A Professional Book Review Thats Not Really A Professional Nor Real Review on A Rather Professional Book Thats Not Really A Professional Nor Real Book, My Dudes; Or a Really Long Title For a Really Long Blog Intentionally Written Long For The Sake Of Sticking It To The Non-Believers

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Alan Gribben Pulls an Aunt Polly on Huck Finn, and Laughs About It

I'm crying, really, I am.

Well in case you didn't know already, there's a douche bag who goes by the name of Alan Griben, and he, along with the help of New South Books in Alabama are working together to revise Mr. Mark Twain's novel Advenutres of Huckleberry Finn, into a piece of politically correct fuff that tries not to reveal the ugliness of the word 'nigger' through narrative; instead it tries to eradicate the word altogether, in an attempt to make the book more readable and less offensive.  Furthermore, Injun Joe has been changed to Indian Joe, and 'half-breed' has been changed to 'half blood.'

Now I happen to have gotten an advanced copy, and I must say these fellows have gone perhaps a tad overboard with their revisions.  Now, a realistic novel on the times with its ignorance and ugliness seen through the eyes of an innocent child (Huck Finn) is now nothing more than a politically correct piece that adheres to the original story loosely, if at all, and completely misses the boat, and the point.

Observe:

CHAPTER EIGHT

So there we was, drifting down the Los Angeles River on our plastic raft, just me and Mexican American Eduardo.  It was easy drifting there, we was already accustomed to watching the river for snags and broken glass, and there warnt nobody around to really bother us.  Nobody that warnt already dead.  It was easy to steer around them floating drowned in the river.  There were many of them, and were so commonplace that after awhile seeing them didn't harm me none.

It was easy drifting like I said, even though Mexican American Eduardo had told my Anglo-Saxon ears last night that he warnt no American and he had runned away.  I asked him if he was still a Mexican and he said yes, but he warnt no American, he was something different.  Some kind of aleeyun.  He said they wanted him cause he took the jobs of Anglo-Saxon Americans and that that warnt right.  I didn't know much about it, but I never sawed him take no jobs from nobody I knowed.  Not Aunt Polly, not nobody.  They warnt partial to real work.  Still we sat talking a bit and Mexican American Eduardo was a pretty good guy for an illegal alleyun.  Best I met anway.  After a piece I got to feeling hot so I slipped off the raft and out into the water.  It was shallow and smelled all kinds of awful, but it was nice.  It was nice but too shallow in some parts where it hardly came up to the ankle.  Well we went on like that for hours, talking a bit and taking dips, living cool and free and easy.  It was the way I liked livin'.  It was nothing like the stiff clothes and even stiffer rules of life with Aunt Polly.  The warnt any clothes to change into, just the same rags and happiness and the day before.  And rules?  Why there warnt no rules.

By and by it started to get dark.  We steered the raft to the left side of the river under a bridge.  Cars drove noisily overhead and we pulled the raft up out of the water and took shelter under the bridge.  Eduardo got the pan and the tin can, and matches and all the things we need to start a good fire.  I fetched a meal and catched a rat down the river apiece.  But it warnt animal cruelty.  The animal was already dying, and in a way I was putting it out of its misery, because I knowed it was a sin to kill any animal, and know that no one should ever do it ever. . . ever.  It was the sort of thing intellyctuals would say, and Pap hated intellyctuals, and if Pap hated em, there must be something to em.  So like I said, I killed that there rat humanely and was mighty sorry after I killed him, but I knew I was doing him a favor and ending his pain.  And I got a good rat too.  It still got its tail and everything.  Eduardo got his knife and cleaned it and fried it and we ate it.

By then we was pretty well stuffed and the sky grew dark and up over yonder the lights of the city started twinkling.  After the meal we were both powerfully lazy and comfortable, so we just layed there and let the raft do all the work.  I couldn't sleep, only think and smoke.  I thought of Pap and how I runned out on him.  How I made it look like I was kidnapped and how Tom Sawyer would be proud for how well I done it all. It was a real adventure and I done it just like in all the books, like Tom Sawyer said it was supposed to be done.  I left no tracks, other than those I wanted to be found, and after they couldn't find the kidnapper I knowed they'd come looking down on the river.  Lots of lost kids ended up in the river.  Most of em drowned.  

I had many days head start.

Before long I was tired, and before I knowed it I was asleep.  When I waked up I didn't know where I was.  I reckon I must have been asleep for a piece.  It was awful dark and quiet.  The raft drafted along and I could hear nothing but Eduardo snoring.  I couldn't see much.  There seemed to be no town nearby, there were no lights that could be seen.  Then after a piece I saw smoke.  And then the lights of a new town.  The town grew nearer and nearer and the cemented banks began sloping up toward chain link fences, some fifteen feet high in places.  The town came by and there were lights and factories.  Then McDonalds' and Taco Bell's. Before I knowed it lights came through the fences and out onto the river. Big beams of light.  I roused up and looked along the parts of the fences and along the bridge.  There were cars, some parked and some roaming up and down the streets.  There were people there and police looking down into the river.

I knowed what was up.  We was in the Glendale Narrows part of the river. I knowed cause it was the only part of the river without a cement bottom. A tree growed up through the ground in the shallow river.  The water ran past rocks and brush and I found us a way there in the brush and out of sight.  "HUCK?"  I was scared, but I didn't wake Eduardo, afeared that he'd holler and give us up so I stayed shut.  They looked along the river apiece, and before long one of the lights came right to where we were amongst the brush!  It stayed there and I thought to muffle Eduardo's snoring.  My heart nearly beated out of my chest and wouldn't stop.  I held my breath knowing they couldn't possibly hear, but still I reckoned it best to keep mum.

"HUCK?" They was talking out of contraption that made their voices louder than usual.

I didn't want to go back, and I was beginning to like Eduardo, even though I knowed it was wrong.  I couldn't help it.

"HUCK?"

By and by they moved on back up the river, and I stayed still long after I could hardly stand it.  After a piece I shoved off, and Eduardo woked from his snooze, mighty comfortable.  He smiled at me before long and we got to talking.

"Why they calling you alleyun, Eduardo?"

"I don't quite know Huck."  Eduardo said.  "Neenyo, its because I'm not like them, like an alleyun.  As far as I can tell."

"Different how?"  I asked.  "You like food don't you?"

"Yes."

"You scream when pricked, just like everyone else right?

"Yes, Huck."

"Well then I just don't see no logic in it."  I didn't.

If it warnt proper to like alleyuns than so be it.  If it meant going to the other place, than fine, it aint no mind to me.  I knowed it was a place for me and Tom.  Aunt Polly said so, on account of us being such bad boys, and I aint too particular about no place where folks like Aunt Polly was accepted.  So it was the other place for me, and I was quite partial to that.  I would like Eduardo, even though I knowed it wrong. . . 

This current 'revision' not only destroys art, but also fundamentally mistakes is bastardization of Huck Finn as anything other than that; pure sickening bastardization.  Firstly, I am in no way condoning the word, but in the case of Huck Finn, far too many people have focused on the word itself and not WHY it was used.  For one, it was the time after all in which it was written, and one cannot claim that Mark Twain is a racist.  This book in no way promotes racism, in fact it questions and reveals it ugliness.  Tis why, my dear lads, the story is written from Huck's point of view.  Huck lives in a time of racial tension and ignorance, and Huck sees and hears it all and question it, as his innocence and youthful purity finds faults and utter bullshit in it all.

Even Aunt Polly, who's said to be respectable and takes Huck in to be 'civilized' constantly berates him with her own prejudices and beliefs, cementing the theme that perhaps all these grown ups know "nothing about nothing."  

I mean Huck Finn spends all his time on a raft with a run away slave named Jim.  He knows its wrong to help him, society says so, but he does anyway.  Initially its just to get away from Aunt Polly and the structured life she represents, but along the way Huck begins to love Jim, and condemns himself willing to Hell for saving him, of course because in the eyes of society saving a run away slave and breaking him out of captivity is growns for eternal fire and brimstone.

Mark Twain even writes Jim to be a good man, a loving man.  He doesn't degrade him no break him down.  He reveals the true beauty of the man, that which exists beneath the color of his skin and in doing so, reveals the utter bullshit of racism.  Its a story of freedom, and how everyone deserves it.  How is this racist?  But then again I suppose you cock suckers never even read the book.

Even Twain states:  "a sound heart is a surer guide than an ill-trained conscience."  He describes the book as "a book of mine where a sound heart and a deformed conscience come into collision and conscience suffers defeat."

To change the word, to eliminate these negative connotations is to destroy that element in the story, and to ignore all the hatred, bloodshed, and ignorance that made the word so negative in the first place.  One may as well paint censor bars over the genitals of angels in the Sistine Chapel, or fashion a pair of Levis over the statue of David because certain parts were offensive to onlookers.  When you dabble in art, and mix and match, I get inklings that you're a fucking Nazi, for no one has the right to change art, more or less and man's own fucking words.

And it is for this reason alone that iR declares the revision of Huck Finn to be shamelessly retarded.

The Adventures of Huck Finn has been banned from countless high schools, to which I ask, Why Bother?  High school kids don't read anyway.

The book has been made into 18 different adaptations, yes 18.

It has also been made into several musicals, and has been adapted for the stage.

First published in December, 1884, reaching the states in 1885.

Mark Twain wasn't a racist.  He was a bad ass who could write and smoked cigars.

the end.

love,

iR

David Stern Strugges Not to Shit Himself; or The Tragic Retardation of the NBA's New Technical Foul Rule

The NBA has gone soft.  Lots of sports analysts and equally self-righteous individuals like to debate about it.  But I'm telling you: the NBA has gone soft.  The same association that produced guys like Charles Oakley, Larry Johnson (never mind the Granny persona), and Charles Barkley now has succumbed to fluff like Chris "Birdman" Anderson: all tats and no balls.  These times they are a'changing, your old road is rapidly agin', get out of the new one if you can't lend a hand, or in this case, play in the Turkish Basketball League (see Allen Iverson).  This ripening of players came on slow, and the man behind the castration of the NBA was none other than David Stern, its current acting comissioner.  

He's an old man, as tight as ever in his old age, with his nice fine suit buttoned high to keep back his constant gagging--this rap element-- his tie up under the fat of his chin to keep it from jiggling too much when he talked. . . He often struggles to not shit himself.

It was a nice slow snip.  As if no one would notice.  

It all began with his rule that made it mandatory for all injured players and those not on the 'official' roster to wear suits when sitting on the bench with the team during games, and for all players to wear suits to NBA interviews, charities and functions, and on arrival to the court or on departure.  It even specifically targeted 'urban' clothing like doo-rags, hardwood classics jerseys, baggy jeans, t-shirts, 'bling,' sneakers and Timberland style boots. . . Yes, all players were expected to dress like the members of David Stern's weekly tea parties--strictly formal, and stiff, as if a large stick had been stuck up the ass.  It was controversial in that still to this day the NBA is the only sports organization to enforce a dress code for players when off the court/field/diamond/etc, with many organizations having instilled only dress codes for wear on the court/field/diamond/etc and in that instance for the saftey of its players.

The dress code came after the infamous brawl in 2004 between the Pistons and the Pacers that resulted in Ron Artest and other players charging the stands to beat fans who had shown their dissatisfaction at the performance and its actors in the most traditional and time honored of ways:  by hurling tings at them.  No not rotten fruit, but in this case beverages they paid entirely too much for in the first place.

May as well get your money's worth, I guess.

The rule was an attempt to repair the NBA's tainted image, piqued with the images of that night, like a shameful battle, like a Little Bighorn. Upon seeing it David Stern no doubt struggled once again, not to shit himself. He probably quivered over his glass of Montrachet 1978, his plate of confit of Moulard duck foie gras balancing precariously on his bony knees, not quite sure whether it should fall crashing to the floor or not.  Even it felt shameful to be wasted.  He then probably wiped his face with a fine linen napkin, called in his manservant to collect his plate and utensils, and then proceeded out into his yard where he shot off a couple of blasts from a relic elephant gun at any poor birds that happened to be flying overhead. He liked the gun because it was mean, and the unrelenting jolt from the rifle's butt reminded him of a time when it was much easier to coerce a women into having sex with him.  The blast always made him think of Theodore Roosevelt, and that weathered picture of him standing over a fallen elephant he had killed with the gun.  He was going to kill himself an elephant too; he let off his steam and probably went back into his office and set into motion this plan to stifle players and make a dress code.

Yeah thats probably how it went.  Probably.

Regardless, the error in this, not seen by mister David Stern is that 'the clothes don't make the man,' nor does it necessarily change his character.  Its like any Manager at a Super Market.  He goes to work in slacks and a leather belt and nice leather shoes, with a nice white shirt and a nice tie around the neck.  It makes him think he's better than say, the poor soul wearing the orange and yellow reflector vest of the 'cart retriever,' that obtrusive neon thing made to 'save your life' by making you visible but instead 'kills you slowly' by making you a walking Day-Glo d-bag of shame and embarrassment. . . But the fancy clothes still don't change the fact that he works at a super market, and they certainly don't change his character.  In fact they make him an even more pompous ass. Yes, perhaps not the best analogy, but the point is clear: clothes do not make the man.  No siree they don't.  A clown in a suit is still a clown.  I say it is so.

See what I mean?

The rule was generally well received, and besides, it gave players an opportunity to show off their wealth in the form of custom made suits reminiscent of Jay-Z and Puff Daddy.  Fine, don't want us to dress like rappers?  We'll dress like rap moguls.

David Stern felt well.  He believe he had stopped a fear in him which had kept him up most nights, and tormented his dreams when his heavy eyes finally succumbed to that fear.  A fear that more and more of his players would end up like Chris "Birdman" Anderson and that he would forever be known as the commissioner who let the NBA turn into a freak show circus.  And he had valid concerns, observe:

BEFORE (2001):

A simple country boy.  With a wide smile shaped by mothers tenderness: 'Now be sure to brush up my boy, must'nt have a dirty mouth my boy.'  A simple everyday Joe Schmoe with a nondescript simple haircut.  Muscled from simple, clean, wholesome work.  Nurtured by the caring hand of God.  Unnoticeable in his gelatinousness; everyday; commonplace, save for a few tattoos hinting at some inward hidden demon like some vanguard of a horrible storm.

AFTER (2010):

A body of nothing but tattoos like cheaply colored tasteless wallpaper, forever fashioned to the outside of a rickety house not quite a home thats cold and empty inside (nothing but a draft blowing whhhhoooo, where a heart should be). Hair done up in some sort of gross salute to an Indian war hawk, only more comical than threatening. . . A walking billboard as to what one should never aspire in life to be.  Certainly not a role model for children. . . A moving douche bag half used and forgotten, left forlornly on the bathroom floor. . . 

David Stern was feeling mighty fine now; the storm had just threatened and rolled away to torment some other, foreign land.  The image problem would work itself out real fine. . . But poor Mr. Stern was wrong - for as I said clothes do not make the man, nor do the shape his basic character. Rasheed Wallace continued his bickering and his constant criticism of every foul, whether he obviously committed them or not.  Allen Iverson continued to smoke weed and smoke weed, and then smoke even more weed.  He doesn't care.  He's Allen Iverson.  He's doesn't need to practice, just smoke weed.  And Gilbert Arenas? Well he kept concealing a gun in his locker, along with teammate Javaris Crittenton, that is of course, before the guns were found and the two were promptly arrested.

Yes, once again, David Stern struggled desperately not to shit himself.

This time when it happened, he was probably watching the tube, and he probably spilled his glass of Chateu Monton Rothschild 1982, along with his plate of hanger steak, currant mole, blue cheese and squash.  His manservant probably came in with the same sad distant look on his face as before, to take his plate and utensils.  This time he would have probably had to dealt with the atrocious stain on the carpet too.  David would then probably get his elephant gun for a nice pressure releasing shoot out with the heavens.  He might even get a few birds this time--guts and feathers.  Then of course he would probably retreat back inside to do something about this tainted image issue and gun incident.

Yeah thats probably how it went.  Probably.

Gilbert would be suspended indefinitely from the NBA.  He would return after missing only fifty games, despite being found guilty by the courts and given two years probation and thirty days in a halfway house.

This certainly didn't help Gilbert Arena's case.  Yes he's pretending to shoot teammates during a pregame ritual with fellow Wizard teammates.  Yes, once again, David Stern struggled to not shit himself.

Once again someone had shit in the water well, and as a result everyone was going to have to pay for it.  David and his team thought long and hard for a remedy to their image problem.  They had felt a need to flex some muscle.  They needed more control yet how could they get it?

The man servants of over 30 NBA up-and-ups watched over 10 years of NBA basketball, game after game. Every team, every game--right down to the final showdown and the title.  What they found astounded them. Endless amounts of bitching and complaints on calls from every NBA player to ever touch the ball and play the game.  They felt degraded and small, belittled and second guessed in their own Goddamn league!  They had been made to look bad.  So what they did was create the new technical foul rule which creates new guidelines under which players may be given technical fouls.  Technical fouls will be given out to players for:

• Players making aggressive gestures such as air punches, anywhere on the court
• Demonstrative disagreement, such as when a player increduosly raises his hands, or smacks his own arm to demonstrate how he was fouled
• Running directly at an official to complain about a call
• Excessive inquires about a call, even in a civilized tone

All of this of course assumes that all NBA referees are one hundred percent correct about every call they make, and aren't prone to making mistakes.  It also assumes that players aren't human beings capable of feeling and that the game of basketball isn't one that ebbs and flows with the emotion of its players.  And thats why its so great; one may as well slow down the game all together and render it much like a game of Monopoly.  It comes from the belief that as an extension of the NBA, referees should be safe from any sort of ridicule of form of dissent.  Its well known that announcers and NBA coaches have been fined and in some cases even fired for criticizing the league and its officials, but now the stifling finger of David Stern has worked its way down the throats of every NBA player in the league.

Critics of the rule (pretty much every NBA player in the league) say it will work only if referees can manage to control themselves, forgetting that they too--like NBA players--are human, and therefore just as capable of such overwhelming feelings that Daniel Stern feels 'make the game look bad.'  What a bunch of bull.  Now lets consider an NBA referee for a moment.  They may be a guy who loves the game of basketball, or he may be bitter, or old, or in possession of some strange chip on his shoulder, or upset the players get paid so much and he so little, or prone to playing favorites, or just a plain ole asshole. . .  Why are they given the benefit of the doubt?  People make mistakes, ESPECIALLY referees. And how possibly could this be a good idea?  The fans wanna watch players they love, and they wanna have players they can hate.  How is such a thing possible if guys like Amar'e Stoudamire can't act like a pompous asshole every time he makes a basket?

If anything you're only making players swallow their emotions. . . they're aggression. . . And you know what? That's exactly how a guy comes to shooting up a locker room, or charging the stands to viciously beat people.  Pent up aggression.

The rule can change a game, and can be abused.  Observe:

In 10 seconds that d-bag drastically changed the game and had the head coach of the Timberwolves thrown out of the game.  Now remember, a referee may, if he's feeling particularly pricky that day throw out a player upon the first technical, as with the second one its automatic, but still the option is available to said referee.  So in theory, this ref could have thrown out Kevin Love, Corey Brewer, and Darko Milicic if he really wanted to.  Its just too much power.

A dumb rule.

A tragically retarded rule.

If the NBA has any brains they'll eradicate the rule all together, as what can one expect during the playoffs?  The games get heated, and rightfully so, are we to expect players aren't going to be allowed to be 'demonstrative,' or will the whole bullshit arbitrary rule be suddenly forgotten?  As at times it almost seems like referees are afraid to blow the whistle, for the fear that some player will complain, and then he'll have to give him a technical, or otherwise face the wrath of David Stern.

'Tis why infinitely Retarded declares the new NBA technical foul rule to be tragically retarded.

Teen Werewolves: Very Much Unlike Michael J. Fox

In the movies teen werewolves are cool and play ball and can help the geek get the hot blonde chick who's as dumb as dirt but nonetheless looks good.  In real life... well... well, you'll see.

Linda McSoapdish had a lovely home on Winchester Street, off General Custard Avenue, deep in the heart of San Antonio, Texas.  It was an old Victorian classic, with a small porch and a second floor turret with a peaked green shingled roof and green trimmed bay windows. It had a lovely walk up to the porch, with thriving green grass on both sides and a acacia tree.  It had been a venue for many events in the neighborhood, small dinners and potlucks and the like, but never before had any of them been so grim.  The subject of teen werewolves had been brought up by Mrs. Betty Buglefish, who had muttered a silly joke in between mouthfuls of her infamous Davy Crockett Casserole (infamous because no one liked it: many mused that perhaps she called it that because she made it with bits of his hat).  Everyone had seen the news special, and everyone was doing their best to avoid the issue, as it was never good to meddle in with anyone else's family business unless they asked for help.  Or at least so the people there felt.

The evening had been progressing along amiably enough, though it was noticeably more quiet.  That was of course, until Mrs. Buglefish decided to open her slimy mouth.

The family dog Houston had come up to her lap to beg for a slice of ham, still appetizing to his nose despite the stench of her casserole.  She was sitting by herself on an old recliner that no longer reclined--just like she always did-- eating and keeping to herself.  Which was generally how everyone liked it.  It wasn't that she was altogether detestable, she just had faults and mean streaks, and furthermore simply wouldn't have taken no for an answer, even if she was told not to come, so it was best to leave her alone to sit and enjoy her meal.  All the sooner would she leave.

The dog came up to her, and she looked down with a particularly stupid grin on her face.

"Ohh Houston" she patted his head, "At least YOU'VE still got your head."

She tossed the beloved mutt a piece of ham, which he devoured in all of 0.03 seconds.

"What?"  It cut through the air like a knife.  Many had to struggle not to drop their plates.  In fact, Wilmer Applebottom did, and was quite embarrassed.

Whut you say?

The sound had startled her, for she didn't think anyone was really listening to her.  No one ever listened to her.

"Pardon?"  Mrs. Buglefish asked.

"You heard me."  The voice belonged to Amanda Pigguts.  She was Mrs. McSoapdish's sister.  "Don't play dumb.  Not now.  My niece!  That's my niece you're referring to. . . you, you. . ." She was fuming, her face a fine cherry tomato red. "She's just a teenager. . . Just a kid. . . Don't say you never--" she was choking back the tears.

"That I never cut off a dogs head?"  Mrs. Buglefish asked metaphorically. "Why no, I have not.  Not ever."  Her face was now twisted into a wicked oldy lady smile: dentures and weathered hairy lips.  There, there you go you smug bastards.  Its what you get for all those years of you turning your noses up at my casserole, for talking behind my back.  Its what you damn well get.  Your kids are freaks. . . Stupid little freaks. . . She thought all this, but didn't say it.  Mr. Wilmer Applebottom. . . she looked at them one by one. . . Linda McSoapdish. . . Amanda Pigguts. . . oh and what is this?  Cowering and hiding in the corner?  Why, its Alemina Straussencake.  Oh yes, Alemina, how ashamed you must be, just imagine it!  A priest's daughter! Caught up in Kibbles and Bits and wearing a tail!  Barking at the moon!

"DAMN YOU! . . . DAMN. . .  For my sister's sake. . ."

Look, they're going on and on about this, just this:

"Oh yes, oh yes. . . for your sister's sake."  Mrs. Buglefish swooned. "What of my dog?"  She snapped.

"Look my fair people, for beyond the window lays high in the sky a full moon!"  She pulled back the curtain, revealing a white moon set against the sky.  "Those bastards are 'prolly convening right now!  Cooking up some dastardly plot to scoop up Dorothy's Toto!"

She was part right.  Just down the street and out 400 yards into the thicket there was another gathering of similar purpose, and just as grim. They mingled amongst spiny bumelia and black brush that formed a pocket of thorns around them.  It served as adequate coverage to conceal the graveness of their dilemma, and the thorns a deterrent for anyone who would happen to get nosy, and besides: enemies were everywhere.

There were 5 or 6 of them, boys and girls, all teenagers dressed similarly in dark clothing.  Simple enough, if not for the tails dangling from their belts between their legs, across the rocks they sat on, sometimes across their very laps.  Simple enough, if not for the tails, and the chains, and the dog collars, and the leashes, and the contact lenses like cats eyes, like wolves eyes. . .  with grim smiles that revealed false canine teeth, sharp with a malice intent to tear flesh. They were without much artificial light, but the moon above had milked their area over in a dim lunar light.  It only took a moment before their eyes adjusted and they could see one another well enough to give the secret signal of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack.  It was soon followed by a muffled howl at the moon.  They then all sat, to discuss the grave order of all they had seen.

They too had seen the interview, in fact many of them were in it.  They claimed not to be seeking attention, yet, after the airing it was all they had got.  The neighborhood seemed different, rides to school seemed more cold, school itself was considerably much worse, and the mall was so bad they weren't even allowed to hang outside anymore.  First banned from the mall itself.  Then its OUTSIDE.  Life was tough.  But as I said: enemies were everywhere.

Kimarah Nightfang, the acting President of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack in Wolfie Blackheart's absence was first off to address her fellow werewolves.  She rose slowly, wearing her traditional werewolf attire, complete with the wolf eyes.  She glimpsed up towards the moon and thought back on what she had done when she first heard the news.  She went on the internet:

Thats. . . lllow.

"This is the honorable Vice President of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack standing in as President in Blackie Wolfheart's absence.  As you already know, she has been tethered to the chain link fence in her backyard by her parents, who viciously used Wolfie's leash to detain her in the yard like a common house dog!"

Growls of discontent came up from the contingent of werewolves, brooding like the troubled teenagers they truly were.  Kimarah smiled wickedly, she had received the response she was looking for.

"A cruel injustice for our leader!  She has been proclaimed a dog killer!  It has been said that she cut off its head! But we all know the truth, we all know the dog was dead before she removed its skull!  It was already dead! A trifle thing, my pack brother's and sister's, a trifle thing indeed. . . for who cares really, if a young teenage girl wishes to cut the heads off of things if they're already dead?  Tell me?!  What's the harm in that?"

She waited for answer but none came.  Just dog eyes and white teeth.

"Our ceremonial skull has been taken from us, along with our leader! What is the pack to do when it is surrounded by all of its enemies? When its heroes are fixed with muzzles and silenced like tenacious pit bulls?! When its usual meeting grounds have been ransacked and defiled by deviants in the night?  When we have to hide here, amongst the brush like we're EYESORES. . . or something?  Like. . . like. . . aww come on, you know!"

TEEN WOLF DISAPPOINT.

The pack was hanging on her every word, growing more and more intense with each utterance of the travesties their people had been forced to endure thanks to the majority of non-believers void of any dog genes whatsoever.  Kimarah had built up her dogs, and now it was time to toss them a piece of raw meat; it was time to let them loose on a world of nothing but tail-less upright walkers. You could see their anguish.  They were practically drooling.

"Well, of course my fellow brothers and sisters, we must go over there and free our leader from her captivity!  Show them all that they claim us to be, but rather rational beings, human in form and descendants of a long line of wolves."  Barks of content.

"In regards to our ceremonial skull, we can walk along the highway and look for dead dogs so that we may lop off their heads like a well tuned guillotine!"  With that she raised her arm, and the werewolves came out from their thicket with teeth snarling, content that they had not been seen and their meeting had been unnoticed.

But they were wrong.

Through the magnified glasses of his father's binoculars Justin Dingleberry viewed four--no--five--no--six 'werewolves' emerging from the thicket like a couple of silly garden snakes.  He smiled.  Gleaming glass eyes and gleaming pearly whites.  That was Justin Dingleberry.  He handed them over to one of his clan made up of a collection of Seniors from the very same high school.

They had taken no interest in the Crimson Blood's initially.  And then it got out that Wolfie Blackheart killed a dog via decapitation.  After a look in the dictionary, the crew knew that this was just a fancy word for cutting a head off.  It really pissed em off.  I mean it really got their goat.  They loved dogs.  In fact Walter Sewergland had a rottwieler and when no one was around he would fuck it in the ass, he loved dogs that much.  The dog didn't seem to mind.  It was surprising really, from a dog with such a nasty reputation.

It reminded Walter that he should never get his balls cut off.

"Gotcha," Justin said.

They spied the 'werewolves' who ran Indian file along the sidewalk, alive with the feeling that perhaps they were doing something that was actually important.  Something worth talking about.  Something worth remembering. . .  And yet their target, the home, was already blowing up on its own. Turmoil squeezed through the cracks in the form of muffled screams and broken dish ware.  Mrs. Buglefish had tackled Amanda Pigguts; an action which surprised everyone.  Not many thought she had it in her. The following scuffle had sent the two into the potluck table. It went to the floor in a crash of casserole and sliced meats and half eaten cakes. It was a mess soon to be devoured by Houston, the family dog in just under 0.03 seconds.  When initial shock evaporated, onlookers convened, and pulled the two grown women from one another, still kicking and fighting like two alley cats.

FUCK YOUEZ

"I'll get you!  I'LL BLOODY GET YOU!"  Buglefish said.

And outside walk the walk came a pack of snarling werewolves.  Behind them, their potential murderers.

"You small old woman you. . . You think you know so much. . . I'LL BURY YOU!"

She got up and pushed her way through the party, like a running back muscling through tackles for the big game winning touchdown.  But she didn't stop, she kept going.  She stopped at the back door to throw it open just as the pack had reached the fence to the yard. . . and behind them Justin Dingleberry and his boys were not far behind.

Mrs. Buglefish reached the steps but was tackled from behind, her glasses squirting out onto the field like a fumbled pig skin.  Her mouth ate dirt, and her nose sniffed the smell of freshly cut grass, and dog shit. She lay there, sprawled out on the ground, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.  When she caught her breath she promptly used it to spew out a torrent of curses and foul language.

The gate to the yard opened wide, and through it came 6 teen werewolves, lead by Kimarah Nightfang. . .

Next came Justin and his boys. . .

Everyone now, was on stage.

The Crimson Blood Pack descended upon their leader, who seemed not to notice all that was going on around her.  Her head was down, her butchered hair covering her eyes in places, and she seemed to be stroking a small brown animal in her lap.  Upon closer inspection it was revealed to be her dog tail, wrapped around her waist and resting gently upon her lap.

Her pack surrounded her. . . and then Justin and his boys surrounded them.  The parents seemed to busy fighting amongst one another to even notice.

Them fightin' words.

Justin had taken down a wolf by his knee, and was now pummeling his face into grape jelly.  Others were scuffling too, and poor Wolfie Blackheart stood cowering in the corner of the yard, up against the fence, her escape hindered by that damn dog chain she had for so many years willingly wore and paraded around with, like a dog dignitary.  Kimarrah went down as well, her face drowning in a sea of grass.  The parents they too were struggling with one another, and all the neighbors had come out to watch.

The next five minutes were a blur.  Noses were broken.  Blood was spilled.  Hair was ripped from its roots and clothing was ripped from its owners.  Chaos rang out through the cold air of San Antonio that day, it would be the talk of the town for many years to come.

"YOU CUNT!  I'LL KILL YOU."  Mrs. Buglefish screamed.

--BANG--

The shot rang out and the scene paused, for a brief instant.  The gun was held by Sheriff Jacob Stinkysnatch, a Colt .45 to be exact, still smoking after discharging the bullet straight into the night sky.  It was a formidable weapon, one he had yet to ever fire when pointed at a person.  The gun itself did plenty of talking, no need for bullets.

"ENOUGH!"  Sheriff Jacob shouted.  "E-fucking-nough!  I've had just about enough of this werewolf business.  You-you-you-you-and-you-and you" he had picked out the teen werewolves.  "You aren't werewolves.  You're just teenagers.  Dumb, dumb, confused teenagers.  Your parents made you. There's nothing dog like about you, except that you all deserve some good discipline.  Go to your homes, and when you do, take a good look at yourselves.  Look what all of this has gotten you.  Don't dare for a second assume your victims, because quite frankly YOU WERE ALL ASKING FOR IT, dressing like that.  Especially here.  Don't you know this is a cowboy state?  Now get the hell out of here, you're a few years from becoming a bunch of furries for God's sake."

They walked by defeated, like students sent off to detention.  Sheriff Jacob Stinkysnatch clipped of their tails, one by one as the walked by, and wasn't having any of it.  He ignored protests.  He ignored sniffles and stifled outcries.

"And you!"  He pointed at Justin Dingleberry.  "And I suppose you think yourself to be some sort of Van Helsing, eh?  Well you're not.  You're simply a dumb bully who, whether he knows it or not, will have to start at the bottom rung of the ladder coming out of high school.  Just like everybody else. . . Or I suppose you have some lofty ideas about becoming a college man?  Well you forget that.  You're stupid.  You and your boys are just a bout as stupid as those other kids who believed themselves to be werewolves.  In fact your even more stupid and small.  In fact, some of you look like dog fuckers."

Walter Sewergland blushed.  He had been picked out by a man of the law.  Suddenly being a cop was appealing to him.

"Now get out! All of you!"

Justin and his boys left just as the teen werewolves had, awfully depressed.

He turned to the parents, the 'grown ups.'

"And you!"  He shouted.  "You're the worst of all.  How could you all come to this?  You're suppose to be mature, there's suppose to be some wisdom up in those heads of yours, not hot air!  Fighting like school yard boys, and for what?  Over what?  Trifle animosities over Davy Crockett Casserole?  And Mrs. Buglefish, for the record, it is the opinion of this Sheriff that your casserole is horrible."

Mrs. Buglefish scoffed.  Disdain filled her mouth, so much so that she felt the need to spit.

"Fighting over your children?  Fighting over their need to feel like werewolves?  Sure this is retarded, but one must understand that they're going through a tough time, just like we did.  So what if they want to think they're werewolves. . . As an officer of the law I can say there are a whole lot WORSE things your kids could be doing. . . A whole lot worse.  Now get yourselves inside and start acting like civilized ADULTS!"

"And you all. . ."  He address the onlookers, on their porches shivering in their pajamas.  "Go back inside!  The shows over!"

And what of Wolfie Blackheart?  Well she was totally forgotten, for days in fact. . . She was left out there in the yard chained to the fence, alone only to say:

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"I'm ready to come inside now. . ."

But the only answer she got back were the crickets, playing her a love song.

Right here is where I would explain myself.  But I don't need to, you see I used a literary device.  I spoke through the Sheriff to say what I really meant.  Don't you feel foolish now.  All them wasted words for the real thing to come at the end?  Well you shouldn't.  Words are good.  They're good for you, really.

He was just my puppet, the Sheriff.

They're all my puppets...

And I'm getting tired of putting on puppet shows no one goes to see.

Maybe the show needs work?

Maybe the audience needs work?

Either way I'm talking to myself.  But I like talking to myself: at least the conversation is good.

And I must be drunk, I'm feeling mean.

Nonetheless, iR declares Teen Werewolves sadly retarded, as in their wake all that is left is shame and tears.

love,

iR

Retarded Ways to Get A Chick (According to Movies)

There are all the normal socially accepted ways of courting a woman, and then there's Hollywood.  The Great Show.  Modern Man's Aesop Fables. Why in Hollywood, sometimes the means by which the lead male snags the girl are downright retarded, as shit movies is big business: and business is good.  With the following list, you too can be a tard and still get the chick:

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #1: KIDNAP HER DOG

Hey, if it can work for Spade it can work for anybody!

In Lost And Found, David Spade plays a restaurant owner who is desperate to get between the legs of his neighbor, a cellist with an exotic look and a spunky dog.  Yet he's Spade, he needs some help in that area, so he decides it would be best to kidnap her dog.  Yes, her dog. He devises a plan to steal the dog and then offer to help her find it out of the goodness of his little heart, with the hope that when he did, she'd blow him.  With the dog tucked safely away in his apartment, he proceeds to waste her time helping her look for the dog, and even goes so far as to put up phony LOST DOG posters with a big reward at the bottom.  So does he exceed?  Well not really, as the dog really escapes his captivity, and with the help of his neighbor's douchey ex-fiance, he gets outed as the Canine Kidnapper he really is.  So she tosses him to the curb right? Of course not, apparently she not only digs thieves, but also smug sarcastic little fuckers with horrible hair.  

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #2: LIE ABOUT YOUR OCCUPATION

Ah yes, nothing ruins your chances than letting that girl know how you really generate your income (or in some cases: don't.)  Which is exactly the situation Rob Schneider finds himself in in Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo.  You see, Rob is just some d-bag fish tank cleaner that nobody likes (well he is Rob Schneider after all.)  Yet due to the wonders of shit screen writing, somehow Rob becomes a male gigolo after destroying a fish tank owned by a he-bitch of the very same distinction. He begins going on dates, all of them horrible, and all for paltry amounts of cash (again, he's Rob Schneider,) but his world changes when he goes on a date with a certain chick and falls for her.  Now Rob has two options, A) Tell the Truth, B) Lie.  Naturally he goes with B and not only does he not tell her that her friends set him up with her for money, but also neglects the fact that in reality he's just a douchey fish tank cleaner with a tiny shit apartment in a shitty neighborhood.

With this precious information with held, the two continue to date, and everything is fine and peachy keen. She even meets his father.  Then, the ax eventually falls (as it must) and she finds out the truth, from the very same bitchy friends who set the whole thing up in the first place.  How does he win her back?  Well by going to her job (she gives dudes hair transplants) and gets so many drugs pumped in him that his face goes numb and he proceeds to drool everywhere.  Awww how cute.  Despite the drool, despite being Rob Schneider and totally out of his league, she still gets back with him, and they lived happily ever after.  What a crock.

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #3: PRETEND TO BE A CHICK

Nothing really helps you get through the walls women put up than pretending to be one yourself.  Such is the case in epic-shit-fail Juwanna Mann, in which a hot shot NBA star named Jamal Jefferies acts so egregious he's banned from the league.  The next logical step?  Why putting on make up, a wig, fake boobies and joining the WNBA of course! Joining up with a WNBA team under the pseudonym Juwanna Mann (You wanna man?,) the douche becomes a true member of the team, shedding his ego and learning to pass the ball.  Of course along the way there are many showers with the ladies as well as more than a few personal discussions about men and sex.

Juwanna eventually falls for one of his/her teammates and develops a friendship with her, of course on the false grounds that he has lady parts. The two become friends, and meanwhile their team the Charlotte Banshees have made the playoffs. Things look good, but soon friendship turns to hatred, after an emphatic dunk during a playoff game causes Juwanna to lose his wig and is outed for the cheating cross dresser he really is.  He's kicked to the curb until he gives the team an 'inspirational,' speech and apologizes and all that malarky.  Furthermore, not only does the WNBA ignore the fact that all games Juwanna competed in should be null-and-void because Juwanna is in fact a man, but the team actually wins the championship, and Juwanna not only gets the girl, he gets a a championship ring too. Way to go.

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #4:  PRETEND TO BE GAY

Nothing excites a heterosexual female more than a big flamer.  Such is the situation in I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry.  Adam Sandler plays a fireman who in an effort to help a fellow fireman and friend get his children named primary beneficiaries of his life insurance policy, fakes a gay marriage with his homeboy under the scrupulous eyes of the state. Many cannot believe that the two firemen could be gay, so a caseworker is assigned to their case to ensure the sanctity of their marriage.  For their defense they are given a lawyer--a hot lady lawyer.  Here comes the trouble. . . Sandler begins spending more and more time with her, and they eventually become friends.  Together they make bracelets that say things like FRIENDS 4EVER and GURLZ RULE, talk about men and sex, and Adam even gets a good grope of her boobs when she insists that they are real and that he feel them.  All of this, remember, under the guise of a gay man.  Of course the truth comes out in a big lengthy court battle and naturally she's upset: for a whole five minutes anyway, as she just suddenly forgives Sandler for basically lying to her and pretending to be gay.  All of this despite the fact that her brother in the movie is a big gay rights activist, and she dearly dearly loves her brother.  Smooth.

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #5:  GET HER FIRED, DESTROY HER MOTHER'S APARTMENT, AND ASSUME THAT HER MOTHER IS A PIMP

Because sometimes, doing one thing just isn't enough.  You see in Dirty Work Norm McDonald creates a 'Revenge for Hire' business, under the belief that not taking crap from anyone is a virtue to be cultivated and maintained with the rough hands of revenge.  Before starting his business, Norm meets a lovely blonde at a bar and chats her up.  The trap is sprung.  Later, at his place of business he spots her across the street and accosts her.  She ends up telling him how much she hates her boss, a real d-bag who sells cars for a living.  So what does Norm do to impress her?  Well, it just so happens her boss is filming a live television commercial, and Norm finds it to be the perfect opportunity to promote his business for free, and help out his potential lady in the same instance. He plants hookers in all the trunks, and as the commercial rolls he charges the stage and trunks start opening all around him.  DEAD HOOKERS everywhere!  After a plug for his business he's off on his merry ways, content that he'll finally get the girl.

What happens?

Well she gets fired.  Way to go.  Somehow, she isn't totally pissed off at him, and they meet at her mother's house.  "She works at home," the woman explained, just as her mother came out to let in some women. For some reason, Norm assumes this means she's a pimp, providing the city with fine tail. Next, Norm is told by some d-bag rich dude with a fondness for fingering his tiny dog's asshole, that he has an apartment block he wants to be roughed up and defaced, so that he may have an excuse to demolish it and put up a fresh new apartment.  Guess what? Turns out to be Mom's apartment building. . . But Norm needs the money to help his father get a heart transplant. . .  So Norm heads into the building with his buddy, made empty after a prior notice stated that the building was being sprayed for bugs.  They fucking destroy the place: they toss cherry bombs in toilets and tag all the walls with curse words and threats, even taking the time to chop down doors and put holes in walls with a sledge hammer.  Yet after destroying the building, they find that the man who hired them to commit the deed is really a scumbag, with no intentions of ever paying them.

Well fuck.

Of course they expose the guy, and it all ends nice and pretty with a bow on top.  Yes, Norm gets the girl, despite being Norm McDonald, and the man responsible for his lady losing her job, and her mother having no home.  This chick must be ugly right?  NARP:

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #6:  PRETEND TO ACTUALLY BE RETARDED

In The Ringer, Johnny Knoxville plays a loser who's Uncle owes a lot of money to a lot of dangerous people. . . So the two decided to bet on the Special Olympics, and plant Knoxville in as a 'ringer;' a man of lacking intelligence pretending to be a tard.  While competing, he falls for one of the volunteers working there, a blonde chick with an asshole boyfriend who constantly cheats on her.  During the movie, we find out that she actually works for the Special Olympics because her younger brother was mentally ill as well.  OUCH, feel like a dick yet Johnny?

The funniest part is perhaps that Johnny is no 'ringer,' at all, and often struggles to beat his competitors in many of the events.  He does however, end up winning a Bronze Medal, and upon his acceptance speech announces that he isn't really a tard at all--just a moron. Naturally this upsets the girl he's had his eyes on, and she runs off crying.  She's totally pissed off at him for about 2 minutes, which in real time is like an hour. After all the swindling she takes him back, at the drop of a hat, despite him not only being a horrible human being, but also a cheat. . . And yes, Johnny totally went full retard:

I understand comedies are suppose to have happy endings, especially in a traditional sense, but would I really care if Johnny Knoxville or Norm McDonald got the chick at the end?  Not really.  In fact if anything, it only adds to the absurdity of the whole situation, as 99.9 percent of the time the chick is way out of their league.

Why not just give em an equally average looking chick?

Oh yeah, sex appeal. . . Something to outweigh the ugly.

Oh yeah, something to make the average schmoe think he's even got a chance.

Yeah yeah.

Nothing pisses me off more than a shit comedy throwing in a pointless love interest for the sake of throwing in a pointless love interest.  They simply shouldn't have to resort to such instances, as its purely formulaic and retarded.  Jokes be jokes.  Laughter is laughter.  A nice story is just EXTRA.

And its for these reasons that iR declares comedic love stories repetitively retarded.

love,

iR