The Ryan Gossling Effect; Or The Death of Rationalization

The written word has been losing a long battle with other mediums since the invention of television and other institutions which require "less thought."  Yet still, magazines thrive, as many people still enjoy them while waiting for the torture of dentistry, or the vain efforts of a hairdresser. It has always been a mild distraction, to be picked up in times of utter boredom--perhaps when the cellphone is out of battery life, or the institution being visited is void of any free wifi. Sure, many magazines have folded over the years, to be forgotten forever by everyone except for a few die-hards, but Rolling Stone has been the written gospel for many a pompous music fan, and High Times has been a porno mag for stoners all across the country for just over forty years.  Quality has never been a precursor to whether or not a magazine survives, its all dumb luck and stupidity, a sort of survival in the coming waves of what is trendy and popular. People has survived under this distinction, and has for a long time been America's sort of secret, dirty obsession (beside torture, slavery, war, and robbing the poor).

In this light, People has been given the rather bullshit and unimportant task of naming The Sexiest Man Alive for many years, and during that time not a single scientist or working mind has been mentioned--only celebrities--the nonexistent and unimportant. Its obvious and understandable when one considers People only writes about celebrities, but when considering such an umbrella term as man, its just plain stupid. America's obsessions with these fools have been showcased over the years, and now it has finally turned ugly. . .

November 16, 2011

Sylvia Wormwood, aged twenty-eighty, sits at her kitchen table, with a legion of like minded followers surrounded around her in a ring of stupid. Their faces carry a shock and morbidity that would lead one to believe that they are looking at old LIFE photos of the Vietnam War, or the motorcycle hoodlum gang called Hell's Angels.  But they aren't gazing at a story of any real importance, they're looking at People's latest distinction of The Sexiest Man Alive, and quite frankly, they're beside themselves with terror and hurt.

"Bradley Cooper?"  Sylvia scoffs.  "Really?  Bradley Cooper?"  She shakes her head as one of her friends, with less than an iron stomach evacuates the room to vomit.  It sounds like her soul is being wretched out, and the smell of it proves she has quite an ugly soul indeed.

When her friend returns she finds everyone quiet, brooding.  Though the sun is coming in yellow through a front window the Vomit Girl can no longer see the sunniness she once knew in all her friends.  They seem grey. Sylvia seems black with darkness and shadow.  Vomit Girl is concerned for the very air itself seems heavy, and every face she peers into seems heavy, and her legs feel heavy, and the clouds outside the window look heavy.  Everything looks heavy.  Heavy, heavy, heavy.  So heavy she subconsciously mouths the word HEAVY.  Something big is on the horizon.

"Well, we can write letters!"  Vomit Girl blurts out, but no one seems to notice.  She looks around at all the faces with her small head, with its small eyes and tiny nose like somebody pushed it in long ago and it just stuck.  Her minute frame suddenly tries to be bigger than it is--a defense mechanism, her chest filling with air, the hands like tiny birds moving up to rest on her hips.  An air of authority.  "We can write emails!" she amends.  "We can take to the power of the internet.  Blast them with how wrong they are.  Start a real smear campaign.  With users and message boards and chat rooms and everything," she says, growing bigger with every word.

"Emails and message boards are for kids. . ."  Sylvia replies.  Vomit Girl deflates and steps back to hide behind the others.  "Or for your loving local congressman light with the wind of an upcoming reelection.  This is bigger than that."

"We can make a website!"  Another of the group adds.

"No, Eve."  Sylvia speaks quietly, as if to keep from going into a total rage.  Her painted lips curl down at the corners, hinting at that rage, and the trembling of her hands show how hard she is trying to suppress it. "No, we must show our strength, our numbers."  She rises up in front of the girls, speaking with the authority of a troop commander.  "They must see us, physically.  Not with emails or websites.  Those are intangibles. They are nothing--nothing compared to people--to the flesh.  Can a email scream?  Can a website cry?  Can a forum actually hurt?  Can any of these things exist outside of the realm of the internet?  Like real things? Hmm?  We must organize, we must show our strength, our numbers," she repeats.

"I don't know. . ." Vomit girl says.  She is worried.  She knows what Sylvia could do  when she lost her head--enough nights drunk at the club with Sylvia told her that.  "Look, I'm just as upset about this as anyone else--but let's not do anything rash.  It is just a magazine.  It is just a silly little title anyway.  I know my love for Ryan hasn't been hurt one bit by it. He probably doesn't even care."

"Maybe she's right," Sam, the only man present says softly, for not only Vomit Girl is feeling the tension building up in the room.  "I love Ryan as much as the next gal but. . ."

"But nothing."  Sylvia snaps.  "Harsh times call for harsh measures."  The look in her eyes makes Sam turn to jelly.  "Imagine how hurt Ryan is." She pauses and the group thinks about it.  "Imagine how hurt all the other Gossling fans are.  That's a whole lot of hurt.  Just a magazine?  Just a silly little title that means nothing at all?!  People* has a lot of nerve with a name like that.  They aren't for the people--clearly not.  This is so much bigger!"

*People magazine boasts a circulation of 3.75 million readers, as of 2006.

She points to Molly, the group's 'fat friend' whose tears are still rolling down her face, and have been ever since she first saw the cover, like a leaky faucet that just won't turn off.  Molly blows her nose, a lawn mower. A lawn mower and a leaky faucet, that is Molly.

"We must show our strength, our numbers."  Sylvia says as if it were her personal mantra, and in the coming days would become the official motto of our nation's first and only Vespa gang.  "And we start now."

As the day passes and the sun sinks down beyond the trees and the buildings built still higher with man's vanity, the Wormwood home undergoes tremendous change.  The Notebook had been put at the start, and though many of the group are big fans (including Sam), many don't listen. The voice of Sylvia would not be denied.  The table is cleared, and from around it the group gathers as Sylvia lays out pictures of Gossling and those abs of his they so adore.  Their preferred beverage of wine coolers is brought out, and the binge drinking begins.  Many of them are not regular drinkers, but due to the severity of the situation many feel it necessary to let out a bit of steam.  Under the fiery affects of the liquor, which many of them found to be quite hard, their voices lift, and moments of great pitch and action begin.  The furniture is destroyed with little concern and prejudice as their feelings swell under the shitty bitch booze. The windows, once cleaned obsessively are shattered for fun, the sound showering out onto the street with their laughter.  They're happy despite their anger, and many a neighbor is disturbed.

One such neighbor makes a phone call to her only friend that goes like this, she standing there in the kitchen on the old rotary phone she had kept all those years, her hair up in rolls for the next day:

"There are all sorts of strange sounds over their Maggie.  Well I don't quite know.  I can hear them laughing, but there are all these sounds of destruction.  Like what?  Broken glass.  Some sound like someone chopping wood, but mostly it was like wood splintering.  Splintering dear. Splintering.  It just aint right.  I said it just aint right.  How do I know?  I'm not all that crazy you know.  Hey now, I've been tested!  I know there's something wrong cause I can hear a movie playing loud in the background, and there's all this laughter and destruction, like it doesn't even matter.  What?  No, I don't know what movie it is, but it is awful loud.  Loud 'nuff I can hear it anyway.  I can hear sewing machines too.  A strange sewing party, if I ever heard one.  This gets any worse, I just may call the cops.  No, not cots.  Why would I call a bunch of cots?  I said cops.  I know, I know.  But hey, there's such a thing as common decency. . ."

She says her good-byes and hangs up the phone to hobble off into the dark corner of her bedroom to look terrified out the window at the goings on next door.  The cops are never called however, and as the sun rises once again to the sounds of birds already out in the trees to welcome it, the group finds themselves baptized in the warmth of sin, booze, and Ryan Gossling.

November 17, 2011

They are no longer friends of Sylvia's, but members of an elite group of die-hard fans that would do anything for their man.  A group of people who were once good, but have been made bad, and they know the score.  The Gossling Elite.  The Gossling Gang.  Only a day later, police had themselves a new menace, as this one police report shows:

NARRATIVE
On Thursday November 17, 2011 Eve Flair, (of 555 W. Fifth Street, Los Angeles, CA) was placed under arrest along with Charlotte Webber (of 1888 N Main Street, Los Angeles, CA) after being observed exhibiting loud and tumultuous behavior in a public place directed at a uniformed police officer who was present investigating a report of a crime in progress.  When asked to disperse they grew violent, smashing the windshield of a nearby motorist with a length of heavy chain.  These actions on the behalf of Webber and Flair were said to be in support of a one Ryan Gossling, whom they claimed to be the victim of a horrible travesty.

On the above time and date, I was on uniformed duty in an unmarked police cruiser assigned to the Administration Section, working from 7:00 AM - 3:30 PM.  At approximately 12:44 PM, I was operating my cruiser on E Jefferson Blvd near S Central Avenue. At that time, I overheard an ECC broadcast for a possible break in in progress at 587 W. Fifth Street. Due to my proximity, I responded.

In route to the scene I came across a group of nearly 12 women and 1 man out in the middle of the street, protesting.  They were wearing Ryan Gossling masks, and their Vespas were parked out in the street, blocking it.  Traffic built up, and I asked them to disperse as to not cause any potential dangers for other motorists.  I flashed the lights, but they just grew more belligerent.  Other motorists exited their cars to yell at the group, calling themselves the Gossling Gang, and after one insulted them, the gang descended onto the victims car and smashed windows with bricks they called Bradley Bricks.

"As ugly and thick headed as Bradley Cooper," they shouted as the windows of the driver's vehicle were destroyed and others took to the sides of the vehicle with lengths of chain.  I managed to take two into custody before the others drove off silently on their Vespas at top speed.  Back up was called, but none of the rest of the Gossling Gang were apprehended, as they could not be properly ID'd as anything other than Ryan Gossling.

When booked, Eve Flair announced herself to be Evil Evey, and Charlotte Webber announced herself to be Webber the Wino, though their identification proved otherwise. 
. . .

The police report and the suceeding media blitz around The Gossling Gang brings the group sudden overnight fame, and though their heads swell a bit from the sudden exposure, many of them are still dedicated to the plan: to have Bradley Cooper denounced as The Sexiest Man Alive so that Ryan Gossling may take up the title.  The newspapers run with titles like BARROWS GANG WHO? NEW OUTLAWS IN TOWN, and GOSSLING GANG TAKES IT TO THE PEOPLE OF PEOPLE, and FIGHTING IN THE STREETS; GOSSLING DIE HARDS TO BLAME.  They celebrate their new found fame, but little do they know that from the east, a group of butch motorcyclists, is riding to meet them, covered from head to toe in Nazi regalia to defend who they believed was still The Sexiest Man Alive, a man who had been given the title decades earlier, a man named Mel Gibson.

November 18, 2011

The sun rises in its yellow Godliness above the land, through the smog and all the rest.  The Gossing Gang is gathered at their headquarters, the former site of Sylvia's home, gutted and depraved.  Sylvia is no longer going by Sylvia, but instead GM, Gossling's Mamma, and all the other's have names too. Vomit Girl picks up her name for the night of her infamous vomiting, Eve of course goes by Evil Evey, Charlotte: Webber the Wino, Sam goes by Sassy Samuel, and there are others: Notebook, Jugs, Wendy the Whipper, Aunt Ethel, The Babymaker, and a whole slew of so many more.

The old woman next door peers from her window and looks out upon a torn up lawn, with Vespas parked haphazardly about it, the green gutted and turned to brown.  A group of sparrows tend to the worms dug up, to the roots ground up from the land.  There is fear in her eyes, but she doesn't dare make the call.  Despite her growing dependence on others and loss of sight, she still is bright enough and clear enough of vision to make out the headlines that morning, and make that grim connection that the Gossling Gang is indeed living next door.  There's no other explanation for the sudden change, for the sounds and evidence of destruction she had been witnessing over the past couple of days.

Inside the gang comes up with a wonderful idea, to boycott outside of the very offices of People magazine.  Some suggest its New York offices, but many feel that time is precious, and a run to New York would take too long.  They settle on its Los Angeles editorial bureau on 10960 Whilshire Blvd.  Their Vespas line up on the lawn at 11:50, the group dressed in full costume: Gossling masks, cowboy hats, Frenchie hats, some, no hats at all, blue and black plaid shirts with Gossling's Gang sewn on the back, tassles, colors, and in the case of Sassy Samuel, an excess amount of glitter.  At 12 on the dot they ride off, one at a time, like silent rockets in a long procession of hate, their bikes chewing up turf as they make the jostling transition from lawn to street--up and over the curb with nothing but style, Vespa's grooving down the righteous path of the super fan gone wrong.  The old neighbor next door comes out to watch them, and when they are done she runs back into her house to make yet another frightful phone call to her nearly deaf friend:

"The monster's loose!"

As they ride off Sylvia, Gossling's Momma thinks:

"We'll show those bastards."

Evil Evey thinks:

"If only I had a battery powered curling iron--I'd burn those fuckers faces right off.  Make them hideous for making such a hideous mistake."

Sassy Samuel thinks:

"I look good on this sex rocket.  Almost as good as Gossling."

Molly, Jugs thinks:

"I'm hungry."

She is always hungry.

The ride over is uneventful.  Many a motorist is shocked by this gang of Vespas riding down the yellow line like they own the street, but no one says anything.  Most just stand there, intrigued and confused with stupid looks on their faces.  The sight of it makes the gang laugh, and as they pass a few blow kisses at them mockingly: the square in the suit and tie, the mother clutching her two bright eyed children, the old woman walking home with bags in her hand straight from the market.  When they arrive at the scene, they exit their bikes, and the clan goes into action.  GM manages the group like a general manager, barking orders and positioning the group--and no one second guesses her wise judgement, except for Vomit Girl, whose keen intuition senses danger and whose heart has already lost its zeal for the entire gang, for the whole she-bang, for Sylvia and her silly name.  Looking up into the building, GM laughs, and the gang starts up a powerful chant:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine.  Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine. Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine.  Again and again, growing louder and more angry with each utterance.  The first pair of eyes appear in the window, and soon others follow.  They are laughing.  The anger swells up in the gang, and they start chanting louder still.  The words waft up through the streets, through the narrow bits of black between the glass walls surrounding them.  Clusters of onlookers gather, some recognizing the phenomenon, some not, some taking pictures on their cellphones to broadcast to the rest of their friends on the internet.  And still:

"Cooper's, fine, but Gossling's divine."

The sun shines down upon them all, a massive spotlight for the scene. All the world is a stage.  And the stage is filled with holes, dark spots, tears, and is run by money counting mongrels with fingers that never tire of counting their green, with heads that care not for the specifics, or what's ugly or what's wrong--business is business, it isn't a charity game--and clowns that laugh and cry but mostly cry, and somewhere someone drowns in their own blood (never use 'and' to start a sentence, never use 'and' with repetition, never, never, never).  The star of this particular act returns to her Vespa, to pull out what looks like a gun, painted red.  She raises it above her head with a yell.  She shoots it out up into the air, a trail of smoke behind it, the glowing red eye of its everything reaching higher and higher into those heavens forgotten, forlorn, and so damn tiresome.

And still:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

A strange thing happens.  The people watching start to cheer, like they're looking upon a Labor Day Parade.  The gang smiles under their masks, driven by the charge of the people.  GM takes up a position on some poor motorists roof.  She jumps up and down, rallying the people, urging others to join them, to come to the side of those of the righteous and  forever right.  "We are the 99%," she shouts.  Traffic begins to build up, with motorists honking and adding the din.  When still the building stands with unblinking eyes, the group grows mean; operating on the belief that such a show of strength would make the weak writers realize their folly and come out of its doors to succumb to what they felt was right:  Ryan Gossling is the sexiest man alive.  The group starts to throw rocks at the windows, though many are girls and can't throw, a few windows are shattered, bringing down a rain glass on pedestrians.  The crowd cheers--Americans with a long and well ingrained love for violence.

And still:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

But:

A sound comes in through the chants, a sound like the rumbling of thunder.  At first it is only faint, and some don't seem to notice, but as it comes closer it becomes more intelligible.  The Gossling Gang continues to chant, but on occasion they drop their heads from the building to look around them.  Still, the sound grows louder and louder--the thunder growing near.

At first they are just glints on the horizon.  At first only a few notice them, but then they become bigger, the noise louder.  God says "whenever you're ready. . . let go," and they did.  They tear on through the group, big motorcycles carrying a sound so thunderous the chant is washed out under the sound of pure American machinery.  They just suddenly appear, the leader in front with her face painted white and blue.  Nazi flags suddenly fill the tragically American scene, fluttering in the wind from the tremendous speed.  Some of the gang are so shocked they stop chanting, but not GM, who still stands perched atop a parked car, jumping up and down like a Gossling monkey and wailing out into the street.

Gibson's Gals emerge on the scene wielding homemade weapons and bludgeons on their mighty steeds, motorcycles that can tear through Vespas without slowing down one bit.  The crowd disperses, a woman screams in a manner to split the ears.  A war cry rings out, as the Gossling Gang is taken under in a surf that would not be denied--they stand no chance.  A Gibson fan is far more deranged the man himself; to deny the publicity and actions of a bigoted man is to throw caution to the wind and ignore what is right and good in the world, to look into the eyes of the suffering and flip them off, to rape a woman and ask her if she would like seconds, as polite as pie.  No amount of ab worship would overcome the utter ignorance of a Gibson fan, and it shows.  Before the cops arrive, several members of the Gossling Gang are on the ground, staring stupidly at amounts of blood surging out of their bodies in quantities they've never seen before, with the pure shock that allows a man with a bullet in his heart to go on for minutes after he should be clinically dead, like a PCP user with a dozen stab wounds in the stomach; the idea of perishing just doesn't connect in a mind gone haywire on too many chemicals rushing the brain at one time.

The leader of Gibson's Gals is particularly vicious, her white and blue painted face is seen contorted into expressions of joy as she smashes heads and damages Vespa's with her superhuman dyke strength.  At 6 foot 2, two hundred and eighty pounds, she is a tough adversary for men, let alone a Notebook loving freak high on the ideas of romanticism.  Romance too her was long dead, along with the idea of a man's penis, hate replacing the empty voids to almost overflowing.  It could be seen in her very eyes.

When the police arrive they immediately assess it to be a situation they cannot handle, and soon later arrive the riot squad.  When the tear gas rises above the scene, there is damage and destruction everywhere, and all of the gang is brought into custody to conjure up a new plan in light of this recent and unexpected attack.  All except for Vomit Girl, who has had enough violence and conflict to last her for the rest of her life.  She goes off to sulk in a corner of the cell all by herself, to curse the day she ever met Sylvia Wormwood and became a member of the Gossling Gang. . .

These Gossling cats, though quite admirable in spirit, are pursing a venture that means nothing at all.  To think we live in a world with real problems that these protesters have come to fight a silly title of little or no importance bothers me to an extent I don't quite wish to illustrate. Perhaps it is a sign that people care way too much for celebrities, or perhaps it is a sign that these people have no real problems at all--well-to-do white folks with plenty of cash in the bank, and an abundance of free time to focus on the frivolous.  Either way, I don't approve, and am in fact in shock, as if I were a person gazing down the firey anus of a Hell's Angels steed for the first time.

Yes, this is a spoof.  No, they don't act this violent, nor have they taken to the idea of becoming outlaws, but I thought it would be funny and silly to think of these people as violent outlaws.  As the outlaw elite.  As a variation of the Hell's Angels.  Once again I find myself in a situtation where I must explain myself, but if you knew what I was going at, I wouldn't have to.  If you were half the Hunter S. Thompson fan you claim to be, you would know exactly what I am doing and make the connection. I won't explain, because I don't feel the need to.

I'm full of liquor at the moment, so much so that I feel warm and my cheeks are burning.  I know them to be red, for enough experience as an Scottish-Irish man has told me that when I drink I turn red, or when I do any amount of exercise I turn red, almost as if my skin is so opaque the blood shines on through.  I don't wanna seem pompous.  I don't wanna seem like I have anything to say at all about the situation, because I don't.

I just think its ridiculous.  Fucking ridiculous.

These people actually have online petitions.  These people have actually protested, complete with signs and chants and Ryan Gossling masks. . .  And yes, these masks are hella creepy.

Who gives a shit about People magazine?  People who do, I wish not to meet.

And for this reason iR declares the Ryan Gossling protesters to be tragically retarded.

The Rogen

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered Timothy Leary,
Over many a droll and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I smoked, nearly coughing, suddenly there came a scoffing
As of some one gently quaffing, quaffing at my very sores.
'Tis my mind,' I muttered, 'doffing the pain of my sores -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was the dead of Summer,
And each separate waking bummer came up through the creaking floor
Eagerly I wished tomorrow; - vainly I had sought to hollow
From my mind visions of sorrow - sorrow for the sightly bore -
For that often and duplicated fluff of a Hollywood bore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the raucous rambunctious echoing of each white wall
Thrilled me - filled me with tremendous terrors endured before;
But still now, to ease the beating of my brain, I stood repeating
'Tis my fragile mind entreating entrance at my psyche's door -
Some midday freak out entreating entrance at my psyche's door-
This it is and nothing more.'

Presently my head grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Tard,' said I, 'or Retard, truly you must try your best to explore;
The notion that I've been smoking, and thusly so gently toking,
When there upon came your joking, joking at my psyche's door,
That I scarce believed I heard you' - here I said hello behind the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there silent and leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But no joke was spoken, and there was no sign of Rogen,
The silence remained unbroken save for the whispered words, 'a bore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'a bore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into my bedroom turning, all my guts within me churning,
Soon again I heard a scoffing somewhat louder than before
'Surely,' I said, 'surely that is something outside at my window;
Let me seen then, what the fuck it is, and this mystery explore -
Let my balls be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a shit and mutter,
In there stepped a fattened jew of the saintly days of bore.
Not the least obeisance made he; he not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with the right of a Crystal, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Kesey, just above my chamber door,
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this fattening man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the silly and jocund state of countenance he so aptly wore
"Though thy chest be hairy and dense thou,"  I said "art no comedian,
Fattened, grim, and silly bargain, wandering the Hollywood shore.
Tell me what the shameless name is on Hollywood's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the Rogen, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this foolish clown to hear bullshit so plainly;
Though his answer gave little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sane human being
Ever yet was plagued with seeing fool above his chamber door,
Jew or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the fool,sitting lonely on that ancient bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his guts in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further he uttered; not a man tit did he butter,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other fools have come before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtfull," said I, "what it utters is its only hope not to be a bore,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his jokes one burden bore, --
Till the songs of his love that melancholy boredom bore
Of "Never--nevermore."

But the clown still beguilling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of jew and bust and door;
Then, upon the cold seat sinking, I took myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous fool of yore -
What this grim, overweight, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous fool of yore
Meant in laughing 'Nevermore.'

This I sat deeply in thinking, but no syllable came finking,
To this fool whose empty eyes now bored their way in my head's core;
This and more I sat bribing another drop from a drink I was imbibing
On the desk's wooden lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But whose cigarette burns lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
He shall burn, ah, forever more!

Then, methought, the air smelled vile, perfumed by Rogen's bile
Spat out upon the very carpeted fluffed floor.
'Bastard,' I cried, 'thy Producer hath lent thee--by such demons he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of that bore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind of nepenthe, and forget this lost bore!
Guffawed the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil! -
Whether anger sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this warm land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there laughs in Zack and Miri? - tell me, you fat bore!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with idleness full if, I were to fashion here a bull,
It shall ram you through your very skull, from which come such bores -
And eliminate entirely, the very skull, from which come your bores?
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that joke or sign of parting, actor of fiend!'  I shrieked upstarting -
Get thee back into the emptiness and the Hollywood's endless bore!
Leave no small laugh as a token of that lie thy mouth hath spoken!
Leave my emptiness here unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy laugh from my ears, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

And the Rogen, still staffing madness, still is chaffing, still is chaffing
From the pallid bust of Kesey above my chamber door;
And his belly has filled with demon's that still are dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his laughter on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies laughing on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe really thought a Raven carrying the memory of a loved one would be quite terrifying.  But he was quite wrong.  The laugh of Seth Rogen is far more terrifying.  Weeks of it would make a person rip their own ears off and poke out their own eyes.  

I say it is so.

I remember when I first saw him.  It was in Knocked Up.  No wait, it was in 40 Year Old Virgin.  I never watched Freaks and Geeks, I don't care much for either of them, less of course they are in cages, or in a Freak Show at some circus ground filled with the scents of cotton candy, stale peanuts, and elephant shit.  That way, you can see their sadness in its purest of forms.

Oh Rogen, that laugh of yours, reminiscent of a retard and that hick dude in Waterboy, oh how it fills me with such terror.  I thought you should know, so I wrote you that little spoof poem there.  The Rogen. . . I mean really, how terrifying would it be to see a raven fly into your room with the head of Seth Rogen?  And the only thing from his lips would be that laugh?  The answer is, quite terrifying.

I say it is so.

It is for this reason, that I, iR, declare Seth Rogen and his laugh to be a bit of cursed retardation.

Love,

Joshua.

Douchebag; or Fred Durst's New Sitcom

The crumbling graveyard of sitcom television fills with the cold winds of Autumn.  There are leaves there, blowing across the tombstones like so many leaflets from so many horrible reviews.  The tears of America grace the cheeks of the Nothing Generation, caught up in a world where entertainment no longer comes from the television.  Some would think that this would be a bad thing, but for guys like Fred Durst its an opportunity. An opportunity to change things, despite his history of failures.  The ink has not yet dried, and already Durst is taking up a napkin to wipe away the tears.

Yes. . . dear friends, Fred Durst is getting into the sitcom game.  He signed a deal with CBS, and not only will be its 'shining star,' but will also be its co-producer.  The show?  Well its called Douchebag, yes one word (as Fred Durst isn't very literary) and its all about some aging rock star trying to deal with his career and his family. A struggle, so to speak, with overtones of comedy.  Of course, it would have overtones of comedy, that is if Fred Durst wasn't involved in the whole process, and it wasn't on CBS.  But alas, it is well known that the poor and cheap have no other choice than to swallow whole the trash that syndicated channels offer them.  And as the 99%'ers like to point out, only 1% of Americans have the wealth to watch whatever they want.  That and own slaves--only we don't call them slaves anymore.

How else can we explain the prevalence of such shows like Jerry Springer and Judge Judy?

We can't.

Luckily, being quite connect with the swine that control syndicated television, I have been give an early copy of the proposed pilot episode.

It goes like this:

INT. MANSION - MORNING

A living room, furnished lavishly.

A maid, MARTHA walks the length of the room with a basket full of dirty laundry.  She knows the lay of the room quite well, and navigates it without having to look in front of her.  The basket is piled high up over her eyes.

FRED enters the room looking quite tired.  He rubs his head with a slight groan and makes his way towards the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee.

FRED

(tired)

Hello Martha. . .

MARTHA

Late night, sir?

FRED

Yeah, the girls kept me up all night

MARTHA

Your daughters, or those women you sneaked in last night?  One of them was young enough to be your daughter, that's for sure.

FRED

What women?  I'm a changed man, you know that.  I may have had lots of women in the past, but I'm a family man now.

MARTHA

(smiling)

Really, I thought you did it all for the nookie?

She walks towards the door to the laundry room, not taking any mind of Fred

MARTHA (CONT'D)

Oh, and your wife is already up and in the kitchen.

FRED

(shocked)

Not cooking, please not cooking.  I still haven't recovered from the last time she tried to make vegetable soup.  I've never seen mud so thick.

RATTLING of pots and pans comes out of the kitchen.

FRED

Oh dear God, she's cooking.

MARTHA

Mmmhmmm--oh and sir. . . you've got some lipstick on your cheek.  Experimenting with make up again?

Fred only looks at her and blindly wipes his cheek.

FRED

Make-up?  What do you think I am, down with the clown?  You should look into make-up Martha, you sure could use some.

MARTHA
(under her breath)

I could use a stiff drink.

Martha makes a face at Fred, but he doesn't see it from behind all of the clothes.  Fred shakes his head and enters the kitchen, RATTLING coming in clearer as he opens the door.

INT - KITCHEN

The room is half full of billowing smoke, filling the room with each passing second.  

Jane hums while she works at the stove, mixing up some concoction that hardly looks edible.  She seems unaware of Fred's entry.  He walks up to the island in the middle of the kitchen and sits down.  There are pots and pans hanging over head.

FRED

I love the smell of smoke in the morning. . . You know we have people who can do that for you.  We wouldn't want any unexpected fires, now would we?

JANE

What's that supposed to mean?

She works the pan, the food BUBBLING with the sounds of grease as smoke continues to fill the room in thick grey clouds.  

FRED
(coughing)

It's like a Bob Marley concert in here.

The smoke continues, thick.

FRED (CONT'D)

What are you making there anyway?  I've seen science experiments that look more appetizing.

JANE

(frustrated)

The same could be said for some of the women you've been with.  You're being a douche bag.

FRED

(annoyed)

I thought you weren't going to call me that anymore?

He raises his hands and adjusts his backwards baseball cap.  Feeling it out he finds a position that is more comfortable.

Jane turns from the stove to glare at him, her hands rested on her hips.

JANE

I thought you weren't going to act like one anymore?  Life is full of disappointments, dear.

Fred frowns.  The sound of STOMPING comes down from the stairs.  DELILA and SAMANTHA enter the room running.  They scream.

DELILA

(screaming)

Fire!  Fire!

FRED

No dear--

SAMANTHA
(echoing)

Fire!  Fire!  

The children run around the island, screaming and waving their arms in the air.  Delila is seized up by her mother, who grabs her by the arm.

JANE

(shouting)

Enough!  Enough!  There's no fire!  Mommy is just making everyone breakfast.  Isn't that nice?

FRED

That remains to be seen.

JANE

How did you sleep girls?

SAMANTHA/DELILA

(together)

Fine. . .

SAMANTHA

But there were all these noises coming from Daddy's room.

FRED

(surprised)

Noises?  What noises?

SAMANTHA

Oh, Hi daddy.  Didn't know you were up.  Its a little early for you isn't it?

Fred's shock turns to dismay, as his wife serves the children.  He frowns.

SAMANTHA (CONT'D)

Sounds like farm animals.  I think I even heard a cow.

JANE

(angry)

Oh, I thought you gave up fat chicks, dear.

FRED

(innocently)

They were probably dreaming, dear.

The air is full of tension, and smoke.  The children start to play with their food, moving it around with their forks.

DELILA

There was definitely a farmer too.  I remember hearing him talk about his precious hoe.

FRED

Kids and their imagination.

Jane turns from the stove with a plate of food.  She slams it down on the table in front of him.  She stares a hole right through him, and under her gaze he shrinks a little.  The smoke still fills the room and she opens the door to let some of it out.

Fred eyes his plate suspiciously, quite confused as to what it is exactly. The kids continue to play with their food, hardly eating it.

FRED

What is this?

He pokes it with his fork.  Bringing it to his face it drips long stringy substances.

JANE

Eggs, douche bag.

Fred frowns and meekly takes a forkful.  He eats it and his face changes to one of disgust.

FRED

(disgusted)

You never could tell the difference between salt and sugar.  It would be horrible if we had cyanide in the house.

JANE

Who says we don't?

Jane takes the kids plates and puts them in the sink.  She wipes her hands on a dish cloth as Fred gets up to leave.  She turns to look at him.

He stops.

JANE

Where do you think you're going?

FRED

Work?

JANE

Oh no, its your day to take the kids to the studio.

FRED

You're crazy if you think. . .

She stares at him.

FRED (CONT'D)

But. . . honey. . .

She continues to stare, she lifts her hand to rest it on her hip.

FRED (CONT'D)

You've got another thing coming if you think I'm going to bring them to the studio!  They don't even like my music.

JANE

Funny, I thought only children liked your music.

FRED

No.  No.  It's not gonna happen!  No!  No!  Over my dead body.

CUT TO:

Fred is at the wheel of his car, trying his best to concentrate with his two daughters kicking and screaming in the back seat.  They kick his chair, and he rocks forward with each blow.

FRED

(pleading)

OK, can we calm down?  Daddy needs to drive to a very important gig.

The kids scream louder and kick his chair.  He seems quite upset.

FRED

(to himself)

Now I know what it feels like to be in the mosh pit at one of my shows. . . 

INT - STUDIO

The studio is well lit and clean.  Fred's band members are already fitzing around.  GUITAR RIFFS blurt out intermittently.  A SOUND MAN is stationed at the sound board adjusting the levels.

Fred enters with his daughters in tow.  They are lively and full of it.

SOUND MAN

What's with the kids?

FRED

My day to watch em.

SOUND MAN

Family man eh?  Shall we begin?

Fred nods and kneels by his children.  They are fidgeting around.  Delila's mouth is covered with chocolate, and Samantha has a candy bar all of her.

SOUND MAN

You know, you should never give kids candy.

Fred ignores him and looks into his children's eyes.  He takes on a voice that most parents make when they want their children to do something they know they aren't going to want to do.

FRED

(desperate)

Now daddy has to work, but I know you're going to be real angels.  Isn't that right?

He pats them on the head and leaves them.  He goes into the sound booth and begins to sing.

FRED

(singing)

I'm a loser, yes it's true.
Feels like I'm losing since I met you

Through the good times and the bad

Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

SCREAMS cut through the air as his children start chasing one another about the studio.  First Delila is seen, then Samantha, chasing after her.

FRED (CONT'D)

Check it out
Back in the days there was ways

I was moving on guns all ablaze

Pullin on the past like I do 
Still can't forgive all the abuse

SCREAMS continue, grow louder.  This time Samantha is seen first, holding Delila's candy bar, followed by Delila chasing after her.  Fred becomes distraught, but continues to sing.

FRED (CONT'D)

That aint no way to rise from the crib

Still running hard from the shit
Why you wanna push my buttons?

Makin sure that I feel nothin?

SCREAMS continue.  The children can be seen crawling all over the sound man.  They wrestle him and he falls from his chair.  He SCREAMS.

The children start to play with the sound board.

FRED (CONT'D)

Do you really think you need to remind me
Just to make yourself feel better?  I don't think so
I just wanna do it all right
Find me a better place in this life

The kids continue to play with the sound board, adjusting the levels.  Fred sounds high pitched.  They continue to play.

FRED (CONT'D)

We bring out the worst in each other

That aint no way to love one another
I'm a loser, yes its true
Feels like I'm losing since I met you

More adjustments

FRED (CONT'D)

(auto-tuned)

Through the good times and the bad

More adjustments.

FRED (CONT'D)

(deeply pitched)

Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

More adjustments.  The sounds of SCREAMS.

FRED (CONT'D)

(high pitched)

I'm a loser yes its true

FRED
(womanly)

Feels like I'm losing since I met you

FRED
(like a chipmunk)
Through the good times and the bad
Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

Fred stops singing.  He looks up and see his girls riding the sound man like a horse.  He SCREAMS as they tear at his hair.  His screams make them laugh.

FRED

(to himself)
This is gonna be harder than I thought. . . .

Thankfully, the remainder of the script seems to be stained with some strange sticky substance, rendering the rest of it quite a difficult read.

Since when was Fred Durst funny?  By that I mean, since when was Fred Durst ever funny without it being unintentional?  Sure his career has been funny, but that's only because he himself has become a giant walking joke--complete with a backwards cap.  Even Fred knows it.  With this sitcom, never before has a title been more fitting.  Douchebag is perfect, for Fred's been one for decades.

CBS has come to make quite a grave mistake.  Perhaps they are so out of touch with today's youth they actually think kids like Fred Durst (or that its still the 90's), or maybe they think hiring him to lead a sitcom based on his rather flimsy (virtually non-existent) television credits is a great idea.

In both occasions, they are sorely mistaken.  A cadaver could provide more humor.  If the show makes it pass the pilot episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise--though I'm sure lots of people will watch the first episode just to laugh at what he's become.  OK, so if it makes it pass the second episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise.

But then again, Two and a Half Men  is still on the air, even with a front man who is turning out to be just as morally corrupt as the man he replaced.

With that said, iR declares the idea of a Fred Durst sitcom to be infinitely retarded.

Fernando Flores' Journal Reads More Like A Babysitter's Diary; Britney Spears Farts, Bodyguard Crumples

Note:  The following entry is a copy of Fernando Flores' self-edited diary entry.  All cross outs are taken directly from the original text, as apparently Mr. Flores has taken to self censoring himself for his upcoming lawsuit of Britney Spears.  All crude drawings were added by Mr. Flores himself and have been X'd out in attempt to further censor himself and facilitate the image that he is in no way just a bitter man looking to get some cash out of an ugly cash cow.

Dear Diary Journal,

The life of 'professional bodyguard' is a pretty tough one, filled with danger and the very real chance of getting seriously hurt.  You would think a job description like that would be exciting, but mostly its fucking boring. Mostly you play babysitter to some snot who's only famous because people in general are infinitely retarded.  It can be a pretty glamorous lifestyle too, but also like I said, pretty damn boring.  With celebrities its mostly tight lipped limo drives and picture signings and self-promotional bullshit.  Its always the same procedure, there are fans and psychos and creeps and its your job to pick them out and act accordingly. Sometimes you make the right choice, sometimes you don't. But still, its boring. That is unless you've got some horrible client that's a real target or seems to be public enemy number one. Or unless you get a prima-donna, or even worse, a farter.

So yeah mostly its boring.  I hate to repeat myself so much, but I'm a bodyguard, my job is repetitious, and as such so am I.  My life in fact is run on repetition, I often feel like a kite tethered to the ground that's drawn so tight I can only go in circles.  Its so bad it runs my social life, the way I talk to other people, and renders my writing rather cyclical.

To keep with this theme I'll get back to the farter.  You see Ms. Spears was a constant farter.  I can't stand farts.  If during that time with her she was to ever be attacked by Howard Stern she would have been fucked, probably literally too.  I wouldn't go anywhere near that fart factory.  In fact they'd be perfect together. But nonetheless, other than her constant farting she often picked her nose in front of everybody {editors note: no papparazi photos provide evidence of this} and generally smelled.  She didn't bathe often enough for me, or for an entire flight of people traveling from LA to New York for that matter.  Perhaps when she called herself toxic she was referring to her anal leakage. . . She didn't brush her teeth sometimes for days at a time, she smelled like cigarette smoke all the time, was generally mean to me (I don't have a 'tough outer skin' okay?) and besides, she had horrible fashion sense.  I mean, gurl, really?  Like her purses wouldn't ever match her outfit.  Ever. . .  And sometimes the way she would wear her hair was just so. . . ugh. . .

It was so traumatic I filed a sexual harassment suit against her.

JOURNAL

Look diary^, look at her fart!

A lot of people think I'm just trying to get money out of her.  But they're wrong diary.  I endured a lot of emotional damage when I was working with that woman.  To see a woman like that fart and burp was disgusting, I just couldn't take it.  Besides, that wasn't the worst of it.  One night she showed up in a completely see-through white dress.  She had a cigarette in her hand and was smiling at me innocently, to trick herself into believing she didn't know she was practically already completely exposed. She walked over diary, and dropped her cigarette and bent over to pick it up. . . exposing herself to me. . .

Teeth diary, teeth.

She'd get naked and ask for 7up.  She'd perform sex acts in front of me. She would have sex and make such a noise, such a ruckus, I was sure she was doing it just to get me jealous. . . But I aint the jealous type. . .  Not with her anyway.

But it other news my time away, and my experience with Britney has taught me something.  A bodyguard's life isn't one for me.  Sure I can be as tough as anyone, but I've got my soft side.  A rather soft side.  In fact, I'm very interested in fashion, and fabrics.  I think the feeling of cashmere is amazing.  Lately I've been getting in with the fashion crowd, and have taken to designing dresses now.  Its all for fun of course, and there's no greater feeling than constructing a dress and seeing a beautiful woman made even more beautiful because of something YOU created.  Of course, it would be amazing to try on something I've made, but I don't think there's enough fabric in the world to make me look good in a dress!

In other news, the lawn is doing great.  The yard looks great with the new chrysanthemums I planted last week.  All seems to be going well on that front.  Now, I plan on drinking a Cosmo and catching up on some Sex and The City.

Dear Fernando Flores,

Crude fart and toothy vagina drawings aside. . .

There are a lot of internet creeps out there who feel that because Britney threw herself at you and constantly showed you her beaver and that this all in all disgusted you, that you are gay.  If you are so be it.  I don't really care.  After all, internet creeps are just internet creeps (a few who said they'd love to clean Britney's feet with their tongues after that article was posted about her stinky feet stinking up the whole plane) and a person has every right to love whoever they want.

What bothers me is that any credibility you had towards this suit has now been thrown out the window, after your latest comments that Britney smelled and farted a lot.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not defending that tard, and the fact that it meant a lot of 'respectable' papers felt the need to report with hilarious headlines about Flatulence and Drugs brought me much lulz, I'm just saying your grounds are weak and retarded.  You're a bodyguard.  A bodyguard.  Hardly a job one would take if they wanted to keep away from undesirables; people hire you to protect them from weirdos and shit.  But in your case they'd have to be hygienic weirdos, with shit tons of etiquette.  Are you a clean freak too?  Bad choice.

The woman is insane.  We all know that.  If you didn't know that when you signed up in the first place, you're probably just as retarded as she is. . .  This lawsuit is only degrading you both.  Which is why iR must declare you, Ms. Spears, and this entire debacle to be shamelessly retarded.

The Infinite Retardation of Adam Sandler

If you're a 90's kid, at one point you probably liked Adam Sandler.  I know I remember seeing Billy Madison in theaters at some rich kids birthday part and loving it.  The highlight of the movie--at that time--was the dog shit scene, in which Adam Sandler and his pals hunt out a 'good piece of shit,' put it in a paper bag, and set it on fire on this dude's porch.  Soon an old man in his tighty whities and a wife beater comes out and stomps the shit (pun intended) out of it with his boot, only to later realize its full of dog shit.  "Its one of them flaming bags of poop again!"  To which Adam Sandler says, "He called the shit poop!"

For months afterward, it was my newest phrase.  To a second grader, that shit (pun intended) is hilarious, though not quite up there with the explosive diarrhea scene in Dumb and Dumber.  Yes I remember many lunch periods soaked up with laughter just thinking about Harry splattering his guts all over the porcelan, and it was just as funny at the start of lunch, when we ate our sandwiches and drank our sugar drink as it was when we were skinning knees, knuckles and dirtying our clothes later during recess. Oh man and remember like towards the end of this torrent of shits comes a squeaker?  A fucking squeaker man! Hilarious! Anyway. . .

Yet, I grew up and so did Adam Sandler.  Now I only laugh at shit play when its meant to be erotic (see two girls one cup).  Unfortunately Adam never seemed to shed his retarded humor, and when he became too old to play a foul mouthed buffoon that only kids and stoners laugh at, he became an aging foul mouthed love interest that nobody laughs at.  How did such a thing happen?  Why didn't he just flounder and die, or go somewhere and count his money?

Well work ethic for one.  I have to give it to Sandler, his hard work puts out a shit movie every year, and he's been doing it for nearly two decades. Not even the Police Academy movies had that kind of stamina.  Bravo.

That, and connections my dear friends. . . Had Sandler not spent his time in college farting on stage, he probably would have created Facebook; he knows that many people.  From as high up as Judd Apatow to as low down and useless as Rob Schneider.  His tight knit group of lackeys and writers seems to have spawned from Saturday Night Live, where retardation collected in great pools all about Lorne Michaels, and still collects today.

Adam joined the show in 1990, where he met David Spade, Chris Rock, Rob Schneider, and Kevin Nealon; a group of fellas who would come to him anytime they needed money (not so much Chris Rock), and they always needed money.  More importantly than these role fillers, it was where Sandler first met writer Tim Herlihy.  Tim Herlihy is a film producer, screen writer, actor, and one time sketch writer for SNL.  The reason Tim Herlihy has all these other titles other than simply 'sketch writer for SNL' is because of Adam Sandler.  Every movie he has ever written, produced, or acted in, has been an Adam Sandler movie, from Billy Madison to Just Go With It.  As with many comedians, SNL was Adam Sandler's launching point into 'stardom,' but now many decades later we find that though this may or may not be true, the trajectory of this potential launch into stardom nonetheless ends in a big ole' pile of stinking shit.

His earlier films only hinted at Adam Sandler's money making and entirely retarded formula of retarded-buffoon-embarks-on-whacky-excursion-under-rather-flimsy-pretenses-and-whilst-doing-so-manages-to-bag-the-hot-chick-who's-entirely-way-out-of-his-league, while his later flicks have mastered it and have made it painfully obvious to the point of being unwatchable.

Take for instance Billy Madison.  Adam plays a lazy, sun burned, lush (respek), living off of the wealth his father made from the family hotel business.  But alas!  Trouble strikes when his father says he's giving the company to the extra weaselly member of the staff named Eric, because despite being a total asshole, he's actually qualified for the job, unlike Billy.  Well, Billy aint down with that, and after his Father shows him to be the idiot he truly is (fool can't even spell ROCK) and how he paid for him to get through school, Billy claims he'll go through school all over again.  Yes, he'll undergo 2 weeks in every grade, take all the tests, learn all the material (impossible in 2 weeks) and when he graduates, then his father can give him the family company worth millions of dollars and feel totally good about it.

His love interest is revealed to be his fourth grade teacher. . . And she falls for him, or rather, he bugs the shit out of her until she eventually finds his drunkenness lovable?  So like, if they were to go to dinner on a double date, it would go like this:

"So how'd you guys meet?"  The woman across the table asked.  I think her name was Wanda.  I dunno because I was really drunk at the time.

"Well honey, do you wanna tell them?  Or should I?"

"No, honey I'll tell em."  I said.

I was seeing four Wandas.  Four Wandas dancing around, and that stupid penguin, looking as cocky as ever. . .

"You see I used to be really retarded.  I used to just sit around all day and drink daiquiris [author's note: respek] and hang out with my friends. . . You know get drunk, look at nudie mags.  Before I graduated high school, the second time, or for the first time legitimately--kinda, I was in fourth grade.  I had been to kindergarten and 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grade before that, but I was scared because I was the only thirty year old in class and we were going to do long division and math and stuff. . . But then in walks Ms. Vaughn, the loveliest teacher I've ever seen.  I definitely wanted to touch the heine."  I then grunted obscenely, and Ms. Vaughn laughed nervously.

"Well, that's all changed now.  Hasn't it honey?  Graduated, and went to college!  Didn't you!"

etc etc.

I know, I know.  I get it.  Its a comedy.  You're supposed to suspend your belief.  If that's so, why even put a love interest in?  Why can't it be just a ninety minute long comedy?  Just ninety minutes of shit and fart jokes, like a Jackass movie.

On the other side of it, we have one of his newer movies like Grown Ups, which is by far Adam Sandler's most disgusting movie, having mastered the Sandler formula in such purity that elements can be swapped out and still it can produce the same turd.  The difference in this one being that he's already won the girl over and they've gotten married and produced spoiled offspring.  Still remaining true is Adam's safety net of buddies, and this time they're the main characters.  It features friends David Spade (SNL), Chris Rock (SNL), Rob Schneider (SNL), and Kevin James (I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry).  The entire movie is an excuse for these fellows to go on vacation and get paid for it, for none of them even seem to be trying.  They all play themselves, with the exception of Chris Rock, who at least tries to play a 'stay at home dad,' but even still is only half-assing it.  David Spade is the same cynical dry bastard, Kevin James is still fat and clumsy, Rob Schneider is still Rob Schneider (some strange character) etc etc.  The writing is so lazy its a wonder they didn't just call David Spade's character David Spade, and Chris Rock, Chris Rock, etc. etc.  There is no reason that this movie should have ever been made; other than the fact these fucks needed some money and wanted to have a damn good time while doing so.

This is obvious in that they don't even try to hide the fact they are advertising crap:

The boys are all together because their fucking pee-wee basketball coach died.  Yeah, they've totally ignored each other for years, but because their pee wee basketball coach who coached them when they were like 12 is dead, they suddenly hang out with one another.  They go on this 3 day trip to this cabin they all used to hang out at and once had their championship celebration at, with Coach.  They decide to spread his ashes out on a nearby island, but first, they must eat KFC grilled chicken, and drink Coca-Cola products.  No, they don't do this before traveling to the island, but at the island itself, right before dumping the man's ashes.  This is a somber and serious occassion boys, I mean the whole basis of this fucking movie and the events that are to follow are that we loved our coach, and now that the rival team has gone up and talked shit to us, 30 some fucking odd years later, we're gonna prove them wrong. . . because we loved our coach, and he thought of us as men. . . So please, bow your heads for this dear man we truly lov--hey can I get a wing?  And yes, of course they fuck up the spreading of the ashes and Kevin James gets Coach all over his hands, but eats the delicious KFC grilled chicken anyway.

HAI GUYZ LES PARTY.

NOM NOM.

Cut to them coming back, KFC grilled chicken bucket on Kevin James' head, which was really artsy I think.  They were showing us what they had exactly done to every one who watched this piece of crap; taken a KFC grilled chicken bucket and placed it over their heads.  Enjoy the consumerism boys.

With this said, Adam Sandler has managed to prolong his retardation, and it doesn't seem like he's ever going to go away, his connections and money are far too vast for that, and as long as actresses who were once considered extremely hot but got too old for anyone to care anymore need a job, they'll always have romantic comedies to fall back on, and Adam Sandler will always be there to catch them.

He's got that shit on lock.

And it is for these reasons that iR declares Adam Sandler, infinitely retarded.

The Juggalo Gathering; Charlie Sheen to Host, Along with Other Failures

If you are going to a Juggalo Gathering, chances are you're probably a juggalo, or a friend of a juggalo, or just a wrestling freak looking to have a good time and the possibility to commit some real felonies.  I say probably, because these days there is an element of people who just go and take to the fringe of the Gathering, laughing and pointing at acts they find particularly stupid.  Like any good troll, they are cowards, and hardly enter the fray--the combat zone--for fear of picking up some retardation as if by some ray of stupid.  More frightening is the possibility of violence, for juggalos find self-mutilation and mutilation of others to be as fun as guns and liquor.  If they are willing to take road signs up to one another's heads just for fun, and consider themselves 'Family'--imagine the horrors they could commit to an outsider.

But I got special stupid ray blockers.  A fancy piece of equipment.  89.95 at WAL-MART.  And, I've got a contact.  And I wanna go.  And fourth grade English teachers are right, you should never start a sentence with and, the tendency is to use it too often.

Wendy "Money Nuts" Placquard is a juggalette who thinks she's a juggalo.  Its tough having gender issues in the real world, even tougher when you're down with the clown.  Often she doesn't know whether to spread her legs like a juggalette, or beat the shit out of a minority, like a juggalo.  Despite her gender confusion, she is indeed quite down with the clown, and rather knowledgeable in regards to juggalo etiquette when attending a Juggalo Gathering.

"Just get wasted ninja.  If you see a girl, don't be afraid to hit her up for sex.  If she's got a boyfriend, beat the shit out of him.  If he's got friends, bring your friends.  Bang her family style after.  Its proper at a Gathering, when banging a chick in front of other dudes to at least offer her up when your done."

She had a way of going from her juggalette voice to her juggalo voice in a disturbing sort of way, though both shared common undertones of stupidity.  When I asked her what one does at a Juggalo Gathering she got rather angry and repeated herself.

"Just get wasted ninja.  If you see a girl, don't be afraid to hit her up for sex.  If she's got a boyfriend, beat the shit out him.  If he's got friends, bring your friends.  Bang her family style after--its proper."

"I meant activities. . ."

"Its the Gathering bro!  The Gathering!  If there were like Biblical implications this would be like the Second Coming, every single fuckin' year. . . WHOOP WHOOP.  Yeah, there's lots of BBQs, listed stuff like karaoke and rap battles, signing sessions with band members.  Lots of cool shit.  Carnival rides, JCW wrestling, and a Faygo Wet T-Shirt contest.  Its great man.  But those are just the listed ones."

"Yeah?"

"Shit yeah.  You can also try out for JCW if you want.  You can duct tape your friends to a tree."  She laughed at the member.  "Yeah we got this topless little juggalette and duct taped her to a tree for like 3 hours.  It was hilarious."

"Yeah."

"You can also beat your friends up with large tree branches.  A lot of wicked clowns do stuff like that.  Then there's of course staring at juggalettes, stalking juggalettes, and other things. . ."  A real ominous silence, hinting at some sort of evil.  "You know."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and it aint all just stupid stuff you know.  The Magnet Exhibit last year was real informative and impressed a lot of the Family.  I know I spent 2 hours just watching magnets work.  It was real crazy."

Obviously, I'm not good with phone conversations.  I'm not good with conversation in general.  This much was apparent, so I said good-bye and she said 'much wicked clown love,' and we arranged a meet up with some 'Fam' in a few weeks.  As I hung up I was smiling: the idea of so much retardation in one place was certainly right up my alley.  Enjoyable, to say the least.  And what about the ride?  Would she come tearing up through the driveway out onto the lawn to carve donuts with a massive hillbilly truck?  Would her brother be in the back wielding a shotgun and a bottle of whiskey?  How many mullets and douche cuts would I be able to count?  Would there be signs of inbreeding? Only time would tell.

With research I already knew the real reason I wanted to go to the Gathering.   Mr. Charlie Sheen.

Mr. Charlie Sheen, who has officially changed the definition of winning to 'losing, horribly' has signed on as the leading host of ICP's annual crapfest.  How much did they pay him?  At least a million dollars, there's no way a man with tiger blood would settle for anything less, especially after getting publicly raped by Two and a Half Men. It was scary to imagine and revealed the disgusting wealth ICP has managed to amass, despite its fan base being generally no good poor folk.  They're selling you Family and getting rich doing so.  You're stuck drinking Faygo cause you're broke and uneducated; they're drinking champagne because you're broke and uneducated.  Look the food stamp line is full of fools in ICP merch.

But that's not all of us!

The possibility of a very public freak-out on Charlie's part was too much to pass up.  I wanted to have ring side seats for the whole debacle.  He'd be on stage, and he'd start bombing like he did with his last stage act, and like Tila Tequila he'd take a bottle to the face, and unlike Tila Tequila he wouldn't run off stage but instead rage and taunt the bastards!  The headlines wouldn't tell the whole story.  Maybe the juggalos would charge the stage and pick his bones clean. No one would really care.  Cops wouldn't investigate, and Americans everywhere would just live out the rest of their lives with the carnal knowledge that Juggalo Gatherings are where people go to die.

At his wings, Mr. Charlie sheen has two other random's, who were also apparently randomly drawn from the shit wheel.  First we have none other than Flavor Flav, Public Enemy turned Reality Star, and Dustin Diamond, Screech turned Porn Star.

What do these three have in common?  Despite the need for money, I don't know.  To think they are closet juggalos leads me to believe that perhaps these freaks have more influence than we would like to think. But who's to say celebrities are immune to stupidity and bad taste in music? In fact history leads us to believe they are far from immune, but in fact plagued at epidemic proportions. 

Oh yeah, and Vanilla Ice will be performing.  Why go further?  Why not just let promote it.  Check this retarded shit:

Sarah Palin Speaks to The Springton Christian School on D-Day

The gym had been prepared for an assembly the day prior, much to the anger of the basketball team, who now sat with everyone else in crowded quarters in chairs lined along the hardwood.  A slight murmur rose up in the gym, the majority of the conversation regarding the stage.  A stage had been built and housed nearly a dozen flags, and was flanked on all sides by red, white, and blue.  Large Roman columns rose up in front of the stage serving more for looks than anything else.  The podium had remained empty, but was presently occupied by the school's principal, an ugly little man who absolutely detested children.

"Silence!  Silence!'  He pounded the podium with his fist.  His pink round head peered up over the podium, barely visible, but the mere reputation of his wickedness silenced the mumbling crowd.  "As you may or may not know--but judging from this current class it would be safe to assume the latter, that you in fact do not know--today is the sixty-seventh anniversary of D-Day, a day when a lot of young Americans took to foreign lands in an effort to defeat evil.  And they did.  But I don't want to get too far into it, as I am rather excited about our speaker here today who has come all this way to tell you all about it.  So without further ado, I present to you. . . The future President of the United States of America, Sarah. . . Palin!"

The initial shock gave way to applause as the witch herself came out donned in a bright red suit.

"Thank you, thank you," she said, her voice echoing out through the tiny gym and bouncing off the wooden floor just like a bouncing basket ball. "I'd like to thank you for having me here.  As your principal stated, today is the 67th anniversary of D-Day. . . but not really.  You see a lot of people don't know this but D-Day actually began 10 days earlier."

The crowd collectively gasped, but only for a moment.  Sarah only smiled, and once again the students began their collective grumbling but it was ceased yet again by the angry pink face of their principal.  He apparently had not been listening, caught up in his own infatuation with the woman, with the lady in red.

"D-Day marks the day we as Americans entered World War 2, which up until this point had been fought by the Island of Germany and China against the British, the French and the Transylvanians.  We entered the war after President Kennedy had a premonition of Adolf Hitler singling out Jewish people and using them to run an evil theme park for the enjoyment of him and his soldiers.  Being America, we detested the very idea of slavery, as seen by the fact that in our nation's history we have never practiced it, and thusly decided to enter the war."

The reaction was mixed, though bordering on general hysteria.  Some simply sat in shock, their mouths open, some looking at one another in dismay.  The braver students, and those who were particularly outraged started heckling Palin, knowing of their principal's love for dealing out punishment (which, as it seemed, was surpassed only by his love of one, Sarah Palin).  Unfortunately Palin found their heckling to be directed towards slavery, and not her, and thusly continued.

"I know.  I know!  We all hate slavery right?!  So we spotted Hitler and his army entrenched on their island with our satellites, and shipped our armed forces over immediately under the care of General Custard.  Our boys hit that beachhead, and Tom Hanks was there, and Vin Diesel, and one guy lost his arm and was carrying it with his remaining good arm, and after much fighting we took that beachhead.  It was a victory that lead eventually to the downfall of Hitler and his evil theme park.  We freed the Jews and Charlie Chaplin, who had been taken as a prison of war."

"In the end, a man shot at a tank with a pistol, and we were after all able to save that young private, but at the cost of how many lives? The sacrifices made to keep this country free are just another example of the beauty of freedom. So many people are willing to give their lives so that others may live the American Way of life.  And they do this because American life is good and awesome.  Besides, this private we saved from a horrible death at the hands of the venomous Germans would go on to make a great deal of good movies, like 'Good Will Hunting.'

Luckily, one brave soldier managed to survive the entanglement and record it all for posterity.  Which I will show you now.  Be warned however, that the following footage may be a bit disturbing; but such is war."

The lights went down.

The lights came up.  There was silence, save for Sarah Palin at the podium, wiping a phony tear from her eye and trying her best to hold back the emotion within her.

"What cinematography for way back then, am I right?"  

She laughed, still wiping the tears from her eyes and looking to ease the tension a bit.  For some reason the room felt incredibly hot.  She assumed it must have been the result of so many bodies in such a confined space not built for such a capacity of human flesh, and simply smiled and attempted to continue her speech.  But it seemed to she had forgot the rest of it. Easing herself behind the podium she took a quick glance at her cheat sheet, written on the palm of her hand.  A chorus of boos arose from the students, who had finally had enough of this ninnie.  

Their principal rose from his seat, furious that his students would make him look bad, furious that they would dare interrupt his beloved.  His pink face turned a bright crimson, he looked so mad many figured steam would shoot out of his ears but it didn't.  He simply trembled as rage built within him.  He turned a brighter and brighter red, as his very eyes swelled and all these thoughts of hatred bubbled to the surface of his brain.

A real tea pot with a fitting round belly.

"Stop this!  Stop this this instant!"  he steamed "You will not insult Mrs. Palin like this!"  When the booing continued he started picking out individuals for damnation.  "Phillp Peters, detention!  Sally Welsh, detention!  Stop this!  Stop this!"

He paraded up and down the stage, stomping his feet.  He shouted, he raged, yet still he could not control his students. . . He knew he hated children, and this was precisely why.  He made idle threats, and when all else failed he could only think to turn to Mrs. Palin and apologize, but turning to the podium he had found that she had fled the scene.

And instantly, his heart sank.

In recent news Sarah Palin told reporters that Paul Revere had run to the British and warned them of the militia, firing his musket in the air with one hand and lifting a lantern with the other, and apparently holding the reigns of his horse with his third hand (betcha didn't know that).  Naturally, anyone who's seen Looney Toons knows that Paul Revere actually warned revolutionaries that 'The British are coming. . . the British are coming. . ."  Apparently history reports that not even this is true, that Revere only made half the ride and ending up getting 100 percent of the credit.

Well apparently, Sarah Palin was correct in her statement, or so some douchers state.  Mr. Revere was later captured during his 'Midnight Ride' by the Red Coats and in turn, like a total pussy gave up information to them that there was indeed a militia awaiting them. But this is not what Sarah Palin said.  She claimed his mission was to tell the British that there was a militia looking to repel their advance.  This clearly was not his mission.  Nor did he ride around on his horse shooting his musket off (one handed?) and ringing a bell for the soul purpose of intercepting the Red Coats.    In what world, other than Sarah Palin's, would an armed force send out a messenger to inform a much larger enemy with a reputation for conquering of the former's presence?  

After attacks regarding her intelligence and knowledge of American History, Sarah Palin claimed it was just an attempt by (liberal) media to try and put her on the spot and try and make her look stupid with a "gotcha question."  Yet she was asked "What have you seen so far today, and what are you going to take away from your visit?"  She then proceeded to indulge that she had recently learned she had just visited a site that was once frequented by Paul Revere as a teenager, and then spat out her terrible mistake.

Even more frightening, and retarded, is that Palin followers have actually resorted to trying to edit Paul Revere's Wikipedia page so that it may coincide with her statement. . . Come on guys, you know Wikipedia is hardly credible, right?  Changing a website hardly changes history, does it not?

And it is for these reasons that iR declares Sarah Palin and her followers; completely retarded.

Apparently a lot of people want to fuck Sarah Palin.  There are numerous amounts of photoshopped photos of her head placed atop the bodies of much bustier women. . . Also an entire porn series has been devoted to her, complete with a Sarah Palin look-a-like.

Palin was once a local news sportscaster.  You mean like Champ?  Yup, with equally awesome sideburns.

In high school she played on the basketball team, which in her Senior year, won the Alaskan State Championship.  During her time on the team she was give the nickname "Sarah Barracuda."

Opposes bans on semi-automatic weapons.

Palin: "The Tea Party is the future of politics in America."

Sarah Palin's Alaska on TLC

love, 

iR