started anew.

Marv Albert did too: he got his job back in 2002 and has been commentating ever since.

Aww, I just love a happy ending. . . 

I don't really know what leads a person to want to consume another human being's shit, but I'm sure they've got a real fancy term for it with psychological analysis to back it up. . . Whatever it is, Marv Albert has got it, he's got it real bad.

Sure there's nothing wrong with having a few fetishes, but forcing another person to do anything they don't want to do is quite wrong; especially if that means destroying orifices that weren't originally intended to endure such abuse.  Whats tragic is that once again, celebrity has saved another d-bag.  Basically, he got a slap on the wrist for all that he did, and hey maybe the chick was just upset over the ending of their relationship and wanted to get back at him.

Which is where she fucked up too.

Just sell it to the tabloids and use it against him for ransom.

Duh.

This is hollywood bullshit 101. 

Get with the program.

It is because of Marv Albert's inability to change his ways, that iR declares Marv Albert, irreparably retarded.

Just another photoshop with panties:

Did Marv always have a toupee? 

love,

iR

Snookie Writes A Book

Snookie is an orange smurf who is famous for being a retard.  She can be seen on the MTV Show Jersey Shore.

The Bruce Springsteen Auditorium had filled to a capacity the likes of which had not been seen since Bruce Springsteen was there to christen the establishment.  People from all over New Jersey had come to hear an exclusive preview of Snookie of Jersey Shore's new book.  Of course everyone's favorite loveable fuck ups and horn dogs were there:  The Jersey Shore cast, along with some of the finest minds the New Jersey literary world had to offer (including Steve Canoli, the great hack porn writer.)  Even Carrot Top was said to be mingling amongst the crowd, generally pissing off everyone around him.

A man in bright new suit came out to introduce the great author, and as Snookie rose to the stage a great applause erupted from the crowd.  She squeaked her way to the stage and stood behind the podium but was too short to see over it.  This was remedied with the addition of several large volumes by REAL AUTHORS beneath her feet. Adjusting herself, she cleared her throat and began.

"I would like to give you a sample of the new book I have been working away on for the past week.  The book is called A Shore Thing, and I'm very excited about it."  She pulled from between her boobs a wadded up piece of paper, which she unraveled and straightened out right there on the podium.  It contained the text of her latest chapter, written in CAPS LOCK.  For the sake of the reader, this has been changed to standard type face:

"Ahem.  Chapter 12, Pickles. . ."

"Sandy really liked pickles.  Any kind of pickle really.  Big pickles, small pickles.  Sliced, diced.  She didn't really care.  She would even drink the pickle juice.  She even dressed up as a pickle princess for Halloween. All of the boys couldn't keep their eyes off of her, or her giant poof.  She had made an effort to get it in (fuck) that night, and she wasn't going to settle for anything less.

She spotted a gorilla juice head getting drunk on Absolut Vodka and knew she just had to have him.  He was perfect.  He wasn't much of a talker.  He was big.  He had muscles.  Not the sort of smarty type who actually knows what a lobotomy is and likes numbers and stuff. Definitely not a reader.  If she was lucky he'd beat her in a couple of months.

She could tell he was drunk by the way he clung to the bar, and it seemed he still had vomit on his shirt from a previous barfathon in the bathroom."

Snookie smiled, content with her own beautiful flowing prose.

"'Hey' she said.

'Hhheyughh.' he said.

'Wanna smush (fuck)?'

'Mugugghh'

They talked a great deal about other stuff, like cows and how awesome cheese is, but that was really the gist of it.  The important stuff, as 'they' say.  They went home and smushed, and soon after she passed out on him.

She folded up her sheet of paper and returned it safely from whence it came.

"Thank you."  She said, and then exited the stage.  The crowd showed its approval with its applause, a standing ovation!

Outside of the auditorium, pretentious cocksuckers and literary douche bags discussed the novel:

"I love how she uses the pickle as a metaphor for the male anatomy and his potential impotency. . ."  One said.

"Her chapter on Pickles is very reminiscent of Sylvia Plath: a girl trapped in her own little world... trapped in her own bell jar, if you will. . ."  Another said.

"Really?  I thought it was more reminiscent of a Joan Didion. . . the emptiness of society, the chase of nothing.  Birth, sex, and death. Terribly real and unashamed of it.  Cold."  Another rebutted.

The great porn hack writer Steve Canoli had only this to say:

"I'd love to suck dem titties."

Snookie is not only writing a book, but a fucking NOVEL.  This shit, I cannot believe, though I'm certain it will sell well and probably make the Bestseller's list.  

Fuckin' a.

Amazon has a synopsis on the book already, which at a whopping 304 pages, makes for quite a read.  (Though to be fair, 25 of those pages are a color book, featured at the end of the novel, with pictures of margarita bottles, pickle princesses, and giant Coronas.)

It goes like this:

'Its a summer to remember. . . at the Jersey Shore.

Giovanna "Gia" Spumanti and her cousin Isabella "Bella" Rizzoli are going to have the sexiest summer ever.  While they couldn't be more different--pint-size Gia is a carefree, outspoken party girl and Bella is a tall, slender athelete who always holds her tongue--for the next month they're ready to pouf up their hair, put on their stilettos, and soak up all that Seaside Heights, New Jersey, has to offer:  hot guidos, cool clubs, fried Oreos, and lots of tequila.

So far, Gia's summer is on fire.  Between nearly burning down their rented bungalow (LULZ) inventing the popular "tan-tags" at the Tantastic Salon where she works, and rescuing a shark on the beach (DOUBLE LULZ), she becomes a local celebrity overnight.  Luckily, she meets the perfect guy to help her keep the flames under control.  Firefighter Frank Rossi is exactly her type:  big, tan, and Italian.  But is he tough enough to handle Gia when things really hat up?'

oh man... you can read the rest here: A Shore Thing.

Quite frankly it sounds like an amazing book. . . I must have it.

I'll put it right next to The Great Gatsby on my bookshelf.

It seems fitting. . . you know, The American Dream!

With this we can add Snookie to the list of retards with books, like Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson, just to name a few.

Pardon while my heart weeps...

And for this reason iR declares Nicole "Snookie/Snooki" Polizzi, epically retarded.

Mike "The Situtation" Sorrentino, also of Jersey Shore fame, is writing a self help book. . . If you've ever seen the show, you know how retarded this really is, for who, in their right mind, would ever want to be like The Situtation?

Who wouldn't want to take advice from this douche?  I mean for one thing, he's got good taste when it comes to hairstyles, and his choice in poses?  Top notch, top notch.  I'm sure the first chapter is:  "Come Up With A Douchey Nickname Said to Make The Ladies Wet. . . Preferably A Word That You Love Using, Even When Not Talking About Your Abs."  But hey. . . if I wasted two hours a day in a gym working on my abs, I'd have to be in love with them too, especially if all that gym work meant no book work and my brain was the size of a peanut, what with all the drinking. . .

Snookie's first appearance on MTV was on a dating show called Is She Really Going Out With Him, a show about supposed 'hot' chicks dating complete and utter tools. . . In Snookie's case, thats all she ever dates.

In high school Snookie claims she had an eating disorder and weighed only 80 pounds... Obviously she's over it.

Jersey Shore Season 1: Snookie made 5,000 per episode.

Jersey Shore Season 2: Snookie made 30,000 per episode.

Snookies book will be realeased January 4th, 2011.

Then of course, South Park spoofed her best:

Snookie sells her own slippers... snookislippers.com such great items include: giant pink slippers that resemble high top tennis shoes, and giant penguin slippers!

Snookie isn't even Italian... she was born in Chile and adopted by Italians..

as always,

love,

iR

Thundercock: The Tranny Hooker Eddie Can't Get Enough Of

The street glittered in the rain.  It sucked moisture and spit it out as the four wheels of a car ran parallels through the streets.  Burn Rubber. SHWWHSSH.  The downpour hammered cold, and in response the streets had been abandoned for the warmth of the dry indoors; the hookers and drug dealers that had made the area so unpopular were nowhere to be seen.  All life had been drowned that night.

The only exception was that damn car, its bright eyes illuminating nothing but wet.

It slowed, the driver behind the wheel swiveling his head about, as if looking for something.  Alleyways were home to only dumpsters and trash--dripping wet--sidewalks were void of any life, as not even the rats dared to venture out into the open to nibble on soggy food discarded like yesterdays newspaper.  His hands pawed at the glass in a vain attempt to rid it of all this damn steam.

Find her.
Find him.
Find it.

The usual spots were unoccupied.  Still the car rolled casually about the boulevard, the driver behind the wheel becoming more and more anxious with each passing second.  The dreary rain lulled him, and in his brain bubbled memories of a distant past:

Not a lot of time... don't waste it watching this movie.

Must'n waist a second.  Yet, all this damn rain.

Finally the car stopped.  The window rolled down, crying tears.  The object of the driver's obsession had been found: a forty something transvestite hooker host to a multitude of debilitating diseases (though well hid when on the job.)  She had taken shelter under a dripping eave, and although she had been well protected, the rain had taken her makeup and smeared it all about her face.  Big brown eyes dripped black mascara, her lips curled red at the corners, and colors gathered about her chin and massive Adam's apple, a wet clown who seemed tired of all the damn tricks.

"Hey Thundercock!"

She came over, her heels clicking in the street.  It was a casual walk despite the rain.  A well trained and tired walk.  She covered her head with a soggy newspaper.  From her lips dangled a cigarette spewing grey smoke about her face.

"You a cop?"  She asked coyly.  Her breath carried a hint of whiskey.  She looked around.

"What?  No. . . Remember baby, it's me."

She brought her face down to the tinted window for a better look, revealing a face riddled with age lines and years of living a weary life.  Her face seemed to be in a perpetual smirk curled up with a hint of sadness she could never quite get rid of.

"I been thinking a lot about you lately.  I see you still got that bird in the bush."  He said, eying the bulge between Thundercock's legs.  Again, she leaned closer for another look.  She eyed a set of pearly white teeth set in a Cheshire's grin.  He was smiling wide, and soon his mouth opened and out came the unmistakable laughter of Eddie Murphy.

"Eddie Murphy?"  She asked.

"Shhh."  He looked around, cautious despite the empty street.  "It's Professor Klump."  Apparently before The Nutty Professor was shamelessly conceived as a remake, Professor Sherman Klump was Eddie Murphy's pseudonym when picking up hookers.  "You remember, don't you?"

Eddie Murphy/Thundercock dolls: scaring children since their inception.

She did remember.  It was a cold night and she was younger then, and much prettier, before the booze and the beatings.  She was more well known, and could pull in a thousand dollars easy.  There was never a dick that didn't want Thundercock, the name alone enticing rumblings amongst the perverts and sexually repressed.  

At the time she frequented Santa Monica Boulevard, in an area known for homosexual prostitution, and quite frankly she was the best.  She remembered she was wearing her favorite hot pink dress, one which accentuated her assets and allowed a bit of dick to peek through at the bottom.  It made her noticeable, and easy to find, and she liked that.  She liked that very much.

Eddie had rolled up in a SUV (which turned out to be his wife's) with a wad of cash in his lap and a proposition that involved a handful of lube and some lingerie.  She had gotten in the car and they had driven off.  Yet no money could be exchanged for sexual acts, for before they reached their destination, Eddie had managed to attract the attention of the police, red and blue flashing lights in the rear view.  They were pulled over, and the cops had a nice chat with Mr. Murphy, even going so far as to ask for autographs.  Eddie had claimed that he had no idea who she was, and was merely trying to be a good samaratin by giving a lovely young lady a ride home.

Thundercock was of course arrested.

"Oh hell no!"  She said, stomping her cigarette out with the heel of her stilletos.  "I don't feel like getting arrested, you attract cops like shit attracts flies."  She was determined to not get in the car with Eddie Murphy, and after a few minutes of begging and flashes of money, he slowly drove off.

She was just beginning to light another cigarette when he showed up again.

"Hey Thundercock!  Come on baby!"  Eddie said, throwing in his signature laugh.  "Awww come on.  Don't you realize you're the one that got away? I've been with Bobbi Boulders, Sapphire, Lady Bulge, Lady Dick, Betty Balls, Sugar Plums--I've been with em' all.  I just need you and I can say I've been with all the best this side of the Rocky Mountains."

It had been a slow night.  There was no getting around it, and although she didn't like the idea of another night in the clinker, she really didn't know how to do anything else but turn tricks.  She also was quite competitive, and didn't like the idea of being outdone by anyone, especially Betty Balls, whom she had had a scuffle with at a seedy bar years ago.  Eddie had placed two hundred dollar bills on his lap, and before she knew it, she found herself in his car, sitting on the same sticky vinyl seats.  She wondered how often he did this.

He sped off, and immediately got down to the specifics.  He was in the middle of his demands, when again, the rear view flashed red blue, red blue.  He pulled over to the side of the road, and before long out came the cops, who sauntered over to the car slowly.

"We've got another one."  One of them said. . . but upon reaching the car and looking in he seemed to lighten up.  "Oh Eddie, its you."

"Hey James, how are you?"

"Oh good good."

"And the kids?"

"They're fine, son had a big soccer tournament the other day."

"Good good."

"Oh who have we got this time."  Officer James looked into the car at the Thundercock.  "Thundercock eh?  Chasing old flames Eddie?"

"Oh I was just giving her a ride home."

"Of course you were. . . Listen, this has been the fifth time this week.  I can't keep ignoring this Eddie. . ."

"I know, I know. . . this is the last time I promise."  Eddie said with a smile.

"Oh alllright then. . . On your way.  Thundercock, you're under arrested."

And they cuffed her and took her in the squad car and Eddie Murphy drove back home in his wife's SUV.  When he got home, he would get in bed next to his wife, he no longer gave him any attention, and slipped off to sleep to dream dreams of chicks with dicks.

Thundercock of course spent the night behind bars, on a tiny cot with all the other prostitutes in the same cell.

It pays to be a celebrity, as opposed to a chick with a dick.

The real story goes like this:

"Making Eddie the most nervous and scared black man in America, Nicole terrified him that this 1997 transvestite prostitute encounter might breach their prenuptial agreement.

The story of the prostitute stands somehow like this:  in the early hours of May 2, 1997, Murphy was driving his wife's SUV down Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, an area known for homosexual prostitutes.  Murphy pulled over, and a transvestite hooker named Atisone Kenneth Seiuli got in.  They drove off together, but didn't get far before there was a burst of siren, and Murphy was pulled over by a Los Angeles Sheriff's Department squad car.  

The officers spent half an hour talking amiably with Murphy, warning him about the neighborhood and perhaps getting his autograph before shaking his hand and letting him go.  Seiuli, though, was arrested on an outstanding warrant for violating probation on an earlier prostitution charge.

And as quick as Seiuli could post bail, the story was in the tabloids and on Entertainment Tonight.  According Seiuli, in their brief conversation in the vehicle, Murphy had put two hundred-dollar bills on her leg.  Seiuli remembers:  "he asked me if I did this for a living, being a transsexual prostitute.  I said yes.  "Eddie said, 'Do you like to wear lingerie?'  I said yes.  He said, 'Can I see you in lingerie?'  I told him, 'Whenever I have the time.'  He said, 'I'll make the time.'  "Then he asked me, 'What type of sex do you like?'  I said I was into everything."  Or at least that was Seiuli's story.

Murphy's version was not the same, of course.  "I'm married with three children.  I'm not going to be out there screwing hookers off the street or anything like that.  I'm just being a nice guy.  I was being a good Samaritan.  Its not the first hooker I've helped out.  I've seen hookers on corners, and I'll pull over, and they'll go, 'Oh you're Eddie Murphy, oh my God,' and I'll empty my wallet out to help."

Courtesy of Softpedia.com  Full Link

Haha yeah Eddie, and they just happen to suck you dick and let you fuck them, cause you're such a nice guy. . .  This whole debacle was pretty sad, I mean he picked up a known hooker in an area known for prostitution. . . And who really goes around helping hookers?  And does money really help them?  No, it just allows them to buy more drugs and booze.  I mean, I'm sure they're nice people, but most people don't like hanging around hookers, unless they want sex from them.  This also goes for driving around in such hot beds of activity.  The average guy doesn't hang around them unless they want sex for hookers. . . But apparently Eddie Murphy is the nicest guy in the world...

Yeah right.

And it is for Eddie Murphy's inability to man up and his inability to keep away from tranny hookers that iR declares Eddie Murphy repetitively retarded.

My Girl Likes To Party All The Time... Eddie Murphy's big hit when trying a music career.

This song is actually about Thundercock.

Eddie Murphy Raw, and his wonderful purple leather suit, complete with Michael Jackson dick groping gloves:

As always, love iR.

Oh and his brother, Charlie Murphy?  Well just check him bombing on stage:

Kanye West needs to turn this into a beat, stat.