The Genetic Retardation of MTV's Jersey Shore

In 1916, The Jersey Shore was plagued with a string of deadly shark attacks, from a shark said to be a man eater hellbent on eating Jersey kids. Yellowed newspapers from the time tell of a monster born in the darkest depths of the ocean, a creature fat with the meat of thousands of seals, a finned demon with razor sharp teeth and a lust for eating bigger, larger creatures like humans. People became upset, so they took to boats with spears and guns and things. His string of attacks went all along the Jersey Shore, and took 6 victims before he was eventually killed. Only one victim survived. Here is a map of his attacks:

In 1987-1988, The Jersey Shore experienced what they called The Syringe Tide - as the waters there became polluted with medical waste from a nearby landfill called Fresh Kills Landfill. It gets its name from the nearby estuary that starts in Staten Island on landfill, and empties out into the Atlantic Ocean along the Jersey Shore. The people became outraged, so they took to boats and went up to the Landfill with guns and spears and things, but the Landfill, being New York's primary dumping grounds, was full of trash, which attracted feral dogs. The dogs killed 5 people, but things got a little better after that. Here is a map of feral dog attacks on Freshkills Landfill:

In 2009, The Jersey Shore experienced its worst tragedy yet: a man named Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino spent one month with 7 other roommates in Seaside, New Jersey for an MTV reality show aptly named "Jersey Shore." His string of attacks took 26 women, 12 of which ended up impregnated. There was no outrage though. There were no newspaper articles out about him being a woman eater, or a monster from the depths of a tanning booth somewhere in New Jersey, with six pack abs he shamelessly called "The Situation." There were no angry husbands, or fathers, or brothers, or boyfriends running around New Jersey with shotguns and spears and things.

Sometimes life is funny that way.

Here is a map of his attacks:

The following is a record of one such night, when "The Situation" tried to commit one of his many attacks on the female population of The Jersey Shore.

July 20th, 2009:

After running the guido gauntlet of the tanning salon and the gym Ronnie, "The Situation," and Vinny head to the barber for a fresh cut. Ronnie and "The Situation take to opposite chairs while Vinny waits in the wings. For some, barber shops are like social clubs in which one can spout off all the stupid shit in their life, and for a guido, its no different. In The Situation's case, a trip to the barber shop gives him the opportunity to gloat about any hook ups that may or may not have happened so that he may further promote the greatness that is The Situation.

"Now everybody knows about the alcohol, its a given. But when you're trying to hook up with a chick you don't just have to booze her up, no, no, no. The Situation has one tool in his arsenal which most guys don't utilize, and that my friends is the jacuzzi. You gotta put em in the jacuzzi - let em soak, you know what I mean - give em fifteen minutes like a soft boiled egg and after that they're like putty in your hands. And believe me, that's the type of situation you want to be in."

"Wait. . . I thought you were The Situation." Ronnie says. "Why would I want to be in you?"

"I am, but I was using the word situation, you know how you're suppose to use it, you know grammatically and shit."

"I think those tanning booths have fried your brain." Vinny can only think to shake his head. "Soft boiled eggs only take 2 minutes."

"Ladies love "The Situtation." Mike smiles. "Besides what do you know? You haven't even hooked up with nobody yet."

"You mean anybody." Vinny says but decides to forgo the grammar lesson for he realized the first night that he was far smarter than the rest of them, which isn't saying very much, and found that it was best not to try and explain things, for it would only confuse them further. "But not that that matters anyway - Who have you hooked up with? I, unlike you, don't think having sex with a passed out chick is considered hooking up. . ."

"Yeah Vin, I think its considered rape." Ronnie says.

"Aww whatever." At first its apparent Mike is taken aback, but his ego, like a good friend is always there to blanket the truth. He smirks and tries to think of something clever to say, but all that comes out is this:

"Don't hate the player, fellas, hate the game."

Once they found their hair acceptable, they went to their Jersey Shore home, complete with nearly a hundred Italian Flags - on the garage door, in the living room, on furniture and tvs. Life was good, they had a sweet pad and a great chef in Mike "The Situation," a man who put charcoal on a gas grill, a man who sprays PAM into pans until they flame up and nearly burn his eyebrows off. After a quick lunch everyone takes to preparing for a night at the club. For a guido, this is very much like preparing for battle, for the club scene on Jersey Shore is a volatile arena where young adults stalk one another like cats and take to dulling their already primitive minds with heavy amounts of alcohol until there's nothing left in their heads other than a brutish reasoning and power, coupled with a quick fuse that could be lit with a simple bad look, or simple insult.

When night fall comes, the guidos come out to play.

They go to a local club called KARMA, where they get drinks and the fist pumping begins:

FIST PUMPING LIKE CHAMPS!

After awhile the group is feeling amiable enough with one another that the whole group starts dancing together in a circle. It starts with the pounding of the ground in time with the beat and eventually evolves into complete fist pumping. Their dance is a descendant of the same sort of dances their Italian ancestors did as long as 200 years ago at weddings and joyous occasions. Although today the preferred music is house music, and the dance involves grinding, intoxication, mini skirts and exposed beavers.

Yay.

After much drink and much dancing, the crew of Jersey Shore's 8 guidos and guidettes stumble its way home, but there's a problem. The Situation and DJ Pauly D haven't picked up any girls, so as the group strolls home, the two of them are on the prowl for staggies.

staggies n. - drunk ladies who are perceived as being an easy lay, the name comes from their tendency to have poor balance as a result of alcohol intoxication.

The Situation walks down the sidewalk with his shirt lifted, showing the nearby traffic his abs, hoping it'll be the bait he needs to reel in some ladies. And like a fisherman, he's patient, because The Situation plays the number game: if you make a hundred phone calls asking women out and at least 1 accepts, then you're a winner. And like a winner, "The Situation" reeled in a pair of guidettes who happened to be driving by in a black convertible. They already know who he is, as well as Pauly D, as they had already gained a reputation as being a couple of douche bag guidos looking to fuck anyone willing to let them. Pauly D and The Situation find this to be quite flattering, so they in turn high five one another right there in the street. Despite their reputation the women agree to go to their house, as it is still nonetheless an opportunity to be on T.V, and to some people being on T.V. with a total douche bag is better than not being on T.V. at all. So they went back to the house, and Pauly D and The Situation showed the ladies the jacuzzi, as step #1: getting them drunk, had already been completed by other guys at some bar along the Jersey Shore.

Just as The Situation said, in 15 minutes they are back down in the house, in the Situation and Pauly D's room, "hooking up." After awhile one pushes Pauly D away and says:

"I gotta go, I gotta get home. . . My mom is like gonna be pissed." Which is really girl code for "This guy is freaking me out, lets get the fuck out of here, NOW."

"Whattaya mean?" Situation asks.

"I mean we gotta go, like I gotta get home, I have an early day tomorrow."

"Ok well. . ."

"Well she's gonna have to go with me, she drove me." She said.

"Really? . . ." The Situation knows his plight already. "Well uh. . . ok."

And just like that the two got up and left.

And just like that, the mighty Situation came up to bat.

And just like that he had struck out. (Ever read The Natural?)

The next day he would appear in the barber shop, boasting about how he and Pauly D had hooked up with two chicks the previous night.

iR

Lawl, check out this guy:



*And so I half ass yet another project.

The Regal Retardation of JC

At E3 they called James Cameron out to talk about Avatar. The point of the presentation was to show off the video game and give the people a taste of what it was all about, from the man who wrote every little word of it. What followed was a 45 minute dissertation that bored the entire audience, and started like this:

"Avatar is a movie about a race of 9 foot tall blue fish people. . ."

And ended like this:

"Thank you."

Somewhere in the middle was a fantasy world, conjured up by a director who thought "what if?" "What if I had half a billion dollars (which I do) and had the best technology the movie making world had to offer (which I do), what kind of movie would I make? Well the CGI infested wet-dream that is Avatar, of course. The tale of Avatar is good or bad, depending on your ability to play along and swallow drawn-out shit from fantasy land. Its world is as rich as a hearty stew and can easily be compared to The Lord of The Rings in its dense subject matter. Its people are products of long histories which JC no doubt dreamt up in between wet dreams of Jessica Alba as Dark Angel.

Do me JC.

Its people are humanoids, which are alien creatures that have human-like features, called the Na'vi. They live on a little moon called Polyphemus, which circles the planet Pandora. They have bones made of reinforced carbon fiber and have blue skin that makes them glow, or "sparkle" Robert Pattinson style. They have tails and are 9 feet tall. They live in tune with nature and respect it, where as the greedy white men who want their planet do not - they wish instead to tear up the land and make profits from their vital resources. . . Stupid Na'vi.

Its story is very similar to one America experienced nearly 200 years ago, but instead of primitive-dumb-savage-call-them-what-you-will Indians, there are primitive-dumb-savage-call-them-what-you will Na'vi. The part of greedy white man is still the same, only these white men are living in the time 2154.

All a little much to swallow right?

Oh it gets better. . . The problem with Pandora is that its planet is hardly geared towards supporting human life. Its atmosphere consists of no oxygen, so a scientist creates a way for humans to invade the planet, with an invention known as 'avatars.' Avatars are beings humans "live" through while on the planet. They are made up of genetic material both from humans and the Na'vi, and any human who's genetic material went into making an avatar, can control said avatar while in their sleep.

The Na'vi: A furry's wet dream realized on the big screen, and in IMAX 3D.

Hmmm.

But don't worry, Avatar wasn't made to tell you a story, it was made to please your eyes and further the career of the great JC. . . James Cameron. For, after Titanic he was so bombarded with questions regarding the film, and teary-eyed letters from women who felt he had captured a true love story that he needed to make something else - he needed to make his own Star Wars, a Star Wars made up of nothing but Jar Jar Binks looking fish people. Way to go JC.

Under all of this sci-fi bullshit, JC worked in a little lesson on life and humanity. To him Avatar is a "spoonful of sugar of all the action and the adventure and all that," but "makes you think a little bit about the way you interact with nature and your fellow man." How touching, some people with boat loads of money donate to charities, feed the homeless, spearhead urban renewal operations, donate buildings, etc. . . but oh no, you, James Cameron, you wanna help the world so you burn half a billion dollars (and in these times) making a film that only furthers your name and makes you money. How very un-JC of you.

Oh and what money there is to be made, JC. Avatar on opening day made an estimated 27 million dollars, finishing up that opening weeked with 77 million dollars world wide - a record for any non-franchise, non-sequel, original film - which is hardly fair in that James Cameron himself is a franchise; mere mention of his name and studio execs climax in their pants at the idea of all that money. . . Add on book sales (Avatar: A Confidential Report on the Biological and Social History of Pandora) a video game deal, as well as a whole line of action figures. . . Yep JC is helping the world all the way to the bank.

But its not like this royal retard needs any: James Cameron has enough money for about 30 lifetimes, during which time he could burn whole stacks of hundred dollar bills without feeling bad about it.

And whats worse is that if Avatar is successful, he plans on making sequels..

Lets go for a cool billion on this one JC, whatya say?

FURTHER RETARDATION

JC is Candian.

Has a star on the Canadian Walk of Fame (I believe the whole thing takes up one block.)

Has been married 5 times.

Is in possession of 4.9 billion dollars (wowzers.)

Was given an honorary doctorate from South Hampton University for his work filming underwater.

Is well known for his dictatorial filming methods while on the set and often blows up at actors. Ooooh lalala.

iR

Tiger Woods' 8 Wood

Tiger Woods circles the green, judging the land with his expert eyes. He bends down for a closer look, hands cupping the sides of his hat to block out his peripherals. He finds the lay of the land and frowns. Getting up he circles the green another time like a vulture circling for its prey.

"So whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "Looks like its sloping down and about ten clicks to the left."

"Hmm." Tiger is distracted, is somewhere else.

"Shall I get your putter?" He asks, already reaching for it.

"Nah, I need the Blackberry."

"Ah, the Blackberry." The caddy smiles all-knowing. The side of his golf bag zips open, the signature tiger heads on the drivers dancing as he does so. The Blackberry comes out and Tiger goes to work:

"oh baby i need some of dat loving, tough hole, but i just wanna stuff ur hole, drive it home with tiger's 8 wood."

He sends the text and smiles. Somewhere, a mistress texts back:

"u knoe i luv ur up and down game. win it all babe and u can take my green"

His head tilts upwards, his features from into an expression of satisfaction. in his pants, Tiger's 8 Wood stands at attention, and Tiger goes to take his putt and makes it. Cue Tiger's famous arm pump. She had become his good luck charm, or so he thought, ever since he met her at that one Applebee's in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. There was something about her encouraging words while on the course that always got him, that always helped him push himself to that upper-echelon of greatness very few ever reach. She made him feel like young Tiger again. Young and free, a strapping young cat with paws big enough to grab the whole world and take it by storm. . . A strapping young cat with sharp teeth still white and shiny, with a coat not yet molted by the years or a horrible relationship.

But he knew he had to keep it secret. What would they say. . . if. . . shit.

On the 7th hole Tiger hits it right in the water, -kerplunk- another drowned victim of that dreaded lake. He takes a drop, his eyes fixed on that yellow flag, nearly 150 yards away.

"Whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "I'd go with the 8-iron."

"Hmmm." Tiger says, he's distracted again, distraught by a bad shot. "Blackberry. . ."

"Yes, Blackberry. . ." And just like before the Blackberry came out and Tiger went to work:

"im in it tough, my ball just got wet, but all i can think about is you, and making you wet with mah 8 wood"

And somewhere far off a dutiful mistress texts back:

"the only balls that get me wet are urs :)"

Tiger Woods' favorite golf club.

He smiles, his face forming that familiar bliss. He grabs his club, swings away, and just like that, the diamond plops 5 yards from the cup - a damn near perfect shot. The crowd claps while Tiger's head is already living out all the ways he plans to plow her. Tiger's 8 Wood stands tall and proud, but nobody notices - black pleated pants do much when it comes to concealing boners, and Tiger knows this. The putt, a slight roll, it licks the edge of the cup and slips on in, and only for par. His anger is apparent, but only grows worse when his wife randomly texts him:

"i know ur competing rite now, i'm watching you on tv love, win one for momma!"

The next three holes are a disaster. On the green in 3 on a par 4, in the sand on another hole, out of bounds on the next. Tiger is too damned stressed, and as a result he isn't hitting flush, he isn't powering them down the fairway like he did when he was young. He's beginning to feel like that old tiger again, with dulled claws and lazy eyes glossed over by slight glaucoma. It becomes a pain to walk the greens - he no longer stalks them looking for prey, instead he strolls down fairways like a bored tourist, like a golfer only playing professional on the weekends. The next hole becomes a nightmare for Tiger, a slice at the tee lands him in the deep rough, which he digs up with a swift hack that lands him 85 yards from the cup. One the green in one, in the cup in two. A few botches later and he's at the final hole.

He wipes his forehead free of its perspiration. It has been a long day. The interruption of his wife had drained him, and left him feeling very un-Tiger.

"So whattaya think Tiger? You gonna play it safe on this one? I'd go with the 3 wood, and stay clear of the traps." His caddy says, with a sort of halfheartedness that comes from having one's own advice constantly turned down.

"Blackberry. . . " Tiger says.

Sighing the Blackberry is brought out, and Tiger once again goes to work:

"i need that 8 wood babe, u know how to get me going :)"

And his mistress:

"just think of the 16th hole babe, remember? where you took your flag and put it in my cup?"

Tiger smiles, he remembers well, and Tiger's 8 Wood once again comes out to play.

Tiger's secret weapon.

His pulse quickens, he's light on his feet, the tiger is back on the prowl. His legs like coiled springs, his neck tense with new found energy, he takes to the tee and whack one, I mean he fucking crushes it maaaaan, its a tiny rocket set off and in orbit. It soars some 250 yards and lands gracefully in the center of the fairway as the crowd provides applause. After another shot he's on the green, and damn close to the cup too. He finishes the hole with a birdie and wins the tournament, rather undramatically.

Weeks later Tiger's secret gets out, and before long all members of the PGA start sexting during tournaments. . .

Cause everyone's a much better golfer with a boner.

iR

The Dog and His Pack

*Warning, contains the racist thoughts of one Duane "Dog" Lee Chapman.

In 2007, A&E, desperate for ratings decided to sign with Duane Chapman, Dog the Bounty Hunter. What followed was years of success, as epic retards flocked to their televisions and watched white trash hunt white trash. What makes Dog so successful?

Well, lets take a look at the family tree, shall we?

There's Dog, the head of the pack, aptly named because his main interest in life is hunting down other men, sniffing them out in their crack dens, in their girlfriend's homes after jumping bail, in forests, in bushes - where ever they may hide. He likes it when you run too, his tail goes to wagging like mad and he takes to barking out taunts about the proficiency of his nose and in turn, his ability as a tracker. He's as headstrong and sure as a bloodhound.

But what about his history? Well its as white trash as his hair cut - in fact his hairdo is really a representation of his entire life. . .


a. He's got that Vanilla soft-serve swoop at the top of his head, formed with the expert eye of someone with real taste and an excess amount of hair spray. It represents the reformation, the wave of horrible deeds (the decline) that lead him down the primrose path to destruction that suddenly broke back and changed itself (the upward swoop). For in his past he had been a convicted felon, a suspected murderer, and a well known racist (well that part never changed,) but after all of that, he saw the light, he became a man of God and took to hunting criminals as a soldier of Him, the Lord Almighty. . .

b. There's the long golden tendrils with a slight curl like Shirley Temple. They represent his 14 children, for his locks are as long and as vast as his retarded inbred clan. He's got short kids, fat kids, tall kids, skinny kids, young and old, and all of them work for the family business: bounty hunting. For it is the rule in the Chapman family, that if you are capable of holding a gun, then you are capable of working for the family business, even if your only eight, or pregnant* (*As seen in Season 6, Episode 1.)

c. The combed sides, the beginning of the hair-waterfalls. They represent his "caution to the wind" life style; that need to run headlong into danger and live day to day. That certain manliness that comes from threatening people with a paintball gun, knowing full well they just might have a real weapon on them at any time. . . That sort of fool-heartedness that lead Duane to drop out of school while he was only in the 7th grade.

d. Although it is not a part of his hairdo, his bounty hunters badge is a big symbol for the Dog as well. He keeps it around his chest at all times like a crucifix, in case you mistake him for the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz "Fuck you*, the Lion didn't wear no badge!" (*Fuck you is Dog's only response when it comes to any challenge or adversity, as seen in Seasons 1 through 6.)


Then there's the second in command - his wife. She's the pig - she can sniff out truffles buried deep under rotting stumps in even the deepest of bogs. When she was younger, she was a real eighties queen, with chemical hair and bleached roots and a fashion sense unrivaled by even the trashiest of trailer park chicks. She was rescued by Dog, who sniffed out her tainted vagina and plucked her up from the dusty bowl of nothing she was living in, just picked her up like an angel with majestic white wings and a deceptive mullet the color of corn. From there, it was off to a better life. She's his right hand man, the holder of the leash, the one who gives it a tight tug when Dog becomes too beastly. Aside from that most of her time is spent trying to contain her ginormous tits, which she could conceal with whole sheets of canvas and still struggle to contain. She has also done great work shitting out puppies for the Dog. Like this guy:


The Office Manager - the paper pusher who's only needed on hunts when the shit gets thick. His name is Duane Lee Chapman Jr. - another fitting name for a member of Dog's pack, for he's like his dad, only before all of the drugs. He even looks like him, he's got the same love for tough guy stances and grizzly beards. His 34 years of existence were shaped and molded by the Dog, who has taught him everything he knows. There is a particular memory which remains clear in his mind, one of his father Dog teaching him just the right way to hook a man by the knee and take him down.

"Now see what you do boy is you grab the spic by the leg right here like so. . . And then when he's down you stomp him out, just like the little black cockroach he is." He illustrated the stomping motion he liked to use. "But not until you cuff em first." A slight wink. "And never show fear, fear is what gets you killed, and no boy of mine is getting snuffed out by no colored miscreant."

It is advice like this, that all Chapman boys can expect growing up. . . boys like this fellow, one of Duane Chapman Jr's 9 brothers.


Leland - the prized jewel of the pack. He's given the job title of Foreman, and is considered to be the most successful Chapman, in that he is the only one out of his 13 other brothers and sisters to have graduated from high school (The Great Suck.) With this precious jewel of education embedded in his academic crown, he took crime and spent time for mugging a tourist. Soon after he shaved his head, but only on the sides and started training to be an MMA fighter. A couple douchey tattoos later and he was out of the MMA game and back with the pack, where he belonged all along. . .


Then of course there's Wilson Chapman, Head of the Guns Division. . . The youngest pack member to ever hold such an important position.

But I digress. . . why is Dog the Bounty Hunter so popular?

Because its genetic retardation at its best.

iR

I would do a Further Retardation, but I'm tired of writing about this fuckwad.

The Martin Lawrence Fetish

Leather Face or Big Momma? You decide.

Hattie Mae Pierce (Big Momma) adjusts herself in the mirror, tending to whatever she deems out of place with two hands like glove mitts. Inside of her, a black man sweats, not just from the heat but from the beauty he is gazing at - and through her very own eyes! Owl eyes. Beautiful. Finding herself acceptable, she wattles out through the door, adjusting her hat in the open doorway before proceeding through it - dignified, beautiful, enormously fat. Inside of her a black man is smiling, he's never felt so comfortable in all his life. Its the third time around, and the suit feels less like a nuisance (not that it ever was) and more like a part of him, like a new skin. Hattie Mae walks through the hall with squishy shoes its important to preach the word of God. Martin Lawrence walks insides her, with her, he is her. I'm finally. . . finally. . . the fat chafing, the smell of shit veiled by the scent of talcum powder. I'm . . . She walks down the hall, belly fat touching both walls, she reaches its end and squeezes through another door, out onto a sound stage. She's filming the upcoming-greatest-movie-ever, Big Mommas House 3. The lights in the rafters are like bright coins, shining so bright and promising they are blinding. She shields her eyes and looks around the place like a prospector judging the land, scanning and measuring up all those around her to be hills or mountains very few mountains. Inside Martin does the same, but he's only measuring up the women she's nice, I'd fuck her, and her, oh good to see she's back for the third go round, what was her name again? and ooooooh guuurlll you got it goin' onnnn.

"Well isn't this quite the lil' shin-dig yall got goin' here. . . and all for Big Mommmaaa." She says in a syrupy southern accent, her lily voice only slightly rough and manly. She smiles its just like the days back with the congregation, plenty of work to be done, plenty of people that need savin', look they're all reachin' out for a little help from Big Momma. Inside, Martin smiles just like the King of Comedy days, wet sluts itchin' for my black anaconda everywhere I look. I'm still in the spotlight. . . I'm still. . . funny.

"Ha that's good Martin, but can we be serious for a moment?" A producer asks. I can't stand him. Look at him, bastard still thinks he's funny. Carrying on like he's a old obese woman - freak - I'm just glad I just have to produce the movies and don't have to actually watch them. . . What trash.

"What chile'? Big Momma is serious, you can ba-lieve-that." Big Momma was serious, and so was Martin Lawrence, who at the moment both shared the same soul, the same body. They were two beings in one very large being.

Beached Whale or Big Momma? You decide.

"Seriously, Martin we're behind as it is. . ." If I could kill him and get away with it, I would. . . The producer pleads, but Big Momma, Martin Lawrence, both of them are somewhere else. Inside his Big Momma suit, he rubs its latex skin, its giant abdomen like a crystal ball conjuring up images of the past, as clear as day, right before him:

Louisiana, 1973. Its unusually hot, considering the season. Aunt Burnell, tending to food in the kitchen, the room alive with the smell of collard greens and grease. She's a general in her kitchen, a lard dolloper, a magician who's act produces strong smells that fill the house, smells so strong they seem to linger in the air like a thick fog, heavy and menacing. Shes singing a song, with accompaniment from the sounds of cooking, pots and pans and gurgling. She looks out the window and her song ceases, her eyes caught by such a shock that she nearly drops the bowl of bubbling slop she had been seasoning. That boy sure is a work of the devil. . . It'll take quite a while to whip this horse into shape. . . But then again there is a certain look to the boy, a certain charm. . . She thunders out of the kitchen, throwing open the screen door so fiercely -whack- it hits the wall, a warning to all those outside and playing. Children scatter, but one young boy doesn't seem to notice, he's too caught up playing and using what little imagination he possesses. Chile' don't even see me, just playing there in the grass, well I'll show him, oh yes I will. . . But then again he seems so sweet, so innocent. Despite any notions to just pick him up and love him, she instead grabs him by the neck, plucking him up from the ground like a rotten turnip.

"Naw, chile', don't fight me. . . Come on now Martin, what did I tell you? a million times I've told you I've told you not to get your Sunday's best soiled so - you know how long it'll take to get these stains out? And in your church clothes too - dirtied with sin and disobedience - Its down right shameful Martin!" She raises her hand against him, striking him atop the head as if she were hammering in a rail spike. The blow produces tears from the eyes of the young boy, only eight years of age. Now chile' I don't want to harm you so, but you go up and act like a dirty vagrant - I only wish to love you boy. "Now in the house with yah!" And in the house they go -whak- the screen door slamming behind them. He sits at the kitchen table, face bunching up around the ears from the way he rests his head upon his hands. The tears still flow from his precious tiny eyes. Its always so unfair. We both know I'm not the dirty one. . . She is.

"Now Martin, you know I don't mean to hurt you, but you go off and do things I've told you not to do." She shakes her head, feeling more sorry than the boy. She thinks and tends to her food for awhile, stopping finally when she's come up with something to say. "Now chile, you just want to love Aunt Burnell don't you?" The boy nods his head in agreement I know what she's doing, buttering me up. "Well why don't you just come with Aunt Burnell and be with me in the other room? In the quiet. In the dark." The lord can't see us there. "Huh chile, huh? Could you do that?" Do I have a choice? "Yeah, that's right come with Aunt Burnell." And off they went into her room, the door closing behind them. . . That bitch. . .

"Martin?" He heard it but it seemed far off.

"Hey. . . Martin?" Closer now.

"Earth to Martin?" It was the producer. "You ok buddy?" He's finally flipped his wig, look he's even crying, you can see the tears.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He lies, his lips still trembling, his eyes still watering from the sudden memory. Keep it together, keep it together. But Martin Lawrence could not keep it together, he kept trembling, kept forgetting his lines. He was slowly unraveling, one haunting memory at a time. The crew was too, for what was a charming idea the first go round became creepy for the sequel, and now that Big Momma's House was going to be a trilogy, it was clear that this wasn't any minor gimmick, this was a habitual fetish for Martin, who was beginning to seem like a new age Norman Bates.

"Maybe that suits on too tight eh buddy?"

"Yeah." And then the world swirls, ice cream dreams melting in with reality:

In 1999, Eddie Murphy introduced Martin Lawrence to prosthetics, and from then on began a long strange saga culminating in the creation of Big Momma.

1999, after a recent filming of LIFE. Martin sits at a bar with Eddie Murphy. After many drinks Martin had just gone out and let it all out, let out all the thoughts and worries and fears of that night with Aunt Burnell. Of the pain. He's crying and drowning his tears in a tall glass of beer. Eddie Murphy laughs, his Chewbacca laugh.

"You know Martin, I had my own Aunt Burnell. . . yes a heavy set Aunt who went by the name of Ophelia, and I tell you she use to molest me every night." That wench, always squishing me and hugging me, pushing me up into her busom. "And it worked on me Martin, just like its working on you. . . But I did something and it really helped, really helped me work on those problems."

"Really?" Martin asks. Is he joking me?

"Yeah. You know what you need?"

"What?"

"A fat suit."

"A what?" He really is crazy. . .

"A fat suit!" Eddie exclaims. "I was doin' the Nutty Professor, and for it I got to wear a fat suit, and I'll tell yah - Martin, it worked wonders. I wasn't worried about it anymore, it didn't bother me. . . What better way to face your demons than to become them!" Eddie slams his beer on the table, hops splashing the table. Damn right.

"And it works?"

"Why yes, just the other day, this kid Tyler Perry comes up to me. . . Telling me a lot of the things you're telling me, Martin. About oh my aunt or my uncle or whatever abuses me." Eddie mocks. "Oh my grandma is a mad black woman. . . And I gave him the same advice I'm giving you."

Ice cream dreams melt to the present.

Eddie Murphy, Martin Lawrence, Tyler Perry, they all share a common past, a common fetish...

That desire to be a fat black woman.

iR

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Movies:

Big Momma's House: The beginning of the end...

Black Knight: Martin Lawrence travels back to medieval times. . . Kinda like a Kid in King Arthur's Court, only if the kid was a black guy from Compton. . . Also included in the movie is a love interest for Martin, another chick of African descent who plays a princess or some shit, which is entirely historically inaccurate but whatevs.

National Security: About two security guards who hate each other but become good friends at the end. Martin also plays perhaps the most racist character of his career, one who annoys you throughout the whole movie. . . Sweet ass shoot out in a soda factory however.

Bad Boys 2: I didn't know that if you crashed a hummer through a run down city of shacks that all of them would blow up... Horrible dialogue - check. Shitty action - check. Martin trying to act hard - check.

Rebound: Martin Lawrence plays a once-famous college coach who is somehow reduced to coaching a middle school team that sucks bawlz. . . Of course they all get better and Martin learns a thing or two about "basketball" and still gets to fuck one of the kids mom's, who's just recently divorced.

Big Mommas House 2: Hilarious when smoking shit loads of reefer.

Wild Hogs: Washed up Geriatrics playing Hell's Angels.

It is said that Bad Boys 3 is also in the works, as well as Wild Hogs 2.

Personal Life:

During the show Martin, Martin Lawrence was accused of sexual harassment. Tisha Campbell, the co-star successfully filed the suit, which state that Martin could not appear on screen with her at any time during the remainder of the shows season.

Opened one night for SNL in 1994, his opening was so raw it was later cut from all following reruns and is BANNED from SNL for life. (lawl)

During the filming of a movie in 1994, Martin went crazy on set and started taking drugs and was arrested after brandishing a weapon on Ventura Blvd.

Arrested at the Burbank airport for carrying a loaded weapon (dumbass)

In March 1997 arrested again after assaulting a man.

In August 1999 Lawrence was in a three day coma after jogging in 100 degree weather in many layers of clothing (heat exhaustion).