Kel Mitchell Found Jesus

We are gathered here today. . . Light in through the colored panes of church windows. . . Bow your heads. . . The smell of polished pews. . . Come self-proclaimed 90's kids, you boob tube aficionados, you couch cushion jockeys. . . your prophet has arrived.

Prepare the body of Christ. . . a bag of potato chips. . . Pour forth the blood of Christ. . . Coca-Cola. . . Its a shame loud T.V. . . [louder now] Its a shame loud T.V. destroyed. . . I said its a shame loud T.V destroyed your hearing so. . . I said. . . never mind:

Your prophet has arrived. . . 

Guess where Kel's other hand is?  Keenan's face reveals the answer.

What fasting.  What endurance in the name of the lord; none.  What emptiness along the crawling spaces.  The psychedelic soma water, the duodenum berries.  Throw down your orange sodas my friends, Kel Mitchell found Jesus but never fixed his teeth.  Destined, the dreary sidekick.  Even that dance show gave him the title of co host. . .

What stables of women.  What endurance in the name of the wang. What many girls, some of questionable age.  They fell and lay in his bed of success.  Like withdrawing from the bank account.  The word then was 'fine'.  He's FIOOOYNNE.

Piqued, made for decline.
Getting drunk on orange wine.

Who loves orange soda?  Kel loves orange soda.  Is it true?  He do he do he doo-oo.  Orange sugar water and orange Nickelodeon money. Wadded thick in the pockets, placed gingerly betwixt the g-strings of working girls. Oh he do, he do.

Who loves Kel?  Kel loves Kel.  Is it true?  He do he do he doo-oo.  The countless mirrors for looking upon himself, the mirrors for catching sex acts, the mirrors, the mirrors.  The portrait of himself hanging in the hall, overlooking his 'pussy palace.'  The initials KM engraved in the fine leather headrests of his finer automobiles.

But more importantly, more than orange soda and himself, Kel loves God. Is it true?

What fasting.  What endurance in the name of the Lord; none.  What emptiness along the crawling spaces.  The psychedelic soma water, the duodenum berries.  Throw down your orange sodas my friends, Kel Mitchell found Jesus but never fixed his teeth.

Kel of course got his start on the Nickelodeon show All-That, which was kinda like SNL for kids, in that it was once very good, only to slowly get shittier and shittier until reaching a point of being unwatchable; but at least All-That was finally taken out to pasture and put out of its misery.  It was where Kel met Kenan Thompson (who curiously currently works for SNL) and under the bright lights of the Nickelodeon Studios in Orlando Florida, a great bromance bloomed.  The relationship allowed them to develop chemistry and proved rather fruitful for their careers. They were like a Laurel and Hardy, and the beauty of it was their audience was so young and ignorant they could steal rather liberally from their material without their young fanbase even noticing. One of their more successful skits included a place called Good Burger, with Kel playing a retarded-Spicoli-surfer-fast food employee- named Ed (pictured above). He of course was a horrible employee who could never show up on time and further illustrated the common belief that all fast food workers are retarded (which is generally true.)  He also suffered from being capable of spouting only three or four annoying phrases, all of which somehow became trademarks.  On the basis of this flimsy sketch a movie was made called Good Burger, which unfortunately could only taint the wondrous talent of the Great Sinbad.

Now I know all you 90's kids. . . but I have to explain it. . . Not everyone knows the glory of. . . I said not everyone knows the glory of. . . I said. . . Oh damn your rotten ears!  Always interrupting me with their refusal . . . their refusal to work. . .But I must explain it. . . I said I must explain it for others who. . . oh never mind.

Ever wonder what happened to Ed?  Well apparently his last name is Jankins, and this happened to him:

He went bat shit insane on meth and now frequents the local playground, scaring the shit out of little kids.

In 1996, Kenan and Kel were given their own show, The Kenan and Kel Show, which was helped by an already established fan base from All That.  It provided more of the same, with Kenan repeating phrases including a proclamation of his love for orange soda (which was alluded to earlier) and 'Aww here its goes' and all kinds of other shit.  Kenan played the straight man, only he was a schemer who thought up schemes which propelled the show for five long years.  Before the show ended, Kel got a role in the movie Mystery Men.  He played Invisible Boy, who could only turn invisible if no one was looking at him.  Yes, it seems that even as a superhero Kel Mitchell is mediocre and equivocally lame.

The movie didn't really succeed, which was surprising in that Janeane Garofalo was in it. . .  (best joke so far)

With a failed movie under his belt, and the end of another show, Kel feared slipping off into nothingness of everyday 'civilian life,' and did his best to do what he could to keep from becoming a nobody.  He tried to get jobs, but no one wanted him, and it was then that Kel first saw the bars of that cage which had seemed so free earlier; that niche of being a home made Nickelodeon star.

Too old, sweet prince.

Despair set in.  He started eating peanut butter.  Lots and lots of peanut butter.

"Help me God."  The sweet prince cried.  "Help me."

I know what you think. . . and am making this up. . . Obviously you haven't seen any. . . I said obviously you haven't seen any of my stuff before. . . Of course its all true. . . every last word. . . I said every last word, even the part about the. . . about the peanut butter.

God would answer him?  He got a role in a television movie no one saw, called Two Heads Are Better Than None, and then he would get even more offers for work: an episode of Nash Bridges, voice work for The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Clifford the Big Red Dog.  Later he would go on to host The Pokemon 2000 Movie Special (lawlz).

Kel counted his blessings, and continued praying, but only with peanut butter in his mouth.  In 2005 he appeared Kanye West video, as a porter. Betcha didn't know that. . . but then again Kel Mitchell really is Invisible Boy.  Word is he tried talking to Kanye, who swatted at his ear as if to silence some tenacious gnat.

Still more blessings:

In 2007, Kel Mitchell had a minor role in the dramatic film Honeydripper.  

More:

Now, Kel is working on a movie he wrote and stars in, called Chicago Pulaski Jones.  He plays the son of Cedric The Entertainer, who dies, and Kel feels the need to avenge his death. . . with dance:

Urban river dance is ruffffff.

One can clearly see this movie will suck horribly, as if one could not tell from the rather unoriginal plot line to begin with.  I think its supposed to be dramatic, but with Kel's haircut, his acting, and Cedric the Entertainer directing the whole debacle, its awful hard to tell.

Awful hard to tell.  Like his newfound Christianity.  He's got the lingo for sure.  But is it true?  No one can say, only Kel can, and he thinks its true, but only if you pray with peanut butter in your mouth.

So yes brothers and sisters. . . we should be thankful. . . a man exists today. . . and integrity to stand up for whats. . .  I said what's right. . .  So drink forth the blood. . . share of his flesh. . . pray only with peanut butter and for the. . . GET YOUR HEARING AIDS FIXED!

Firstly I'd like to accuse myself of purple prose, 'betwixt' being the primary offender.  Secondly I'd like to apologize for uh, I guess acting like a preacher there, and like you couldn't hear, I just felt the need to talk needless shit about 90's kids.  Why?  Spite.  With that said, we are all guilty, every one of us.  I'm not here to say believing in God is retarded, I'm just saying that when you go around preaching God and the Bible, and then right after that judge a booty shaking contest you kinda look dumb and hypocritical. . . I'm just sayin'.

I commend the fact that you're still trying, but I mean come on, Chicago Pulaski Jones?  I suggest you can it before anyone sees anymore footage, before you're canned. . . for good.  Keep the faith alive, though it still doesn't change the fact you were legally declared retarded in the summer of '04.

Congrats, iR declares Kel Mitchell, legally retarded.

Way to burn out, writer of this 'blah-g.'

Kenan and Kel fans have been begging... I mean BEGGING, for a reunion of the two on SNL with revivals of their roles in the Good Burger movie. . . These people are morons.  I say this not because they desire such a thing, but because they believe such a thing could be possible.  Not only that but desirable. . .  They have aged, ladies and gentlemen, and I'm sure they would have no interest whatsoever in playing roles they had when they were teenagers.  

If you disagree feel free to comment... or call me an asshole.

love,

iR

Scott Adams is an Ass Hat

It is a hot day, the sun already boring through the one hole of your hut, waking you.  It is to be another dreary day in the world of the internets, but you remember the beheading today.  You forget just exactly who it is this time, but know you could never turn down a good beheading. Skipping breakfast to ensure a good view you tend to your outward self in the mirror, and reassure your inner self with boastful empty words, and head out the door only to find so many already streaming down the street. Joining in, the flow streams right on down toward town square, past all the homes and businesses always changing; past the chickens scattering about your feet; past the children and their sacred eyes, down, down into the belly of the beast.

"Now hear this!"  Above your head the hawkers hang from wooden poles, reeds in a river of ignorance, drifting slowly by.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!"  Smiling rotten teeth, drifting slowly on by.  "Scott Adams is an ass hat!"

You think to ask who's Scott Adams, but an old lady with a hairy lip and one milky white eye like that of a gypsy witch, spits up black death from her lungs and asks first.

"The creator of Dilbert"  the hawker replies, "to be beheaded today, and as you can see, traffic is rather congested accordingly."

"Dilbert?" the gypsy woman asks, but the hawker has already drifted on behind her.

"You know, like Office Space, only not funny" a nearby man in the stream replies.

"You're just not smart enough to get it," another fish rebuts.

A great groan erupts in waves, yet still the stream continues on down toward town square, like water drawn straight down the drain.  The guillotine glints in its cruelty far off.  From the growing buzz you can already tell you are getting closer.  The walk is long but its reward is worth it, and your belly begins to squeal its discontent at being so empty. There is not a morsel to be had, and no way to stop in such a flow of human thought, but when the blade comes in full view you're brimming with excitement and all thought of food quickly escapes you.  The world gathers around this stage of death.  The air is full of hate, thick and heavy in the lungs and stinging to the eyes.  You can almost smell it.  Looking at your feet, you can see how all the traffic has turned the soil underfoot to sludge, thickening already in the sun.  Through the hatred, warm knife through butter, they bring out Scott Adams, out to the stage, out to where he could be seen by the rows of molten angry eyes.  He stand unaffected, still content with his self assessment of genius.  His crimes against the internet being sockpuppetry, or the use of a pseudonym or alternate online identity to deceive members of an online community or otherwise spread intense douchery in an effort to praise and/or defend one's self or ideals.

For Scott Adams this meant lurking forums under the username PlannedChaos and defending Dilbert and himself from haters or anyone generally talking shit.  His favorite thing to point out was that Scott Adams (himself) was a genius, with a matching IQ to prove it, therefore making anyone who disapproved of him or his strip stupid because 'they didn't get it.'  He lurked for months under this username, defending Scott Adams selflessly, to the point where many people accused him of being his boyfriend.  Whether or not Dilbert is 'smart humor' can be debated, but how could such a thing be even considered possible when its creator is clearly the dumbest asshat in the bizz today?

How big of an asshat is he, you may ask?  Well, Scott is such an asshat he actually blogged about men's rights, its prose flowing into a misogynistic rant that would make even Mel Gibson blush.  He pondered what it would be like if women opened doors for men, and men were served first, what it would be like if the world didn't needlessly cater to women.  What if you didn't have to hit on women to get laid?  What if women had to hit on you?  What if. . . what if. . . what if. . . He asked that we think of a world where society doesn't 'discourage male behavior' and 'celebrate female behavior.'  He then went on to compare women to the mentally handicapped and children in need of candy, stating that the world gives them special privilege because 'its just easier this way for everyone.'  And like a true asshat, when the shit hit the fan he deleted his post and posted an explanation as to why: that most Dilbert readers are of 'an unusually high reading comprehension level' and that as such 'the content of the piece inspires so much emotion in some, they literally can't understand it. . . Regular readers of Dilbert blog are pretty far along the bell curve toward rational thought, and relatively immune to emotional distortion.'  So yeah, if you were offended, its because you're too dumb, and not of the reading level of those who read a CARTOON STRIP.

Stare into Bubbles' eyes, Scott, they clearly say FUCK OFF.

The sun beats down and you spit in the dust.  You don't like him insinuating you're stupid.  You don't like how he thinks he's so smart. The face up on the stage is the mask to your hate, grotesque up there before the stage.  Let it no longer live, the swine.

He has already fallen so far.  He once had his comic strip, and with it all the money he made from whoring it out, but now he runs a failing restaurant in a run-down strip mall in California.  His employees hate him, and mock him behind his back.  His head chef has confessed to media that he feels Mr. Adams has no idea what the fuck he is doing at all.  The genius of course ignored it--he was a genius--and put out such bright ideas as adding a flat-screen television to that restaurant that would play nothing but Dilbert, a dress code for employee inspired by the Dilbert character (complete with ties curling upward at the end), puns on the menu, and a banquet room for events like 'Mommy Mojito Night,' nude volleyball, and some bullshit called 'murder mysteries.'

You look out over the crowd.  Nearly time now.  The crowd grows restless and past your head flys a head of lettuce.  It hits the feet of Scott Adams and laughter erupts from the crowd.  A miss.  Other fruits and vegetables join the fray, the treacherous Adams frowning juice and seed as the stage spotted with bits of bruised fruits and rotten vegetables.  An orange hits him square in the eye and the crowd around you cheers.  The blade would bring him mercy, cease his shame and so many wish to compound it.  You throw like a girl, so you dare not join in with the others, though you would really like to.  Adams just stands there, his captors at his sides, the blade threatening up above, the bucket eagerly waiting down below.

The horns sound, the crowd eases back upon itself.  You edge in for a closer view, and can see Adams standing smug despite his situation.  Somewhere unseen in his head his mind works out some genius means of escape.  His face flashes a smile.  He attempts to run.

Slips.

Falls.

Laughter.

He is lifted.

You see their mouths moving.  You cannot hear them talk.  Adams weeps sarcastically, thinking still his genius will save him.  They lower him upon the block, fasten tight the rope to hold him down.  You try not to blink.  If you blink you can miss it--the blade moves that fast.  It hurts your eyes to keep them open for so long, they begin to flutter, and down comes the blade, a sound like wind blowing.

Thud.

And down his head goes, body left behind, the severing so fierce the head spills out of the bucket and out on to the stage. . .

Adams comes off pretty smug.  I don't even care about Dilbert, but when I see such acts of douchery I must comment.  Scott Adams commited 'sock puppetry' a bullshit internet word which basically means he went around on the internets pretending to be someone else with no affiliation with Scott Adams or Dilbert, and who had an undying love for the both of them, to the point where he felt the need to destroy anyone who felt differently.  

But Adams actually thinks media is out to get him, to misuse his words to promote their own agenda, because so many people give a shit about what the creator of Dilbert has to say about real life shit existing outside of the small world of cubicles he created in the limited space of a comic script.  Ha, what an asshole.  I know personally I could give two shit, but then again, when you go around calling yourself a genius, you're inclined to believe that the mass of man feels similarly, and therefore must have some sort of interest in what you have to say, even if all you do is draw a shit strip for a dying medium (the newspaper.)

Yes, Mr. Adams you're a genius, but apparently being a genius doesn't stop one from being retarded.

With that said, I'd like to post some emails I've received, that were in no way written by me at all, emails that have been full of praise for iR:

Dear iR,

I think your blog is fucking awesome.  I mean, really, its the best blog out there.  All those people who say it sucks are probably really dumb, or just not big readers.  But whatever right?  Because that makes us so much smarter than them because they don't give a shit about what we give a shit about.  And what we give a shit about is important, because, duh, we're geniuses.  Anyway, I just wanna say thanks for all your work, and keep it up!

Your biggest fan,

Arnold Schwartz

And another!

Dear iR,

You have a massively huge dick.  Anyone who says you have a small one is just jealous and too stupid to take into consideration such factors as weather, randiness, and overall girth.  But whatever right?  Anyway I just wanted to say that you have a massively huge dick.  Hugely huge.

Love,

Jessica Alba

All very true, no sock puppetry going down Mr. Adams, none whatsoever.

Adams is a vegetarian.

He's a licensed hypnotist.

If he reads this, lets hope he trolls it.

Yay

love,

iR

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

Why's he touching it?  Why not?

Iceland has got a dick house, and its got a new member.  By dick house, I mean not a restaurant specializing in variations on the dessert spotted dick, nor a shack home to a bunch of rude individuals, nor even an office with a plate glass window that says PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, what I mean it really is a house of dick; of schlongs, of johnsons, of tallywackers.  Yes, a dick house, or Phallological Museum, established in Husavik Iceland in 1997.

Husavik is a small town along the north coast of Iceland, with rolling hills and gingerbread houses taken straight from a model train hobbyist's diorama of some quaint little town of picturesque stagnancy. The bulk of its buildings lay along its bay, which attracts many species of whale, and as such attracts many nature freaks looking to do some whale watching.  In years passed, the town had been an export harbor for silica, though now they have nothing but fishing and the tourist trade. But alas dear lads, under the quaint fog of this sleepy little town (Population 2,296) lies perhaps one of the strangest museums around the world.  Its founder, and current director Sigurour Hygartarson, is a former teacher of history who gave up filling the heads of children with facts and tarnished history for the filling of thick, greased jars with penises and formaldehyde.  How did the change from history professor to museum curator come about? Well in his own words it was like this:

"The foundation was laid in 1974, when I got a pizzle or bull's penis.  As a child I was sent into the countryside during summer vacations and there I was given a pizzle as a whip for the animals."

Wait. . . what?

"At that time in 1974, I was living in the town of Akranes on the south-west coast [of Iceland], working as a headmaster in a secondary school. Some of my [colleagues] used to work the summer in a nearby whaling station and after the first specimen [the pizzle] they started bringing me whale penises, supposedly to tease me.  Then the idea came up gradually that it might be interesting collecting specimens from more mammalian species."

Yeah. . . interesting.

"Collecting these organs progressed slowly in the beginning and in 1980 I had 13 specimens, four from whales and nine from land mammals.  In 1990, there were 34 specimens, and when the museum opened in Reykjavik in August 1997, the specimens were 62 in number.

In the spring of 2004, the museum moved to the small fishing village of Husavik, the whale watching capital of Europe."

You can poke an eye out with that thing... thats what she said.

Yeah, because moving a dick house there makes total sense.

I say he just likes dick.  Like really, all I gotta say is 'pizzle whip.'  I'm certain that pizzle whips hardly if ever come up in normal conversation, and as such I must assume that Mr. Hygartarson wanted to divulge such information, and apparently his colleagues were willing to humor him to the point of actually bringing him specimens.

As such, the museum grew...

and grew...

and grew..

and now houses over 276 baby makers (most in formaldehyde, few dried/nailed to the wall), all housed in 7 different sections, the most absurd of which would have to be the Folklore section, which features such headliners as: the penis of a merman, the shriveled nuts of The Corpse-Eating Cat of Thingmuli, the penis bone of an elf, a petrified troll wang, and the bits and bobs of many other Icelandic mythical (imaginary) creatures. The majority of all specimens at the museum have been donated, the donors all in a long list reading like a who's who of dick collectors.

And now, on April 12th, after 15 long years of waiting its got its newest donation (ha, see how I did that?).

A human specimen, the first of its kind at the Phallological Museum maintained in its own jar of formaldehyde.

And its donor?  Well, he is now dead, having offered up his ninety-five-year old hose to the curator, and long time friend posthumously; but in life people called him Pall Arason.  Now thats true friendship.  He wasn't the only one offering up his junk either, over the years many applicants tossed their names and manhood into the hat, though Pall's was the first one to be 'submitted successfully.'  Direct quote, I shit you not... first one to be 'submitted successfully' . . .  Apparently a chap in England sent his penis to the wrong house, and terrified an Icelandic woman expecting word from her son in America, and another, well his penis got mixed up in shipping and got sent back to him, the jar in which it was contained cracked, smelling of death at sea.

Hygartarson finds no problem in having his friends old wang up on display, stating that many people donate organs after their death, and there should be no difference between "penises and kidneys."

So pack your bags kiddies, and head up to Iceland for a jolly good time! Don't worry, you can't miss the place, its the place with the huge carved wooden dick out front!

Iceland is a weird place.  There's no ice, yet its called Iceland.  And we all remember D2 right?

Only in Iceland would they teach kids to do a triple deke only to stop at the blue line, making the whole 'triple deke' pointless to begin with.  Thats like if Kobe Bryant worked the crossover, lost his man and then proceeded to jump stop, waiting for the defender to catch up, get in his face, and then, when guarded tried to attempt the shot.  Of course the shot is gonna get blocked, of course the puck aint goin' in the net. . . But thats backward ass Icelandic thinking for yah.  Its why they didn't win that junior hockey championship, and why they've got a penis museum.  

Its latest addition I would hope to be horrifying to children and grotesque to anyone with a penis.  I'm not trying to disregard the 'scientific' purposes behind such a museum, but really? a mangled penis in a jar?  Who the hell wants to see that?

And it is for these reasons, that iR declares The Icelandic Phallological Museum to be irreparably retarded.

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

love,

iR